Tao Upanishad #49

Wittgenstein has said, what can be said can be said briefly; what cannot be said cannot be said even at length.

But the sages have said something deeper still. They have said, what can be said can also be said in silence, and what cannot be said will remain unsaid no matter how much you elaborate. What can be said can be said without words. What cannot be said, however much we speak, remains untouched, unapproached.

Lao Tzu is very sparing of speech. In truth, even the little that he spoke was out of great compulsion. Mostly he remained silent. Or say, he spoke mostly through his silence. He did say much, and very profoundly. But through his life, with his disciples, he was largely silent. Disciples sat with him, got up with him, walked with him, journeyed, slept, ate and drank with him; speaking was not a major occupation. In that silence, in Lao Tzu’s rising and sitting, in his eyes, in the gestures of his hands, in his expressions, his postures, in his actions and responses, the hints that flashed—those were his message.

Lao Tzu spoke nothing all his life. At the end of his life this Tao Teh Ching, the shortest of small books, he uttered. If someone ever asked Lao Tzu to say something, he would reply, those who can understand will understand without words; and those who cannot, there is no way to make them understand by speaking. If there is vision and depth, feeling and love, then silence can be understood. If there is no vision, no depth, no feeling, no love, then even words fall on deaf ears and scatter. It is not necessary that listening you have truly heard; nor, seeing, that you have truly seen.

We can look and still leave it unseen. We can hear and yet remain as if we had not heard. For if listening were only the work of the ears it would be very simple. Along with the ears, an attunement of the inner prana is needed. Otherwise the ears will hear mechanically, and if the prana is not in harmony within, the message will not descend anywhere. If the eyes alone could see, that would be enough. We would have long since seen the Paramatma, if the eyes alone were competent to see. The eyes require the harmony of prana. When prana peeks out from behind the eyes, then wherever you look the divine will be seen. And when prana does not look out from behind the eyes—when, instead, outer objects look in through the eyes—then everywhere only matter is experienced. The experience of matter brings the news that we have not yet learned to see with prana; only the eyes are seeing.

If only the ears hear, words are heard; if prana begins to hear from within the ears, truth begins to be heard. And one whose prana is peering through the ears will experience truth even in the sound of leaves trembling in the wind on a tree. And one whose prana is not peering through the ears—even if Buddha stands before him and speaks, or Krishna, or Lao Tzu—words will be heard and scattered, like leaves stirred by the wind and blown away. Nothing will vibrate within. No stir will arise in the depths. No ray will reach the inner center. A deep cooperation of prana with the senses is needed.

The saints have said much through silence. But you cannot speak through silence to everyone; only to those who are ready to gather their prana, their very life-force, behind all their senses. This alone is the meaning of disciple. Disciple means one who is ready to join his prana behind his senses and learn. This alone is the meaning of discipline. That you are disciplined means only this: your senses and your prana are not split and separate; they are united, joined. And when the eyes see, it is not the eyes alone that see, the soul sees. The eyes become a doorway. And when the ears hear, it is not the ears alone that hear, the soul hears. The ears become doorways. Then you come out through your senses. Ordinarily, through your senses the world comes in. When the world comes in, no deep resonance happens. When you expand outward, the deepest resonance happens. Disciple means one who is ready for this inner alchemy, this inner chemistry of joining prana together.

Hua was a true master. A man came to him and said, I have come to learn truth. Hua said, stay and learn.

Many days passed. The disciple said, till now you have taught nothing. Hua said, if my very being cannot teach you, then my words will not be able to. Saying is weak; being is powerful. If my total existence and presence cannot teach you, what will my words, the vibration of my lips, my voice be able to teach? The voice is very pale; my being is a vast, mighty sound. Learn.

More months passed. The disciple said, how long am I to remain like this? You do not teach anything. Hua said, one who is ready to learn needs no teaching. And one who is not ready—no true master has ever succeeded in teaching him. This is not my work. It is your work, that you learn.

