Tao Upanishad #89

To take the auspicious as auspicious is a very ordinary thing, no virtue in it. To take even the inauspicious as auspicious is the glory of virtue. Trust in the saint is factual; it carries no credit to you. Trust in the un-saintly is your glory; it is reverence for virtue.

First, understand the meaning of virtue.

Virtue is not morality. Morality is fulfilled by facts. Someone is good, welcome him; someone is bad, punish him. Morality is a very ordinary social transaction. Praise the saint; condemn the un-saintly. If you praise the un-saintly too, saintliness will be harmed—so keep distinctions. Morality keeps distinctions. Punish the bad; reward the good. Morality manufactures hell and heaven—heaven for the good, hell for the bad. Morality separates the sinner and the virtuous.

Virtue is not a moral matter; virtue is beyond morality.

Lao Tzu says: I praise the bad and the good as well—that is reverence for virtue.

So virtue is trans-moral—beyond morality. It has no concern with social behavior. If it has any concern at all, it is with the inner essence of the cosmos, with the Paramatma.

Morality pertains to society, to the group, to those around us. Dharma pertains to the individual’s relatedness with the Whole; not with society, but with the Whole—not with people like us, but with that beyond us which is our original source and our shared destiny, that transcendent principle. In the eyes of that transcendent principle, no one is bad and no one good. It neither punishes nor rewards anyone.

But here you will face difficulty. For your scriptures say that Paramatma will punish the bad and give heaven to the good, will throw the bad into hell, roast them, melt them, burn them in fire. Those scriptures too are social; they are written upon the foundations of morality. In them, social conduct is taught. Lao Tzu’s scripture is different. It is transcendent. The Upanishads speak neither of punishment nor reward. The Upanishads are transcendent.

There are two kinds of scriptures in the world: moral scriptures and transcendent scriptures. Only the transcendent are truly religious scriptures. Moral scriptures are necessary, but there is no glory in them. They are necessary because you are bad; otherwise they would have no utility. The policeman standing at the crossroads carries no aura. The magistrate on the bench carries no dignity. They are symbols of our wretchedness, proofs of our smallness. The policeman stands there because you cannot be trusted to follow the rules of the road. You are not trustworthy. His presence does not proclaim your glory; it announces that you are thieves, dishonest, lawless. The grand buildings of courts do not sing the saga of your greatness; they are monuments to your crimes. Strange indeed! We build palatial courts; they are chronicles of crime. Your entire hell is written there. The court stands because you are not alright. A court is a hospital; it has no value beyond that. Because man is diseased, morality is needed. If all became healthy, medicine would disappear. If all became virtuous in their disposition, moral science would disappear.

But religious scripture would still remain. In truth, only when morality has completed its work does religion begin. Many moral treatises are mistaken for religious scripture merely because your eyes cannot look so high where religion truly is—you see only up to morality.

When the Upanishads were first translated into Western languages, Western thinkers were disturbed. The Upanishads contain no Ten Commandments like the Bible. There is no mention of ten commandments—do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not covet another’s wife. The Upanishads have none of this. Western thinkers were amazed: what kind of religious texts are these? There is no talk of moral conduct—no rules, vows, disciplines—only discourse on Brahman. Has anyone ever become religious through such discourse?

The Bible—old and new—at points becomes religious; otherwise it is moral scripture. The Quran sometimes turns religious; otherwise ninety percent is moral code. The Vedas sometimes become religious; otherwise moral ordinances. The Upanishads are pure gold. When we make ornaments of gold, an impurity must be mixed; it becomes eighteen-carat, sixteen-carat, fourteen-carat—but never pure twenty-four. Gold is so soft that ornamentation is impossible without some hardening. Pure gold of religion—twenty-four carat—is rarely found in any scripture. And then too, one must lower religion to where you stand, because it is you who must be held. The more religion descends, the more it becomes morality.

Thus the Upanishads, Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching, the sayings of Heraclitus—these are ultimate, final. They are twenty-four-carat gold. If you cannot understand, recognize your limitation. If you wish to understand Lao Tzu, you will have to raise your eyes very high. If you want to behold Gaurishankar, your hat will fall. If you keep holding on to the hat, you will not see Gaurishankar. To raise your eyes so high, your neck must bend—your hat must fall. Those who have known religious scripture—no mere hats fell; their heads fell, their intellects fell; their thinking was shattered. Only then could they know. To know the utterly pure, one must become equally pure.

Lao Tzu defines virtue thus: when you can know even the bad as good, when you can bless even the sinner, when your heart holds a place in heaven for the sinner too. What virtue is there in the good going to heaven? That is mathematics; there is no poetry in it—mere shopkeeping. The good goes to heaven; the bad goes to hell. Then God becomes a shopkeeper, sitting with scales, weighing accounts. God then turns into intellect, not heart. The heart goes beyond good and evil.

A mother has two sons—one good, one bad. What difference should it make to her? If it does, then the mother too is a shopkeeper, not a mother. In truth, the mother may worry less for the good and more for the bad, for the good is already good; the fallen must be lifted. What need to support the one standing? The fallen must be held. What demand has the healthy for medicine? The unhealthy must be given medicine. If the good goes to hell, there is no harm—he carries his heaven within; he will create it there too. But the bad must be taken to heaven, else left to himself he will turn even heaven into hell.

