When encountering Taoist philosophy for the first time, it is easy to respond with incredulity: ‘You can’t be serious!’  It would seem that the Taoists of antiquity encountered the same response, and in this chapter we are told that our response to hearing about the Tao tells us something about the kind of person we are:

When a superior man hears of the Tao,
he immediately begins to embody it.
When an average man hears of the Tao,
he half believes it, half doubts it.
When a foolish man hears of the Tao,
he laughs out loud.
If he didn’t laugh,
it wouldn’t be the Tao.

Who is it that is ‘superior’? Is it the person that others look up to? And who is it that is ‘foolish’? Is it the person that others disregard?  Or is this description challenging our perception of what greatness really means?

One of the core messages of the Tao Te Ching is that true wisdom is hidden, and easily missed by most people.  The person who is really ‘superior’ is not the one who has power or charisma or charm, but the one who recognises this hidden wisdom and finds it more valuable than anything the world has to offer.  In the eyes of people who are blind to the ways of Tao, it seems absurd and foolish!  So the author goes on to say:

Thus it is said:
The path into the light seems dark,
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.

I do sometimes worry that I will drive away all my readers by drawing lines between my study of the Tao and my Christian faith.  I will try not to overdo it!  But in this chapter, the correlation is unavoidable.  If this notion is central to Taoism, it is equally so in Jewish and Christian thought (or at least, it used to be).  If I began to catalogue examples, it could easily fill a book!  Noah was foolish for building a boat in the desert; Abraham was foolish for leaving his home in Ur; the Hebrews became the ‘chosen people’ specifically because of their weakness; David became king because he was the smallest of his brothers; Israel went into exile because it trusted the military strength of its allies; finally, Jesus overcame the strength and wisdom of the world by choosing the long, dark, tarnished, weak way of the cross.  Many Christians will reject the notion of Tao out of hand, and many western Taoists will do the same with the Bible, but I am convinced that, with an open mind, we find this central truth making itself known to everyone who is willing to accept it.

The often-maligned Paul summarised this when he wrote that ‘God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are’.  If he had had opportunity to travel to China, I am quite sure that he would have rejoiced to know that this wisdom was being there as well.  ’He chose … the things that are not’; or, as this chapter concludes,

The Tao is nowhere to be found.
Yet it nourishes and completes all things.

And so the ‘superior’ person who embodies the Tao remains invisible, foolish in the eyes of the world.  And yet, being invisible, is able to nourish, support, and love.  Is that person you?  Is it me?

Once on a day of worship Jesus was going through the grainfields. As the disciples walked along, they began to pick the heads of grain. The Pharisees asked him, ‘Look! Why are your disciples doing something that is not permitted on the day of worship?’

Jesus asked them, ‘Haven’t you ever read what David did when he and his men were in need and were hungry? Haven’t you ever read how he went into the house of God when Abiathar was chief priest and ate the bread of the presence? He had no right to eat those loaves. Only the priests have that right. Haven’t you ever read how he also gave some of it to his men?’

Then he added, ‘The day of worship was made for people, not people for the day of worship. For this reason the Son of Man has authority over the day of worship.’

We learned from Jesus last week that following God sometimes means upsetting religious folks.  This is because religious people can often, and unknowingly, make their traditions the very object of their devotion.  It is as if a loving mother, having made pack-up lunches for her children year after year, continues make sandwiches over weekends, school holidays, and after all the children have grown!

Again and again we see that Jesus’ motives are grounded in his belief about the coming Kingdom.  He doesn’t say that the Sabbath doesn’t matter, but that the work which he and his disciples are doing is more important than the Pharisees’ agenda of hyper-observance of the Law.  ’David and his men’ ate the bread reserved for the priests of the temple, but they did so because their service to God required it.  And by following Jesus, his disciples were honouring the ‘day of worship’ in a far more substantial way than the Pharisees.