A year passed. The disciple said, now shall I go? I am tired, bored. You neither speak nor say anything.

Hua said, as you wish! But if even the impact of my being does not fall upon you, then my teachings will be in vain. Then do not go and say to someone that I did not teach. When you greeted me in the morning, did I not return your greeting? When you brought me tea in the morning, did I not accept it from your hands? If only you could have seen when I returned your greeting! If only you could have seen me! When I accepted your tea, if only you had seen! And when you placed your head at my feet and I placed my hand upon your head—if only then you had felt! Then you would know I have been teaching you every moment.

But such teaching can be given only to disciples. Lao Tzu consented to write this book before dying only for one reason: for those who are not disciples, who will no longer be able to meet Lao Tzu directly, who will have no way now to be in his presence, to receive the touch of his existence—words are being left behind for them. Perhaps some among them may catch the thread in these words and enter into Lao Tzu’s very being. If one wishes, one can.

In this sutra Lao Tzu says, Nature is sparing of speech.

No, nature does not speak much; but it speaks enough. It does not speak at length, it speaks little; yet it says all that is worth saying. A flower blossoms in the morning and by evening falls. What was to be said has been said; what fragrance was to be released has been released. The sun rises—great sun in the morning—and by evening it sets. The news that was to be given has been given. Nature hints very subtly, very sparingly.

Lao Tzu says, that is why a storm cannot last through the morning.

It rises, but it cannot run even through a single morning.

Wind and rain do not continue throughout the day.

From where do they come and where do they go? What are they, of what are they symbols? What message do they bear? They come from nature, they dissolve into nature. They are the language of nature. If one learns to look within them, nature sends infinite messages every moment. But the messages are very brief, very slight. Miss a moment and you will miss them. Only one who is alert each instant can receive nature’s messages. Nature will not teach like a schoolmaster, stick in hand, drilling you twenty-four hours a day. And it is good that nature does not deliver long lectures. For long teachings often make people deaf. Long teachings often bore people. From long sermons people do not learn much; they become habituated to hearing, familiar with words. They become used to it, and then no wound is made.

If the first touch of truth does not enter, its repetition will not enter either. If the first impact of truth enters, then it is easy. If we become habituated even to hearing truth, then the more we hear the thicker the wall grows around us, the doors close.

That is why it often happens that in those lands where religion is much discussed, people become irreligious. Our own land is an example. None has ever discussed religion as much as we have on this earth. And perhaps none will now make this mistake again. We have given more opportunities to Tirthankaras, to avatars, on this patch of earth than any other land has received. But the result is contrary. We have become habituated even to Mahavira and Buddha and Krishna. If Krishna were suddenly to stand here, no storm, no whirlwind would rise within us. We would say, we know him, we recognize, we are familiar. Familiarity blinds. Closeness makes deaf. Even if Mahavira suddenly stands up here, no stir, no movement will arise within us. We will say, fine, they have come before too. Even an event as vast as Mahavira would become ordinary among us. We are habituated.

The sun rises every morning, and we do not notice; we have become used to it. All things that repeat around us, we get used to them. Think a little—on the day Adam saw the sun rise for the first time, what joy, what thrill, what ecstasy! The day Adam first looked up to a night sky of stars, what a dance! He must have danced; that night sleep must have been difficult. The stars are the same even now, and the Adam within us is the same human being. But we are habituated. Everything has stopped. We “know” that at night there are stars. It is not necessary that we have known; perhaps we have only heard, or we saw them on a film screen.

Nature sends sparse messages—indirect, veiled. It hints; it does not speak. It creates a gentle thrill, a delicate shiver. Only if we are sensitive will we understand. No one strikes a hammer upon a vina; a soft suggestion is made and the strings tremble. But a blacksmith who hammers all day—if such strings were to tremble before him, he would say, what kind of sound is this? I can hardly hear. His ears have become habituated. Sensitivity is lost. The capacity to feel touch has withered. Taste has gone dull. Everything has become inert. Then nothing is known. The breeze passes by us—carrying the very fragrance of the divine—and not a single hair on us gets the message.