So Lao Tzu says: what is reverence for virtue? It is the capacity to see the auspicious even in the inauspicious; the vision of the hidden auspicious within the inauspicious. He who can see the dawn in the dark night—he has reverence for virtue.

As for the morning sun—then even the blind can recognize; eyes have no glory there. The warmth of morning is felt even by the blind; even he says the sun has risen. But in thick night, where not a single ray remains, where no proof of the sun remains, where the sun seems gone from every side—yet one who knows, recognizes, one who is filled with hope and trust in the dawn—that one truly has eyes.

This Lao Tzu calls reverence for virtue. To behold the saint in the sinner is to behold the dawn in the dark night. To see the good within the bad is to recognize the nectar hidden in the thorn. Then you can bless all. Then condemnation disappears from your mind. As long as there is condemnation, there is no virtue. When praise is unconditional—when you place no condition: ‘I will praise for this reason.’ When your praise is sufficient simply because one is human—because you are! Is that not enough? Whether you are bad or good are secondary matters—whether thief or saint, honest or dishonest—these are surface dealings. What has your Atman to do with them?

Your acts do not extend beyond your circumference. Waves play upon the ocean’s breast; but in its depth, where are the waves? So too at your surface are waves. A wave of crime does not make you a criminal. The wave circles above and disappears—arises and subsides; within, you remain untouched. The wave is a gust of wind; it is not you. Whether your acts are bad or good has nothing to do with your being. You may not know this; you may think ‘I am a sinner, I am bad.’ But one who has eyes can see. You go to a saint saying ‘I am a sinner; perhaps by going to him I may catch the taste of virtue.’ You may be filled with self-condemnation; but the saint sees only the rising sun within you. The saint sees your possibility, your future. The saint sees your center, not your circumference.

That is virtue. Virtue is beyond duality. It does not divide the good and the bad. What does it mean to say he sees the good in the good and in the bad as well; has reverence for the good and for the bad as well? What is the meaning?

It means only this: the distance between good and bad is gone. Now good and bad are equal. Now poison and nectar are alike. Now birth and death are equal. Now gain and loss are one. All duality has dissolved; all twoness has fallen. The current of Advaita has awakened.

Advaita is virtue. To know the One is virtue. And to know that One is dharma.

Morality believes in two. Therefore morality is not religion. Understand this, for to be moral one need not be religious. An atheist can be moral—it happens often. If you wish to find moral people, you will find more in the lands of Mao and Stalin than anywhere else. Russia is atheistic, yet if you seek moral persons you will find more there than elsewhere—certainly more than in India.

An atheist can be moral. In truth, the atheist has no other possibility but to be moral—that is his highest attainment. If the atheist can be moral, what is the essence of the theist?

The essence of the theist is that virtue which is beyond morality. Theism leads you beyond society. Society is not everything. The web of your relationships is not everything. In truth, that web is outside; society is outside, not within you. Within, only you are—profound, silent, dense, in the void. In the supreme inner presence, other than your light there is nothing. There are no friends, no loved ones, no relatives. No line from the outside reaches there—no melody reaches there, no sound is heard within. There you are absolutely alone.

Kabir has said: ‘Each one who has known, has known as One—alone within.’ Those who have known have known by becoming one, becoming alone within. Their aloneness is filled with great light. When you are alone, your aloneness is filled with great sadness—because you do not know how to be alone. There are two kinds of aloneness. Remember two words: ekant and ekakipan. Ekant means aloneness. Ekant is a very positive word. It means: immersed in the nectar of one’s own being—where even the memory of the other is not, where the absence of the other is not felt, where it is not even known that there is an ‘other.’ Where your own being is so vast, so deep, that it does not exhaust; where you are drowned in your own nectar, immersed in yourself—this state is profoundly positive, because there is neither trace nor memory of the other; the feeling of one’s own being overflows with joy—ekant, aloneness.

The other state is loneliness—negative. There too you are alone, but there is no joy in it; you are not immersed in yourself. The memory of the other torments; the lack of the other is felt. The gaze remains fixed on the other—who is not. Wife, friend, beloved—anyone; but the absence of the other is loneliness. The presence of oneself is aloneness.

Until you have known aloneness you will not understand Lao Tzu. You have known loneliness often—that is a matter of emptiness. The mind seeks to entangle itself somewhere. You pick up the newspaper, turn on the radio, watch television, go to the cinema, go to the club, sit in the hotel. The presence of the other keeps you outwardly entangled. And whenever the other is not present, you feel: what essence remains in life? You have never known your own essence; all your essence is tied to the other. In all your ways of being, the other has always been present. You have not known the nectar of being alone; you have never drunk yourself.

You have known all kinds of intoxicants—but they all come from the other. There is one wine you have not known—the one distilled within, hidden in the very fact of your being. And the one who becomes drunk on that remains filled with awareness forever.

Only when you know aloneness will you know dharma. And to reach aloneness, it is essential to drop all notions that create duality. Your ideas of auspicious and inauspicious create duality. You condemn some; you praise others; you worship some; you insult others. Your notions—this is right, this is wrong; this is correct, that is not—keep you divided. To go within you must become undivided. To be undivided is virtue. That is reverence for virtue.

