Self-Display and the Great Dao
The lecture is at Yixin Lecture Center.
The teacher resumes chapter 23 of the *Tao Te Ching*, returning to the line “Sparse words accord with nature; a whirlwind does not last all morning, and a sudden rain does not last all day.” He says that last time they stopped there, and now they continue with Lü Chunyang Patriarch’s explanation.
He says the commentary includes seven notes. Tonight he focuses on the note that connects “those who accord with loss become one with loss” to the broader teaching of adapting oneself to others. He says this idea is similar to the Confucian phrase *tuī jǐ jí rén* — “extend oneself to others,” or “measure other hearts by one’s own heart.”
In other words, one first examines and cultivates oneself, and only then helps others. He links this to the Confucian virtue of *shu* — sympathetic understanding or reciprocity.
He retells the exchange in which Zigong asks Confucius for a single principle one can practice for life, and Confucius answers: *shu*.
The teacher explains *shu* as using oneself as the measure. One first disciplines oneself, reforms oneself, and only then teaches others. If you yourself gamble, do wrong, or lack self-control, how can you persuade others to change? So “first ferry yourself across, then ferry others across” is the practical meaning.
He also links this to the *Doctrine of the Mean*, saying that loyalty and reciprocity are not far from the Way. In his explanation, *zhong* and *shu* are really one continuous principle. Confucius can mention only *shu* because sincere inner uprightness is already included within it.
He then says that this is very close to a Buddhist expression: “cultivating oneself and transforming others.” The wording differs, but the meaning is much the same.
He continues with Buddhist terminology: self-benefit and benefiting others, or “the two benefits of self and other,” as well as “awakening oneself and awakening others.”
Self-benefit means the real benefit that comes from one’s own cultivation — merit, wholesome fruit, and eventual attainment. Benefit for others means helping living beings, not for selfish gain, but out of a wish to save and support them.
Together these form the complete path: cultivate oneself and also help others. He then turns to the fourth note, which applies this principle to how practitioners should treat all kinds of people.
He says that even the poor, lowly, stubborn, foolish, or wicked are still to be guided. A true path should not reject people because of bad conduct or low social status.
He notes that some religious circles claim that people in “base occupations” are not worth teaching, but he rejects that view. Looking at the saints and sages of old, he says, one sees the opposite: the truly great work is to transform difficult people, not only respectable ones.
He gives the Buddhist example of Lotus-Colored Woman, who had lived a morally fallen life but, after hearing the Buddha’s teaching, entered the path, attained realization, and became honored among the nuns.
He expands on the story of Lotus-Colored Woman, describing her as a woman of disreputable life who nevertheless heard the Buddha, converted, and attained arhatship. For him, the point is simple: even someone once sunk in wrongdoing can be transformed.
He then gives a second example, the demon mother Hārītī, known here as the Mother of Ghost-Children. She was said to have many children and to steal and eat the children of others. To awaken her, the Buddha hid the child she loved most. When she suffered unbearable grief, he asked her how much greater the pain must be for the families whose children she had taken. Hearing this, she repented, took refuge, and became instead a protector of mothers and children.
So the lesson is that even evil beings are not beyond transformation.
He sums up: the wicked are not beyond salvation. If someone is devoted to the Way, you speak to him of the Way. If someone delights in goodness, you encourage goodness. If someone is tangled in evil, then to guide him you may have to go near where he is — “if you do not enter the tiger’s den, how will you get the tiger cub?”
For that reason, Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist teachings often use different language while expressing the same truth: extend yourself to others, cultivate yourself and help others, and adapt your teaching to the person before you.
He says this concludes that evening’s portion, and that notes six and seven will be explained next time. He then ends the session and bids everyone good night.
The next lecture resumes chapter 23 again. He repeats the line about sparse speech and the short duration of storms and rain, then returns to Lü Chunyang’s commentary.
He says the fourth note teaches that the Way does not despise anyone. He again cites Lotus-Colored Woman and the Mother of Ghost-Children as examples. No matter how bad a person may seem, he is still someone to be taught.
He criticizes practitioners who only want to associate with refined or respectable people while refusing to approach those of mixed or ugly conduct. When people say, “The Buddha saves those with affinity,” that does not mean only the wealthy or socially acceptable. Even bad people may have the karmic condition to be transformed.
He asks: what is the Dao? If one speaks in a shocking Chan or Zhuangzian style, one may say that the Dao is even in filth and urine. This sounds offensive, but he introduces it to break the listener’s attachment to “high” and “low.”