Do you know that you do not breathe only through the nostrils—you breathe through every pore and hair? But do you notice? Scientists say that if your nose were left open but all the pores were sealed, you would die in three hours, however much you breathe through the nose. If all pores were closed and only the nose and mouth left open so that you could breathe at will, you would not live beyond three hours. For each hair breathes. There are millions of pores breathing throughout the body. But do you know? Only small children know and old ones like Lao Tzu know.

Lao Tzu has said, from where do I breathe? From everywhere, from all directions, through every pore and hair.

We shall have to rediscover this. In the Tao tradition there is a deep experiment—to awaken sensitivity. Try it sometime. Lie down for fifteen minutes in the day and feel that you are breathing not only through the nose but through every pore of the body. This has to be rediscovered. Certainly, after some days of experimentation, the experience will begin that breath is entering through every pore. Then the whole body will feel alive. Right now the whole body does not feel alive. There is a little aliveness around the head; the rest of the body has become inert.

You are not present in the whole body; you are confined to a little space near the skull. The rest of the body you merely carry; you do not live in it. The day you experience breath through every pore, that day your soul will no longer seem located in the skull—it will immediately slide down to the navel. Then it will not feel as if your center is within the head; the center will be near the navel. For when breath comes from all sides, forms a circle from all directions and enters from everywhere, you will know: I am living from the navel. The navel will become the center. The navel is the center. But only one who attains the experience of breathing through the whole body attains the experience that the navel is the center.

The day you can breathe through the whole body, then when a gust of wind passes by you, it will not be only a gust of wind, it will be a gust of Paramatma. And when a flower opens and smiles before your eyes, it will not be only a flower blooming—it will be all of nature blossoming and laughing. And then the language of nature, sparing of speech, will begin to be understood—its coded language.

We understand human language; that too we do not understand rightly. We always have our own meanings. The language of nature can be understood only by one who learns—or by one who unlearns the human language he has learned. Both mean the same. Unlearn—forget the human tongue—so that the language of nature can be learned.

Nature’s language is a language of symbols. Symbols are indirect; not straight, not clear; they do not strike like blows on the head. They touch with a very light sensitivity, the faintest brush, and depart. Such a soft knock on the door that only those will hear whose every hair and pore can hear; otherwise they will not. The sound of the feet of Paramatma will be heard only by those who are so silent, so still that even if the invisible places a foot upon the earth, that sound can be heard. We need a tumult to hear even a little.

We do not even understand human speech rightly; our own meanings intrude. Never fall into the illusion that what I speak is what you understand. What is heard is what I speak; what is understood is what you can understand. What I want to convey cannot be what gets understood. Meanings are within us. And we have our purposes. So many people here—so many meanings arise. And each has his own interest, his own advantage, his own utility.

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting by a river. Ten blind men came; they wanted to cross. Mulla struck a bargain and said, I shall charge one coin for each man I ferry across. I do not demand much. The blind agreed; it was not expensive.

Mulla ferried them one by one. He had already taken nine across and was tired. While taking the tenth, his hand slipped. The current was strong; the blind man drowned. The nine on the other bank became agitated. They suspected something—the splash of someone falling. They asked, what happened, Nasruddin? Nasruddin said, nothing happened; it is to your benefit—you will have to pay one coin less.

For Nasruddin the concern was the ten coins. Nothing happened, he said; it is to your benefit—you will have to pay one coin less. He could ferry only nine. That a man has died, been lost—this is not in Nasruddin’s purview. The coin is his purpose.

Doctors often say to each other, the patient died, but the operation was a great success. The success of the operation is a separate matter; whether the patient lived or died—another question. Indeed it is so. For the doctor the patient is secondary. The operation, a skill, is another matter altogether.