Why do you condemn? Why do you praise? There are deep nets behind; they must be understood. Then we can enter Lao Tzu’s sutra.

In Lao Tzu’s time there was a man, Confucius. In the world there are only two kinds of people. You too can be either of Lao Tzu’s stream or of Confucius’. Only two divisions. And since always one stream flows as Confucius—the separate stream—and the other flows as Lao Tzu—utterly separate.

Confucius is a moralist, a social thinker, a collectivist—conduct and behavior. Lao Tzu transcends morality and leads you beyond society into aloneness. Lao Tzu is concerned with your nature, not your conduct; with your being, not with what you do. Understand rightly and you will see why he emphasizes this so much.

It is said Confucius went to meet Lao Tzu and was frightened. Hearing Lao Tzu’s words he said: This will lead to anarchy; you will destroy society. Where will morality survive?

The foundation of morality is punishment and reward. Confucius insists: punish the bad so he does not repeat bad deeds; reward the good so he is lured to repeat the good. And note well: the world is running on Confucius. Those who follow Lao Tzu are rare—exceptional ones. The entire world is built on Confucius’ foundation. Many have come in Confucius’ stream—Marx, Stalin, Lenin, Mao—all are of Confucius’ stream.

People ask me: how did communism succeed in a Buddhist land like China?

There is a reason. The base of Chinese thought is Confucius. And Confucius and Marx are identical thinkers. If communism arrives in India someday, you will be surprised—the reason will not be Buddha and Mahavira, but Manu and his Smriti. For Manu is a thinker like Confucius. Confucius, Manu, Marx, Mao—if you look in the field of politics, they are bound by one thread. Marx says consciousness has no value; the conditions of society are valuable. As society’s conditions are, so consciousness is molded. There is no value in consciousness, only in social structure. If you wish to change people, change the structure. And if you wish to change people, punish the bad.

Thus in Russia they killed nearly a million. Whom they considered bad they punished thoroughly. In China, dreadful punishments are being given. Hundreds of thousands are in prisons, tormented severely. Whomever today’s China—Mao’s conception—declares as bad, there is no way for them to live. And who is bad? He who does not agree with your conception.

After all, what is the crime of a thief whom we have put in prison? Only this: he does not believe in our notion of private property. That is his only fault. He is a kind of communist. He says property belongs to all, so he took away your property. He says there is no ownership over property—maybe he does not say it explicitly, but it is his inner belief. He says your ownership is unproven. By what right do you keep it? He says whoever has the power may take it—might is right. Whom you call wrong, you call wrong only because he contradicts your notion—and you put him in jail.

You think punishment will prevent him from repeating the act—then you are mistaken. You are blind, and you never look at history. How much punishment have we given? Yet sin has not lessened a grain. Lao Tzu stands laughing on the roadside of all history: how much you punished, and yet criminals did not diminish—they increased. Whomever you punish once, you never return to see whether your punishment transformed him. Whoever goes to prison once goes again and again.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son was on trial. He had been punished many times; he had the habit of pickpocketing. The magistrate began to feel pity: an offense committed and punished many times, and yet the same. Finally he called Mulla and said: Being his father, why don’t you explain? He keeps repeating and getting punished. Explain to him. Mulla said: I am exhausted explaining—he does not listen. I have told him so many times: cut properly, don’t get caught! We are tired of training him.

People return from jail with lessons on how to ‘cut properly,’ how to steal skillfully—because there masters are available. The jail is a university of crimes. A novice goes in—a mere apprentice. There he finds great gurus, consummate experts, from whom he learns many arts that were missing and caused his arrest. He returns stronger, more prepared.

All history says: the more we punished, the more bad people became. But the blind do not see what is happening. And who has become good through your rewards? Through rewards, only this has happened: people act the good; they have become hypocrites. And the man who is good for the greed of reward—what goodness is that? How deep is his saintliness? Not even as deep as the skin. It cannot reach the bones; to the Atman there is no way.

Yet this is the formula of our belief. In psychology too, there are those who agree with Confucius: Pavlov of Russia, B. F. Skinner of America. All say: there is only one way to bring morality—train the child from the beginning: if he does bad, punish him; if he does good, reward him. And this is what we are all doing. Though our entire history has failed, no one is ready to hear Lao Tzu. We listen to Confucius—because for certain reasons he seems simple. I will explain why. Confucius, though wrong, appears simple; Lao Tzu, though right, appears unacceptable.

You too are doing this with your children. Yet nothing changes. You punish; the child gradually becomes ready for punishment. Thus often it happens: good fathers produce bad sons; criminals come out of good families. When a father tries too hard to make the son good, the sons turn bad. Something rots in that very effort; something dies—because the father’s effort is excessive. Two options remain: either the son becomes a hypocrite—puts on a face he does not have, dons a mask—so he receives rewards, and simultaneously opens some back door to pursue what he finds juicy; and whatever we call sin becomes even more juicy by our calling it sin—its attraction increases, a magnet is born in it.