Today, our service to God likewise brings us into conflict with religious tradition.  We may lose the respect of upright, religious people when we choose a lifestyle of radical generosity and acceptance of the ‘untouchables’ of society.  When we are open about our weaknesses, we will likely distance ourselves from those who would rather ignore their own.  And most of all, when we share our conviction about the Kingdom of God which transcends all nationality, political policy and economic philosophy, we will make enemies out of anyone who pledges allegiance to the ‘powers and principalities’ of the world which Jesus overcame on the cross.

I say ‘we’, but I know how often I fail to follow Jesus when it runs counter to so-called ‘acceptable behaviour’.  But as I spend time with Jesus’ words, I am convinced that I would rather pick heads of grain with Jesus than follow the religious traditions of the Pharisees.  Will you join me?

‘Sabbath Reflections’ is a weekly meditation from a Christian perspective. You can find out more by clicking here.

Looking back, finding a new church was a really good thing.  Not because one tradition was better or worse than the other, but because it broadened our spiritual awareness.  The liturgy they used was a refreshing change from ‘anti-liturgy’ we were used to.  The people we connected with represented a different set of questions and answers, a different perspective than we knew before.  And our faith benefited because of it.

Fast forward almost five years to the present, and we find ourselves in a similar place, having moved (for the fourth time since coming into the country) too far away to feel we could continue being a part of that parish community.  (Though I hasten to add that our friendship and deep ‘fellowship’ with several people there will survive the transition!)  And again I find myself thankful.  For many people I’ve met, their whole spiritual life has been in connection with one church, one denomination, one culture, with all of its strengths and weaknesses, theological insights and practical blind spots.  I don’t wish to look down on such people.  With those roots, they must have access to spiritual water that I can’t hope to reach any time soon.  And yet I am still thankful because I think that our path as Christian ‘travellers’ (not by choice, but a result of circumstance) has given us a broader perspective.

In particular, I’ve been increasingly reluctant to engage in the debates, power struggles and turf wars that are a natural part of church life.  I’ve been deeply grieved by the intensity of these ‘tug of war’ battles, and the passionate emotion that people invest in these life-and-death contests.  For me, the world’s too big and life’s too short for that.  Most things matter so much less than people think they do, and in our devotion to the minutiae we can easily miss the big picture of what God might want to do through us in our little corner of the world.

So another chapter begins.  From the Catholicism of my childhood to the evangelicalism of my adolescence to the Anglicanism of my mid-20s to… what?  I hope to begin to answer that question over the next few months.  I would appreciate your help!

Most of us like to think that we are forward-thinking, modern people.  Technology progresses; new territories are explored; old superstitions are put to rest.  Onward and upward… right?

Returning is the movement of the Tao.
Yielding is the way of the Tao.

Every accomplishment is followed by rest.  Buildings crumble over time.  The most brilliant minds still succumb to dementia, and the strongest bodies suffer infirmity with age.

Is that a depressing truth, best ignored?  Should we follow Dylan Thomas and ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’?  Or is it a relief?

I find myself returning (no pun intended!) to the creation story in Genesis, and the famous quote: ‘for dust you are 
and to dust you will return’.  Death was an inevitable result of eating the forbidden fruit in the garden.  From a Taoist perspective, this story makes perfect sense:  at first, humanity existed in perfect harmony with nature, yielding to the Way.  But they chose a different way instead, wanting to dominate and master the world.

Now, the Tao works in and through every atom of the universe.  Fighting against it is like swimming up a strong river.  You can do it for a time, but sooner or later you will tire, while the river continues just the same.  In death, each one of us is forced to admit that we are not, in fact, God.  And in that admission, we return to the harmony of Tao.

All things are born of being.
Being is born of non-being.

There’s nothing made that will last forever.  We can enjoy the things around us:  food and drink, music and art, family and friends.  But we should also turn our attention to the ‘uncreated’, the Tao, because that is what remains.  When we forget this, we can delude ourselves into thinking that we (or our society, our technology, our way of life) will last forever.  But if we keep it in mind, we can let things come and go, which is to say that we can stop trying to play God.  If we began to take even the tiniest baby-steps along that Way, how might our lives be different?  Maybe we could come just a little bit closer to the ‘garden’ that we left so long ago.