There was an English surgeon, Kenneth Walker—one of London’s foremost. Later he became a disciple of Gurdjieff, left it all, and devoted himself to sadhana. In his memoirs he says that for the first time a patient came with a condition unknown to surgery. I was the first to operate on it. The patient died, but the operation was perfectly successful. And the first words that came to my mouth when I had cut open his belly and removed the diseased gland, on seeing it were—“Beautiful!” I was the first human being in the history of mankind to see that gland. And the experience was unique.

The patient lying dead upon the table is in the same category as the blind man of Mulla Nasruddin—one coin less to pay!

Our purposes become our meanings. If a storm is raging you do not see the storm; if you are sitting with a lamp lit, your worry is that the flame may go out. If clouds gather in the sky and your clothes are hanging outside to dry, then clouds are not seen; the clothes on the line are seen—the fear that they will get wet. You are returning home; raindrops begin to fall—you do not see the rain, you see the creases of your garments being ruined. One coin less to pay!

Our purposes become our experiences. Such a vast event is happening—the rain, the whole sky showering upon you—yet you have nothing to do with it; you do not even notice; you run so your clothes do not get wet. Even if the clothes do get wet, how costly is that loss! We see only that which is tied to our petty self-interest. Hence the great meanings of nature, the mystery, the signals, the references—are all lost. Each of us lives in a little world of our own references. Everything happens according to our calculations there.

Khalil Gibran has written a story: one night many people came to a hotel, ate and drank, and made merry. It was midnight when they were leaving. The owner said to his wife, if such guests came every day our luck would open. The one who had paid said, pray to God that our business prospers, then we shall come every day. The owner said, we shall pray. Suddenly a thought occurred and he asked, but what is your business? The man said, we sell wood at the cremation ground. Pray that our trade flourishes, then we shall come every day.

The business will prosper only if people die daily in the town. It is wood for the burning ground. But all trades are like this. Do not think only the wood-seller at the cremation ground is so. All trades are like this.

Each has his trade, his vested interest. We live within that. Therefore we are deprived of nature’s very soft language—so delicate, silent, that it merely touches and moves on. For that sensitivity, the circle of our vested interests must break and we must come into attunement with the purpose of the vast infinite; only then will we understand.

Lao Tzu says, when even the voice of nature is not long-lived, what to say of the voice of man?

He says, when nature speaks, and in such little measure, with such ultimate energy and sparing language, then what of man’s message?

Hence the sutras Lao Tzu has written are extremely concise—most concise. And for this very reason the book of Lao Tzu has not been understood. It remains un-understood even now. People read it—one can read it in an hour, even half an hour. It is a small book. As long as it takes to read the morning newspaper, one can read it and toss it away.

Why so brief? Why so small? Why such unopened, mysterious utterances?

Lao Tzu says, therefore in brief, what I have to say is this.

Therefore it can be said…

In these three utterances is the essence of the whole book of Lao Tzu.

He who follows the Tao becomes one with Tao. He who walks by codes and precepts becomes one with codes and precepts. And he who abandons the Tao becomes one with the absence of Tao. He who is one with Tao—Tao rejoices to welcome him. He who is one with morality—morality rejoices to welcome him. And he who is one with the abandonment of Tao—the absence of Tao also welcomes him.

This is a very unique statement, and not one that occurs at first glance. It has deep inner meanings. Let us try to understand from two or three dimensions.

First: Lao Tzu says, that with which you align, you will become. Whom you walk behind, you will become a shadow of. That with which you join yourself in feeling—that you become. If you join yourself with matter in feeling, you will become matter. We have all become matter. Because apart from matter we follow nothing. One follows house, one car, one wealth, one position. We follow matter; we are all followers of matter.

It does not appear so. Someone seems to be a follower of Mahavira, someone of Buddha, someone of Krishna. But this is all superficial talk. Look within people and you will find they are followers of matter. One who seems to follow Mahavira is going after money. One who is of Buddha is also going after money. And one who is of Jesus is also going after money.