It happened in one household that the people were very moral. They were invited to a feast. They told the little child: look, be careful—do not ask for anything. Everything will be given; wait—do not ask. At home you ask, that is one thing. Even if you like something, control yourself and be silent. Accept whatever is given. It so happened there were many guests, and in their talk they forgot the little child. They put a plate in his hand. Ice cream was being served—but they forgot him.

He sat for a while, plate in hand. Imagine—a small child, ice cream being served, and he sits with an empty plate! Much suppression must have been needed. When hope was gone—ice cream had passed and would not return, people were busy eating—finding a moment’s lull, he stood up and shouted: ‘Does anyone want an empty plate?’ He raised the empty plate high. Then they realized he got no ice cream.

Even little children find a way—what to say of adults? If they cannot ask for ice cream, they will announce the empty plate. A back door will be opened. A false face in front, and a back door to life. Do something, say something, show something—break life into pieces; do not remain integrated.

All punishments and rewards have achieved only this: some became sinners, criminals; others became hypocrites. Hypocrites you call ‘moral.’ A hypocrite simply does what others do—but skillfully. He is more clever. Nixon was caught; do not think other politicians of other lands do not do what Nixon did. Almost all do. Nixon got trapped in his self-confidence—he had his words taped. All politicians speak the same.

If you hear their intimate talk you will be shocked—utterly street-level; more vulgar than roadside banter. And it must be so; the whole business is cutting each other’s roots. They smile in public; inside they cut. Not only opponents cut; one’s own also cut. In politics everyone is everyone’s opponent. There is no one ‘our own’ there—cannot be. Where the entire race is competition, not only Jayaprakash opposes Indira; Chavan does the same inside. Some oppose from outside; some from within—no difference. Some enemies stand as friends; some as enemies—that is the only difference. If you hear their inner talk—as I have had the chance—you will be amazed. They are worse than common men.

But you know their public face, their mask on the platform: they are saviors of the people, for the welfare of all. These are hollow words; behind them there is only the lust for office and power. And the lust for power is the blindest race in this world. It knows neither self nor other, for the lust for power is supreme violence. Such are the matters. Five years ago Indira spoke of socialism; it vanished. Now Jayaprakash speaks; sit him in power and it too will vanish. With power, all vanishes, for the talk was only to get power; once attained, the real face begins to show. With power you will do what you always wanted, hiding it.

Lord Acton said: ‘Power corrupts, and absolutely.’ Power is adulterous, and commits absolute adultery with the person.

But I do not agree with Acton. Power itself is not adulterous. In fact, adulterous persons are those who become eager for power. Power only reveals. When power is attained, you… You wanted to go to a prostitute’s house but never amassed enough money—so you wandered at the door, sang a song, and returned. You circled many times. But the day you have the notes, who will stop you? Money does not corrupt; how can money corrupt? What is more impotent than money? And what is more impotent than position? How can position corrupt? Those already corrupt are greedy for position. But before attaining it, they must weave around themselves an aura of saintliness—because you will only elevate a ‘saint’ to office. So they must be saintly.

It happened a king sought a humble man. He sent out scouts: find a man who is utterly humble. They came to Mulla Nasruddin’s town. Mulla was passing through the bazaar—rich, large mansion—but over his shoulder he carried a tattered fishing net. The searchers asked: What is this? You are so wealthy; why do you carry this old torn fishing net? Nasruddin said: I grew by catching fish. I do not wish to forget the smallness from which I arose. I was a poor fisherman. I keep this net with me so that ego does not arise. They said: This is the truly humble man. He owns a mansion yet wears a fisherman’s garb and carries the net. They chose him, made him vizier. The day he became vizier he arrived at the palace in splendid clothes. The searchers asked: What happened to the net? He said: When the fish is caught, who carries the net?

All nets—whatever their names—are to catch fish. When the fish is caught, nets are discarded. The arithmetic is simple. Confucius, Marx, Pavlov teach one thing: morality can be imposed from without. Morality is a cultivation, a conditioning. Pavlov’s phrase: ‘conditioned reflex.’ Morality is a conditioning. You know Pavlov’s famous experiment. He feeds a dog. When bread comes, saliva drips—natural. He rings a bell—whenever he gives bread, he rings the bell. After fifteen days he does not give bread; he only rings the bell. Saliva begins to flow. There is no natural relation between bell and saliva. It is a conditioned reflex. Bread came with the bell; bell and bread became one in the dog’s mind. Daily, the bell rang with bread—so the bell triggered saliva.

Pavlov says: all morality is conditioned reflex. If a child does wrong, beat him, punish him. The punishment will link itself to the wrong; whenever he does wrong, he will remember the beating. The bell has been joined; he will not do the wrong. If he does good—give sweets, rewards, toys. Good will link with reward. Whenever he desires reward—and who does not?—he will do good. Gradually this becomes a deep habit; that habit is our conduct.

Lao Tzu says: that habit is deception, not conduct. What is imposed from above will remain above. Enough for society, not enough for seekers of the divine. Then how does virtue arise?

Lao Tzu says: virtue is born from the realization of one’s nature, from self-knowing, from meditation—not by weaving notions of sin, punishment, reward, merit. Such notions can make habit, and we mistake habit for conduct.