He cites the *Zhuangzi*, “Knowledge Wandering North,” where Dongguozi asks Zhuangzi where the Dao is. Zhuangzi answers: it is nowhere absent. When pressed for specifics, he names ever lower and more ordinary things — tiny creatures, weeds, and other humble places.
The point is that the Dao is not confined to what we call noble, pure, or elevated.
Zhuangzi finally says that the Dao is in excrement and urine. Dongguozi is stunned, because he assumes the Dao must belong only to what is exalted. The teacher says this is exactly the point: if the Dao does not reject filth, then a practitioner should not reject morally filthy people either.
He then turns to the Chan master Yunmen Wenyan. When a monk asked, “What is Buddha?” Yunmen answered, “A dried shit-stick” — the crude implement once used to wipe excrement in poor places.
The teacher pauses to explain the object in plain, earthy detail. It was dirty and lowly, something no one would honor. But that is why it works as an answer.
He explains that Yunmen was a Chan patriarch, and that this famous exchange appears in the gong’an literature.
The answer “dried shit-stick” does not insult the Buddha. Rather, it shocks the hearer out of abstract piety and forces him to see directly. Just as Zhuangzi said the Dao is even in excrement and urine, Yunmen points to the lowliest possible thing to cut through false notions of holiness.
The teacher interprets this as a method for sweeping away delusion and returning from impurity to clarity. Even scriptures, he says in this rough pedagogical style, are tools — means for cleaning away confusion, not things to worship at a distance.
He stresses again that such language is not mere vulgarity. It means that a real teacher must not be precious or self-important. One must be willing to work in the dirty places where people actually suffer and go astray.
Pilgrimage, incense, and outward religion are not enough if one’s own mind remains unclean. If the heart is not purified, worship alone does little.
So when the *Tao Te Ching* says that one engaged with the Dao becomes one with the Dao, and one with virtue becomes one with virtue, the practical meaning is this: teach according to the person and the situation. Speak of Dao to those ready for Dao, of goodness to those who value goodness, and do not refuse proximity to rough or fallen people.
He compares this to the *Universal Gate Chapter*: if one must save gods, one appears among gods; if one must save difficult people, one goes where difficult people are. Without entering the tiger’s den, one cannot bring out the cub.
So one should not despise the wicked, but approach them with great compassion. He closes that section, says good night, and then begins once more from chapter 23.
He now explains the lines about “one who works in the Dao is one with those in the Dao; one who works in virtue is one with those in virtue; one who works in loss is one with those in loss.”
His paraphrase is that those devoted to the Dao naturally gather with people of like aspiration. They discuss the Way together, encourage one another, and rejoice in it. Those devoted to virtue likewise enjoy the company of those who cultivate goodness and merit.
He explains the phrase *zhì tóng dào hé* — “shared aspiration and accord in the Way” — as people whose minds and aims naturally fit together. He illustrates it with King Wen and Jiang Taigong: once they met, their minds resonated immediately.
He explains “joy beyond expression” as the joy of finding people who can hear, understand, and receive what is being said.
For him, a transmitter of the Way should not speak the same way to everyone. With those who love philosophical discussion, speak of the Dao. With those who prefer good works, speak of virtue and merit. With those who are lost, speak in ways that can gradually lead them back.
From here he draws a broader lesson: do not hastily reject other religions or other sects. No school in the world is wholly without flaw, and none is wholly without value. Different teachings fit different capacities.
He tells a story about two Pure Land Buddhist women who challenged him. Their teacher had said that diligently reciting scriptures leads one toward Buddhahood, but they had heard him say that merely reciting scripture is not enough. They asked: was their own teacher wrong?
He answered that both teachings can be right, depending on the level of the student. Then he offered an analogy.
When a small child first learns to speak and blurts out rude words, adults may laugh because the child is innocent and unaware. But when that same person grows up, careless speech becomes harmful, karmically weighty, and morally blameworthy.
So statements that seem contradictory may both be appropriate at different stages.
He develops the analogy further. A child speaking harshly, an adult speaking harshly, and an important adult abusing speech all involve different levels of responsibility. Therefore different warnings are appropriate in different contexts.
Likewise, telling beginners to recite sutras is not false. Recitation may restrain body, speech, and mind; it keeps one from slander, harmful acts, and wandering thoughts. Over time it can lead one upward.
But this is gradual teaching. His own emphasis, he says, is more direct: do not rely only on moving the lips. One must cultivate the heart itself. If the mouth recites the Buddha’s name while the mind remains corrupt, that is not enough.
He gives another anecdote about someone who tried to challenge or embarrass him. His reply was practical and modest: brightness is relative. A light may look bright among dim lamps and vanish beside a much brighter one. The point, he says, is that a teacher must be able to respond appropriately to many kinds of people.