There was an emperor of China. He was standing on his palace. With him stood Chuang Tzu, a disciple of Lao Tzu. The emperor asked Chuang Tzu, look how many ships are coming on the water, some from the east, some from the west, some going east, some west, some south, some north; how many directions, how many ships coming and going! Chuang Tzu said, Your Majesty, do not be deceived by appearances. All these ships come from one direction and go to one direction. The emperor said, what are you saying? Chuang Tzu said, they come for money and go for money. All other directions are delusions, mere surfaces. They have no real value. The one going, the one coming—both.

If we look beneath people’s religions we will find the religion of money. All distinctions of Hindu, Muslim, Christian break down there. All other differences are surface. Until this inner religion changes, life will not change. Whether one becomes Christian, Hindu, Muslim—it makes no difference. The inner religion is that one direction toward which the world moves—the direction of matter.

Lao Tzu says, that which you follow, that you become. He gives three sutras.

He who follows Tao—the primal energy, nature, the natural, the svabhava—that is the highest following, the highest possibility of a human being. One who moves with his own svabhava, even if it demands facing obstacles, whatever the outcome, whatever the fruit—moves in accord with his own nature.

What Krishna calls swadharma—that is Tao. What Krishna says—paradharmo bhayavah, swadharme nidhanam shreyah—this is Tao. To die in one’s own nature is blessed, rather than living by another’s nature—even if living, it is better to die in one’s own. People often think this means, if born in the Hindu religion, it is better to die in the Hindu religion; if born in the Muslim religion, better to die in that. No—this swadharma has nothing to do with that. Swadharma means Tao, my own intrinsic nature; for that—let anything befall, even death—let me follow it alone, for only that will lead me toward the immortal.

He who follows the Tao becomes one with Tao.

One who follows his intrinsic nature becomes one with the great nature. Following nature brings identity with nature. This is the highest following—to follow oneself, to walk behind oneself, to catch hold of the line of one’s own nature and stake everything upon it.

Second, a lower sutra: he who walks by codes and precepts becomes one with them.

Mahavira walks by swadharma, Krishna walks by swadharma, Buddha and Lao Tzu walk by swadharma. But the follower of Buddha walks by Buddha’s words. That is following precepts. Buddha moves by his own nature. One who believes in Buddha has two possibilities. If he truly believes in Buddha, he too should walk by his own nature. If he does not understand and is charmed by Buddha, if Buddha’s words please him but he does not comprehend the secret—that just as Buddha moves by his nature, so should I move by mine—that is the secret to understand—then a second result will follow: as Buddha walks, so shall I walk. This is a distortion. As Buddha rises, I shall rise; as Buddha sits, I shall sit; what Buddha eats, I shall eat; what Buddha drinks, I shall drink; what Buddha does, I shall do.

If one follows, Lao Tzu says, the follower of codes and precepts will become one with codes and precepts.

But such a person will be a mere shadow. Such a person will have no soul, only a shadow. The soul belongs to one who follows himself. And the whole effort of great teachers is this: that you follow yourself. But their message pleases us so much, we are so hypnotized, that we say, fine, your words ring true, we shall follow you. Here there is a very fine distinction, and in that fine gap all the mischief happens.

Buddha says to Ananda, leave me; I am the obstacle for you. Buddha is dying. Ananda beats his chest and weeps. Buddha says, Ananda, why do you weep? Ananda says, even while you were here I could not attain enlightenment—after you leave, how will I attain? Buddha says, before me, when I was not, people attained; I myself was ignorant once, and attained without any Buddha. If I am not, do you think no one will attain in the world? In truth, Ananda, rejoice—for when I am gone perhaps you will be able to follow yourself. While I am here you will not be able to follow yourself.

The last words of Buddha at the moment of death are the words of the first sutra: Appa deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Do not take another as your lamp; the lamp is within you. Become your own lamp.