If you are born in a Jain family you cannot eat meat—but that is your habit. For fifty years you did not eat meat—and the very word disgusts you; the ‘bell’ has been tied to ‘bread.’ You have heard scriptures and gurus; your family wrinkles its nose at the mention of meat. If elders in a Jain family are dining and you utter the word ‘meat,’ they will stop eating. For long Jains did not eat tomatoes—because they look like flesh. They did not eat jackfruit—because its cutting seems to bleed. Symbols! If you grew up Jain, vegetarianism is your habit. If meat is placed before you, you will gag; your belly will churn. But do not think this will make you a Mahavira. This is habit—you are a follower of Confucius, not Mahavira; a disciple of Pavlov. That which was done to Pavlov’s dog—bread and bell—has been done to you. If you take habit to be conduct, you waste your life.

Vegetarianism arises from that purity of consciousness where you are so filled with love you would not wish to hurt anyone. It comes from within. True conduct is born in the inner; false conduct is imposed from above. This is the difference. Outwardly they can look the same. In behavior, how will you discern why someone does not eat meat? Mahavira does not eat meat because violence has disappeared from his innermost; the ordinary Jain does not eat meat though within him violence remains—anger, enmity, jealousy—all remain. But by habit he abstains. He will still find other ways to ‘eat meat.’ Somewhere he too will shout, ‘Does anyone want an empty plate?’ He will find other doors; he will hurt people by some other means.

If he cannot eat flesh or drink blood, he will exploit. For money too is blood—a symbol of blood—the blood of society. As blood circulates in the body and one stays healthy, so money must circulate in society to keep society healthy. If money stops, as blood stops, the person dies; so does society. But the Jains stopped money in many places. They did not become wealthy without cause. Their wealth has only one cause: the urge to drink blood and eat flesh was blocked by habit; they began pulling it in through another route—accumulating by another way. They found a substitute.

The mind is not so easy to change from above. Skinner, Pavlov, Confucius cannot change man—they can make him fake. Enough for society, for society does not care whether your behavior arises from the soul or not. Enough if, even out of fear, you do not do; enough if out of greed you do—society only wants correct behavior. From where that behavior arises, society has no concern.

But religion has concern. If behavior arises from outside, you have wasted life—you are an actor, performing. If your conduct arises from within, there is revolution.

Now you can understand the sutra: where is virtue born?

‘Tao gives birth to virtue.’

Tao means your nature—your inner dharma—your consciousness.

‘From Tao are virtues born, and character nourishes them.’

Character is not the source; it is a shadow. Birth is in inner awareness—in deep states of meditation. But that is not enough; it is a seed. To nurse it, you must act according to it—then it deepens. What you have known within must be brought into life—that gives it roots. So character is not the origin; origin is knowing. And character is the experiment of deepening that knowing. Hence birth from Tao, nourishment by Teh.

Teh means character—doing what you have known within. Otherwise your knowing will remain a glimpse and be lost. When in deep meditation some arising occurs, some inner command is heard, when your conscience says something—do it. Otherwise it will not get roots. If you do, the command will grow clear day by day; the inner voice clearer. The more you embody your knowing into character, the more clarity comes—the inner flame glows; smoke diminishes; things appear clear. Birth is within; bringing it into conduct sinks roots in character.

‘Born in Tao, nourished in character. The material world gives them form.’

Your surrounding world—birth is within; roots are in character; and the expanse of your life takes form from the material world.

‘The material world shapes them, and present conditions complete them.’

The source is within. Then comes your conduct—there character roots them. Then comes the outer material world—there form is given. If Mahavira were born today, his form would not be the same as two and a half millennia ago—today’s material conditions would shape him. If he were born in Tibet, he could not stand naked—he would die. Nakedness was simple in India—because the material world here was different. If Mahavira were born in London, behavior would differ—conditions are different. Because of nakedness, the Digambara monk could not go beyond India—he could not carry the message outward; how to go naked? Nakedness became the obstacle. It would not to Mahavira—because the enlightened is fluid.

Form is given by conditions. What does it matter what form your lamp has? Your flame should be lit. In each land the lamp differs—style, clay, color—yet the color of the flame is one. Lamps change; the flame does not.

Thus, in whatever conditions you are born, the form of your conduct will be shaped by them. Therefore conduct has no fixed form. Whoever binds himself to fixed form becomes rigid. Conditions change; form changes.

But you are in difficulty—for you have no inner command. You lift rules from scripture. The scriptures are gone; their time gone; their conditions changed. One who lives by scripture becomes rigid. One who lives by inner prajna will be fluid, alive.

Therefore look at your traditional sannyasins—their faces are covered with dust. They look as if gone today, gone tomorrow; like museum pieces—good to look at, but of no use; ruins. They tell some glory of the past, but not of the present. They are historical artifacts, fossils—to be preserved as we preserve old things—but not fit for use; not related to today’s life.

If your conduct is born of inner prajna, born from Tao, you will never be dead; you will remain living, fluid, flowing. As conditions are, such will be your form. You need not worry—only be sensitive and aware.

‘And the present conditions complete it.’

Whatever arises within—do not take some past perfection as the standard. Do not make any past perfection your ideal, else you will be in trouble. The present, the living moment, gives you completion. None knows whether that completion will make you like Mahavira, Buddha, Lao Tzu. In truth, you will be like none of them—you will be like yourself. Because none of them had exactly your conditions. Everything has changed.