He then turns to the next line: “If there is not enough trust, there will be no trust.”
His explanation is that personal example surpasses mere verbal instruction. If a person consistently acts on what he says, people will naturally trust him. Trust is the root of self-cultivation; without it, one’s talk of the Way will not convince anyone.
He explains “the innate Great Dao accords with nature,” but warns that “naturalness” does not mean indulgence or lack of restraint.
True naturalness means ease, clarity, freedom from inner strain, and accord with what is genuine. It does not mean drunkenness, gambling, or doing whatever impulse demands. That would be licentiousness, not Daoist naturalness.
Again he returns to the principle that embodied example is stronger than sweet speech. When action and words agree, trust arises on its own.
He says that if one only talks about the Way but does not live it, then one’s trustworthiness is insufficient, and others will not believe.
That leads to a question he once received: what is “pre-heaven” and what is “post-heaven” in cultivation?
Drawing on religious dictionaries and cultivation texts, he explains it through the framework of the six realms. “Heaven” is the highest realm within ordinary cyclic existence, but it is still within samsara. If one only cultivates human and heavenly blessings, one remains within the circuit of rebirth.
He briefly compares Daoist and Buddhist mappings of the six realms. In both systems, heaven is highest among the six, and the three lower evil destinies are the same in principle. The main difference lies in how ghostly beings are classified relative to human life.
But his practical conclusion is clear: “post-heaven” cultivation means staying within conditioned existence, even if one gains blessings or heavenly rebirth. “pre-heaven” points to going beyond the heavenly realm itself — beyond the six paths and beyond the ordinary cycle.
He says that to transcend heaven and enter immortality or liberation is to go ahead of heaven; this is why it is called “pre-heaven.”
He concludes the discussion of chapter 23 by distinguishing between cultivation that escapes birth and death and cultivation that remains within the six realms.
Then he turns to the opening of chapter 24: “He who stands on tiptoe cannot stand firm; he who strides cannot go far.” Lü Chunyang’s explanation is that standing on tiptoe means raising oneself unnaturally, and taking huge strides means trying to get ahead too quickly. Both violate the natural way.
These images, he says, prepare for the later warnings against self-display, self-assertion, self-boasting, and self-exaltation.
He works through several dictionary notes.
To “stand on tiptoe” means literally lifting the heels off the ground in order to appear taller. To “stride” means taking exaggerated large steps. “To stand out above others” means wanting to rise over everyone else, to get ahead, to seize credit, or to become “someone” quickly.
He then glosses the proverb “If you desire speed, you will not arrive”: things that require ripening cannot be forced. Hurry spoils attainment.
He says many editions read “Those who stand on tiptoe do not stand,” but the meaning is the same. Tiptoeing is an effort to make oneself look taller than one is.
Likewise, large striding looks impressive but cannot be sustained. If one walks in a steady, natural rhythm, one can go farther than someone who keeps trying to leap ahead.
So both images condemn forcing oneself beyond one’s true measure. They represent impatience, vanity, and a refusal to proceed naturally, step by step.
He says that modern religious people often make exactly this mistake.
People often imagine that joining a religion, receiving initiation, being baptized, or hearing a sacred formula should instantly produce awakening. He rejects this as a childish rush for spiritual success.
One must first reduce wrongdoing, then cut through emotional entanglements and desires, then dismantle ego and false views, and then fulfill the virtues of patience, vigor, meditation, and wisdom. Only then can one hope to transcend birth and death.
So chapter 24 warns against the fantasy of instant attainment.
He then moves to the next lines: those who display themselves do not shine; those who justify themselves are not evident; those who boast achieve no merit; those who vaunt themselves do not endure or advance.
He explains the terms one by one.
To “show oneself” means deliberately displaying one’s talent. But such self-display does not produce true illumination; it is rooted in ignorance. To insist “I am right” may impress oneself, yet it does not reveal real virtue.
To boast of one’s own accomplishments is to claim merit for oneself. But genuine merit does not grow from self-advertisement.
He treats all these attitudes — self-display, self-justification, self-praise, and self-exaltation — as forms of ego that block true progress.
He closes by stressing that all these phrases describe the same spiritual disease: the self trying to make itself bigger.
If one insists on appearing wise, right, meritorious, or superior, one actually loses clarity, loses moral force, and loses the capacity to grow. The superior path advances quietly; ego-driven advancement stalls itself.
So the opening of chapter 24 teaches that exaggeration, pride, and forced self-promotion all run against the natural Way. With that, he ends the evening’s lecture.
This literal version consolidates the lecture’s English material into continuous notes, keeping close to the spoken sequence while preserving explanatory detail.