But this word of Buddha is so pleasing that we may commit the mistake of making Buddha the lamp. And in that mistake we remain shadows. We keep following. But our identity is not with the great nature; it is with the conduct of those who have experienced it. We become shadow-like.

Therefore the true follower does what his master did with himself. The false follower does what appears to him that the master does.

There is a difference between the two—a fundamental difference. What the master did—that the true follower does. What the follower sees the master doing—the false follower begins to imitate that. Then imitation becomes superficial. Then the follower is a carbon copy. The original becomes impossible to find. One who takes the carbon copy as the original—Lao Tzu says—the danger of nature, of the ultimate law of life is that you will become one with codes and precepts and you will not even know that you have taken the shadow as yourself. The identity will become so complete that you will believe, I am the shadow.

Bodhidharma, a great follower of Buddha, has said… A disciple asks, should we take Buddha’s name in the morning or not? Bodhidharma says, whenever you take Buddha’s name, rinse your mouth afterward.

Why? The man asks, what are you saying? Buddha’s sacred name! And after taking it one must rinse the mouth?

Bodhidharma says, the name may be sacred, but you rinse your mouth! And if on the road you ever meet Buddha, run from that path without looking back!

The disciple is startled. Bodhidharma says, do not be frightened, this is nothing. Now I shall tell you the real thing. When my inner satsang with Buddha was deepening, finally the moment came when I had to cut Buddha into pieces with a sword. Only then could I attain myself.

And behind Bodhidharma stands the image of Buddha. This very morning Bodhidharma has bowed at Buddha’s feet. And this evening again he will light a lamp there.

The disciple says, and what is this? The flowers you offered in the morning have not yet withered. And I know, every evening you light a lamp. Bodhidharma says, precisely because Buddha himself taught that only when you drop me too will you find yourself. He is my master.

The matter has become subtle. To accept a master means only this—that one day the master becomes unnecessary. But this does not mean that anugrah ceases. Bodhidharma remains filled with grace all his life. Buddha has been dead for hundreds of years—and Bodhidharma still lights the lamp, still offers flowers. And yet he has the courage to say, if Buddha meets you on the road, cut him to pieces. This is the supreme disciple. He is not following precepts; otherwise his prana would tremble to say such a thing; he would have no courage. He is doing exactly the inner meaning of Buddha—Appa deepo bhava. Therefore he is also graced.

But this grace is not our bargain-grace. Our grace is full of begging. We will fear to say, rinse your mouth after taking Buddha’s name—we fear Buddha may be displeased.

Those who are displeased are not Buddhas. And one who fears so much that he cannot even wrestle with Buddha has not come close to Buddha yet. In Buddha’s lineage—only in Buddha’s lineage—this became possible, that one who daily places his head at Buddha’s feet could also say, remove this image, break it! This is the outcome of deep intimacy—the fruit of the first sutra.

Most religious followers move around the second sutra. One who follows conduct becomes one with conduct. This is the danger. He will not even know; the conduct will become so dense that he will feel, I am doing it. If you learn to walk like Buddha and the practice becomes thick, the final result will be that you feel, I am walking. But you are not walking. It is only acting. You can sit like a statue of Buddha…

People came to Tenka and said, we want to meditate and become like Buddha. Tenka would say, run away from here! In my temple a thousand Buddhas, of stone, are already sitting. He was the priest of a temple of one thousand Buddhas. In China there is a temple with a thousand images of Buddha—he was its priest. He would say, run away! Do not crowd this place; a thousand are already sitting cross-legged. If you also sit cross-legged, where is the space?

You can sit perfectly cross-legged, eyes closed—becoming like Buddha. Many sadhus and sannyasins have their photo taken sitting exactly like Buddha. But to be like Buddha is not to be Buddha; it is only a casing, false. Inside a storm is boiling, winds are raging; inside all the turmoil is present. The danger of the code is this: if someone follows it exactly, he will forget that what is in his hands is a counterfeit copy, not the real—it is only a shadow, a reflection.