Scriptures do not change—they are dead. But the command of consciousness goes on changing. As conditions are, so is the arising—and at each moment a unique completion is born. That completion is not according to an ideal; it is the fulfillment of your inner bliss. Hence it happens: whenever a Tirthankara or Avatar appears, the religion in which he is born does not accept him. Because he is a new kind of completeness—never before seen—so there is no gauge to measure him against the past.

Jesus was born Jewish and remained Jewish; yet the Jews denied him. They asked: Are you like Abraham? Ezekiel? Like whom? They recited their old prophets. But Jesus was utterly different, utterly new; such a flower had never blossomed before—because such a morning had not been; such air had not been; such a moment had not been. A new completeness bloomed. But the Jewish pundit searched his scriptures to see if he matched some past completeness.

Jesus spoke an extraordinary sentence. When asked: Are you like Abraham?—he said: ‘Before Abraham was, I am.’ The Jews were offended—it seemed great arrogance: before Abraham, and he says ‘I am.’

They could not understand. Jesus is saying: I am beyond time. Whenever consciousness attains perfection, it goes beyond time. Time prepares and fashions, brings close to completeness—up to ninety-nine degrees. At one hundred degrees, instantly consciousness goes beyond time. He says: before Abraham, I am. For me there is no past, no future; I am eternal now. This declaration the Jews could not grasp. They crucified Jesus.

So it has always been; so it will be. The Hindus could not accept Buddha. He was born and raised among Hindus—and no one more Hindu than Buddha—yet the Hindus did not accept him. For his form matched neither Rama nor Krishna. Krishna dances with the gopis; Buddha has no taste for song and dance. What has dance to do with Buddha? Put a flute to Buddha’s lips and it will look absurd; place a peacock-crown and it will be a joke. He is beautiful beneath the Bodhi tree, silent—without peacock-crown.

Seat Krishna under the Bodhi tree and he will seem a child forced to sit. He needs a flute. Form comes from conditions. The peacock-crown suits Krishna—but only him. If another wears it, he will look like a circus clown; people will laugh. With Krishna the whole existence agreed—that was the completion of that moment. That moment will not return; that completeness will not return.

Paramatma never exhausts His creativity—He fashions the new each day. He does not repeat the old. Only those of lesser genius repeat. Paramatma’s genius is infinite; existence’s possibility is infinite—what need to repeat?

So Buddha looked neither like Rama, with bow and arrow—

Tulsidas is a devotee of Rama. It is said he went to Krishna’s temple in Mathura and did not bow. He said: I will not bow until you take up bow and arrow. Even a man like Tulsidas could not bow before Krishna—for he had his own fixed form, his own ideal. ‘Tulsidas’s head will not bow until you take up bow and arrow.’ The story says Krishna then took bow and arrow in hand; only then did Tulsidas bow.

The head bows when you see the past repeated in the present; otherwise not. But the past is never repeated. The story is false. Krishna cannot even by mistake take up bow and arrow; it will not suit him. The matter is not apt. And if Tulsidas saw it, it must have been his mind’s illusion. Lovers often see illusions. If you are mad in love, another woman passes and for a moment you think your beloved is coming. Such an illusion must have occurred to Tulsidas. He loved bow and arrow, loved Rama; in love the eyes go blind—he ‘saw’ for a moment. But what need had Krishna to take bow and arrow?

The Hindus could not accept Buddha. And their rejection was so deep that even the Jews did not reject Jesus so profoundly. They at least erected a cross; the cross gave Jesus roots—the Jews had to become Christians in large numbers, for the cross made a wound. The Hindus were more clever—an older nation, subtler. What did they do?

The Hindus fabricated a tale: God made heaven and hell; He seated Satan in hell. Ages passed—no one sinned, no one came to hell. Satan grew tired: abolish this hell and free me—what use this duty? God said: Do not worry; I will send Buddha—an Avatar—but he will teach wrong things, corrupt people. When people become corrupted, they will come to hell. Do not fear.

The Hindus are artful. They did not crucify; they used a device. They even accepted Buddha—for he is worthy of acceptance—accepted him as the tenth Avatar; but said he was born to corrupt. So do not accept—beware. The result was disastrous: Buddha and his vision disappeared from India. The whole of Asia drowned in Buddha’s love; only India was deprived. The cloud was born here; it rained elsewhere. Our fields remained dry.

There is a reason. When a Tirthankara, a Buddha, a Christ is born in a religion, that religion has its own fixed belief. He does not fit it, for each Tirthankara is new—like a fresh sprout, like dew upon fresh grass. His newness is unparalleled, absolute—never stale. Present conditions complete him—a utterly new flower that never bloomed before.

Virtue is a flower. When it blossoms in you, there is no mention of it in scriptures, no trace in social traditions. You blossom as an utterly new flower—forever new, virgin. Virtue is always virgin; morality is always stale. Morality is taught by others; virtue arises within. Morality is like adopting a child—however much you love and persuade yourself he is yours, beneath each persuasion the truth shows: not yours. Then a child is born in your house—from your womb, of your flesh and bone—then it is different; no persuasion is needed.