And he who abandons Tao…

The third, the final, is the delight—that one who totally leaves swadharma—neither from the standpoint of swadharma, nor of conduct—leaves all standpoints…

He who abandons the Tao becomes one with the abandonment.

Lao Tzu’s sutra is very deep. He says, this nature is so generous that even if you go contrary to it, it does not obstruct you. Even if you turn your back upon Paramatma, in that too Paramatma assists you.

To the ordinary religious mind this will seem wrong. God should stop you—why are you going astray? A father, if his son goes wrong, stops him. If God has compassion he should say, do not turn your back on me, return! If someone loses his conduct, he should be brought back to conduct.

Lao Tzu’s vision of nature and Paramatma is far deeper than ours.

Ours is a utilitarian view. Lao Tzu says, Tao is supreme freedom. Therefore even if you go against it you become one with it.

The man who says God is not—God will not obstruct him either. He will become one with atheism. A very dangerous thing—and very great—immense responsibility! Because we are misusing such supreme freedom. A man says, I will not believe in God until God meets me—he may not meet God for lives on end. For he has turned his back already upon the doorway by which God could come. And God does not even place the slightest obstruction by forcing his way to stand before him. Existence is so generous, so supremely generous, that whatever you wish to be—you can be. If you wish to go contrary to existence, you can go contrary. Even then there will be no obstruction.

If evil were not free, good would become a compulsion. If there were no freedom to go to hell, going to heaven would be a coercion. And if the gate of hell were difficult to enter—if you were not allowed in—then entering heaven would bring a deep guilt to the mind. A heaven obtained by force is also like hell. And one who chooses hell out of his own joy—his hell too becomes heaven. In truth, freedom itself is heaven.

Therefore Lao Tzu says, he who abandons the Tao becomes one with the absence of Tao. And then he says something more delightful.

He who is one with Tao—Tao rejoices to welcome him. He who is one with morality—morality rejoices to welcome him. He who has become one with the abandonment of Tao—the absence of Tao also rejoices to welcome him.

This is most wondrous. Lao Tzu is saying, whatever you do, this existence is pleased with you in every case. Unconditionally—there is no condition that if you do this, existence will be pleased, and if not, it will be displeased. Existence is pleased in every case. Whatever you do, existence is ready to give you the energy to flow that way. Even if you go contrary to existence, existence is ready to give you its energy—joyfully. There is no displeasure anywhere.

In this regard Lao Tzu rises far above many religious teachers. For if we listen to the talk of religion otherwise, it seems that God has conditions. It seems that if you do good, God is pleased; if you do bad, God is displeased. But Lao Tzu would say, absurd! If God can be displeased, then there is no difference between you and God. And if God keeps conditions—if you fulfill this, I am favorable; if not, I am unfriendly—then there is a give-and-take between God and us.

A story of Jesus is very important here. And that is why Christianity has not understood that story even to this day. And it will not be understood without Lao Tzu; it is impossible. There is such a delight in it that, to understand Mahavira, the one who goes straight to Mahavira often cannot understand; sometimes a sutra from Lao Tzu will open Mahavira; sometimes a sutra from Jesus will open him. Sometimes in Mahavira you will find a key that suddenly illuminates a story of Jesus.

In truth, Jesus, Mohammed, Krishna, Christ or Lao Tzu—such people give a glimpse of that Paramatma. The glimpse will always be partial. For the divine is vast. Even one like Lao Tzu gives only a glimpse. It will be incomplete. Sometimes the glimpse of another completes it; sometimes, in another’s glimpse, for the first time its incompleteness becomes complete.

There is a story of Jesus, a cause of difficulty for Christians. Without this sutra it will not be solved. But religious people bound to their religions are not ready to take help from one another. A follower of Jesus will not be ready to admit that Jesus becomes clear through Lao Tzu. He will try to assert that Lao Tzu and Jesus are enemies. Friendship he cannot accept—for sects stand upon enmity; upon friendship sects collapse. Churches stand upon hostility; if friendly, churches have no ground. One church’s door would open into another’s temple. It would be very difficult.