Morality is like an adopted child; dharma is born of your own life-energy. Until you become religious you will not know life’s supreme bliss—because only that which is born of you is yours. Keep this as a touchstone in your heart: whatever is born of you is yours; what is borrowed is not. Borrowed things have no value in existence. You are deceiving yourself. By adopting you deceive yourself.

‘Therefore all things of the world worship Tao and praise Teh.’

Lao Tzu says: since virtue is born of Tao—of the inner nature—therefore in this world all worship Tao. When a person like Buddha stands among you, you do not make your head bow—it bows of itself. It is hidden in Buddha’s being; reverence flows from you. No effort is needed; it flows like water flows toward a hollow. It is in the nature of things—that praise and worship flows toward virtue.

And the character born of that virtue leaves in you a deep praise, a song, an echo. Wherever you look… You even praise ordinary character, which is counterfeit. You preserve false coins thinking them true. When one day you meet a real coin—when the haze clears and you see reality—then the praise for character and the worship for virtue that arises in you, you can surmise from the fact that even the fake is being worshiped.

The fake deceives only because the real is worshiped. The fake can deceive because it imitates the real, mimics it to a great extent. Hence you worship it. A thief, a dishonest man, also borrows the shelter of honesty. To lie you must create the semblance of truth. Even the dishonest must first create an air of honesty around himself. If you wish to cheat someone, you borrow one rupee and return it—trust is built; then ten—return—trust grows; then you disappear with a thousand. Understand what happened: to do dishonesty you had to do honesty first. Dishonesty has no legs; it borrows honesty’s legs. Falsehood has no life of its own; it must borrow truth’s life. This shows only one thing: there is an innate worship of truth and a natural attraction to honesty—only then can the dishonest benefit.

‘All things worship Tao and praise Teh. Tao is worshiped; Teh is praised.’

Worship for dharma; praise for character.

‘And this happens of itself, not by anyone’s command.’

Understand this well: it happens of itself—no one makes it happen. Scriptures say: honor the guru. I was a guest at a university; there was a small gathering of teachers. As teachers everywhere now worry that students no longer respect them, they worried too. Why do students not give worship? Why no respect? In a land like India with a tradition of thousands of years of seeing the guru as God! They blamed the times, the conditions; they blamed the characterlessness of students.

I listened, amazed—no one said the guru is no longer a guru. What the scriptures say about worship of the guru is no command. Whenever there is a guru, worship arises on its own. When it does not, know clearly there is no guru. This is simple; there is no hurdle in it; no need to search a thousand reasons.

A teacher is not a guru. He is doing the business of education—just like other shopkeepers. He sells something. People pay and take—finished. Where is the question of reverence? The student pays fees; the teacher teaches—no inner bond. The guru is absent; therefore reverence does not rise. Where there is a guru, reverence rushes of itself—like the moth that flies to the flame.

It happens by itself—it is a law of nature. As desire arises toward beauty—does anyone need to arouse it? Does any president need to make an ordinance, to declare that from today whoever sees beauty must be filled with desire; whoever is not shall be punished?

No need. Of itself, the mind is attracted to beauty. However you suppress, hide your eyes—in your hiding is the proof. Close your eyes—your closing testifies. Desire runs toward beauty; reverence runs toward truth; worship runs toward virtue. It happens by itself. No Paramatma sits like a ruler commanding ‘Do this, do not do that.’

There is no command in this existence. You are absolutely free. Yet in this freedom there are laws—laws of freedom; they do not enslave you—they are the very nature of freedom.

‘It happens of itself, not by anyone’s command.’

Lao Tzu does not believe in a God who runs the world. Think a little: if a person were running the world, he would have either gone mad long ago, or committed suicide long ago, or fled—become a sannyasin into some Himalaya, if any exist. Household people run away; a single household exhausts one. Who could manage the whole world’s household? No person is running it. Existence runs by itself—nobody commands. The wholeness of existence is Paramatma; there is no person sitting there.

‘Tao gives them birth—virtues—and character, Teh, nourishes them, raises them, develops them, shelters them, gives them a place to dwell in peace.’

The birth of virtue is in Tao. Then growth, the leisure for growth, the space—character gives that. So remember this: whatever arises in your meditation, do not merely relish it—bring it into life. Its taste is deep, but not enough—because it can be lost.

There are three stages for the seeker. First: you see the Himalayan peak from afar, snow-clad. Clouds have cleared, the morning sun has risen—you see from thousands of miles the snow peaks. Even seeing fills the heart with coolness and joy; a call arises to come near. But do not take this as all—do not camp there; this is a glimpse. This is the first Samadhi—a glimpse.

There is a tale of the Jewish mystic Zusya. One day, sitting with his disciples, he suddenly arose, took a disciple by the hand to the window and said: ‘See!’ The disciple looked out. It was a full-moon night—serene, tender—silent music spread. All was still. The master shouted ‘See!’ with such force that the disciple’s thought process stopped. He watched intently: what is this? Zusya had never done this. He looked—then he remembered; thoughts ceased for a moment; in that moment an immeasurable beauty appeared. He fell at the master’s feet, weeping: ‘What I saw today—when will it become my life? How many births?’

The glimpse is not life; it only awakens taste. Do not take it as sufficient. Do not drown in the nectar of meditation. Meditation’s nectar is a glimpse—shape it into conduct; give it roots, space; let it expand. As you spread it, the glimpse begins to change.

Second stage: a man reaches Gaurishankar—sits where supreme beauty is, amid it. But even this is not the end. Falling is still possible. He can still return—the same legs that brought him can take him back; the same mind that reached here can return. The ladder is there.

Third: even that is not enough—when the person himself becomes the snow-peak. First, a glimpse of truth; second, the experience of truth; third, becoming one with truth. Keep the third as your goal. There is then no returning—because none remains to return. The ladder falls; the climber is gone. This is the point of no return.

In meditation the first thing is a glimpse of one’s nature.

Do not take that as enough—many stop there; they think the goal is reached and make a camp. It is pleasant; taste it—and shape it into conduct. If, descending into nature, you glimpsed love, bring love into your conduct. If you glimpsed peace, bring peace into your conduct. Sitting, rising, in the market, at your shop—guard that peace; let it not be lost. Let it enter your actions; then it grows strong. If you shape your glimpse into conduct, you are ready for the second event—you will fully experience truth.

When truth is experienced, its distinct qualities appear: compassion, wonder, a causeless rejoicing—ecstasy. Now bring that into conduct—be always rejoicing. Whether good or bad, loss or gain, success or failure—let your rejoicing remain unbroken. When joy deepens in your conduct, when compassion becomes dense—you become worthy of the third. When one becomes worthy of the third, his conduct is what we call Brahmacharya.

Brahmacharya means: conduct like Brahman—Brahma-like way of life. It has nothing to do with ‘celibacy’ as such—that is but a small limb. Because lust has disappeared, sex-desire has vanished; the whole life becomes Brahmacharya—conduct like Brahman. Such a one is like a God on earth—a Buddha, Krishna, Christ—an Avatar, a Tirthankara. He is Paramatma. All humanness has disappeared from his behavior—he is the ultimate summit: when you have become Gaurishankar—there can be no return.

‘It gives them birth and does not claim ownership over them.’

These are inner secrets—supremely useful for the seeker. Birth is from Tao, from nature; but it does not claim ownership. Therefore you can miss. For whatever you find within—if you do not care for it—the source will not insist that you care. It will not coerce you: ‘Do thus.’ There is no pressure within. Nature is supreme freedom. It will show you, but will not raise a whip—will point, but obliquely. If you understand, good; if not, you miss. It will not give direct command—because direct command is violence; and in nature there can be no violence. It will not even try to make you good—for all trying is coercion. Thus if you do not watch, it is in your hands.

Light will be given from nature; you must carry it. Wherever you go, the light will reveal. But the light will not say: do not go into darkness; do not go to the wrong place; there are snakes and scorpions. The light says nothing. It simply reveals whatever is, wherever you go. Light is not an order. If your whole life has been built on orders—always hearing someone telling you what to do—you will be in difficulty; you will miss.

Hence Lao Tzu says: remember—‘It gives them birth but does not own them. It helps, but does not commandeer them.’

Help is complete—yet your freedom is untouched. Your independence is not obstructed. You can even turn back. The inner light will not seize your hand to prevent you. It will say nothing.

‘It is supreme…’

This inner realization is the supreme.

‘…yet it does not control.’

It will not control you.

‘This is the mysterious virtue.’

Virtue is born in nature, nourished in character, and there is no insistence—no punishment, no reward. There is no Pavlov there, no Confucius. They never reached there—hence Confucius, after meeting Lao Tzu, was frightened: for he is a man of rules, of propriety; and these matters are dangerous—take the command from within; do not listen to scripture, tradition, society—listen to your inner voice.

Confucius trembled because he had never heard the inner voice. He knows only one thing: if control from outside is removed, man will become an animal. Man has been made man by outside supports. You have crutches everywhere—hence you are human, thinks Confucius. Chains are tied on all sides—so you are human. If they are removed, you are dangerous. Lao Tzu says: supreme freedom—this is the mystery of virtue.

When Confucius returned, his disciples asked: what happened? Confucius said: do not go near that man. You may have seen wild beasts—but they are not so dangerous. Lion, tiger—none so dangerous. In China there is a myth of a dragon that flies in the sky—found nowhere, only mythic. Confucius said: when I think of him, it seems he is that sky-flying dragon. Beware even of his shadow—he will bring anarchy.

But I tell you: only such a man can bring order. And because his word has not been heard, there is anarchy. Confucius has been heard too long. There has been much control; yet no revolution in man’s life, no light, no bliss—man remains where he was.

But this discipline is of another kind. From above, someone looking will be afraid. Its discipline is the discipline of meditation, not character. Its discipline is born within and spreads outward. Like throwing a stone in a lake—the ripples rise near the stone and spread. So when you throw yourself into the inner lake—that is meditation—then in that lake which spreads within and around you—whose name is Paramatma—ripples arise without end and spread around you. That is your character.

Tao is the lake; Teh is the ripples in it. Go deep in meditation. The deeper you go, the more a new discipline arises that comes from within. And there is no control in it, no prison, no punishment, no seduction of heaven or fear of hell. And worship of that virtue begins naturally. It is the way of nature. Not by any command—by itself.

Enough for today.