Jesus told a story: a wealthy man called laborers to work in his vineyard. Many came in the morning; but there were too few, so he sent to the market for more. Some came at noon; still too few, he sent for more. Some came toward sunset. By then the sun was about to set. Some had only just arrived; they had not even lifted their tools. Others had come at sunrise and were soaked in sweat, exhausted by day’s end. The rich man gathered them all and paid them all equally. Those who came in the morning cried out: this is injustice! We worked from morning and we get the same? The same? Those who came at noon, who worked half the day, the same? And those who just arrived, who did no work, the same?

The rich man said, think otherwise. Did you get what you worked for, or not? You have received more than the worth of your labor. Leave others to me. I do not give them for their work; I give because I have abundance.

This seems unjustified; not just at all. And yet the morning laborers returned unhappy—though they were paid plenty. Had those who came later not arrived, the morning laborers would have gone home very happy. They had received a lot. But now comparison had arisen. What they received was no longer the issue; that others had received too—that created the difficulty.

Consider: saints stand before God and drunkards also arrive—and God gives equally to both! What will be the state of the saints? Their life will go out; they will die of it! Ruined! If saints learn that sinners too are entering heaven—the gate opens for them with the same celebration, with bands playing—heaven will become hell for the saints. This story is dangerous.

But if there is a God anywhere, I say to you, the gate opens equally for all. And when the sinner comes, God rejoices—he has come!

Jesus told another story: a father had two sons. The elder was obedient; the younger was not. The father grew old. The two quarreled; they had to be separated. The property was divided.

The younger took his share and went to the city. In a village, wealth is of little use; the rich in a village is poor. In the city even a poor man becomes rich; he can do something. The younger went to the city. For five or seven years there was no news. Then suddenly news came—he had squandered everything, become a beggar, begging on the streets.

In those five or seven years the elder son multiplied his share five or sevenfold. He labored hard, did business, cultivated fields, planted orchards. His wealth grew.

When the father heard that the younger had become a beggar, he sent messengers: while I am alive, there is no need to beg—come back. One evening news came that the son was returning. The father said, the fattest sheep shall be slaughtered today, prepare a feast. Bring out the oldest wine from the cellar; today there will be a banquet. My younger son is returning! Invite the whole village to a celebration. Tonight will be a night of festivity!

The news spread; invitations went out. The elder son was returning from the fields at dusk, sweat dried upon his face. Seeing the celebration in the village, he asked the people, what is happening? They said, you do not know? Your younger brother is returning and your father has organized a banquet to welcome him. A stone fell upon his chest. I have burned myself for seven years, served this old man, gathered wealth—and that son—that good son—having squandered it all, returning as a pauper—his welcome!

The elder returned home angry. He said to his father, this is injustice! I have never been welcomed so.

The father said, you were always with me. When a shepherd returns home at dusk with his sheep, if he has a hundred and one is lost, he leaves ninety-nine in the dark and goes into the forest to find the lost one; and placing it on his shoulders, returns. Would you have the ninety-nine bleat, injustice! We have always been with you; you never carried us on your shoulders! We were always with you and you were never so anxious and eager and went to find us! And this lost sheep—this stray—this one that ran away…

For a sheep runs only if it is stray; otherwise a sheep does not run. A sheep moves with the herd. Only if it is mischievous, rebellious, does it run, does it wander. Otherwise there is no question of straying.

The father said, he is returning. He is the stray sheep, the wandering one. If I carry him upon my shoulders, do not be unhappy. For you, all that is mine is yours. But a father’s heart is large, and it is not exhausted upon you. What I have in excess, let me give to him as well.

These are unjust stories; but they are in tune with the supreme justice. Lao Tzu says, whatever you do, nature is pleased. Its bliss does not diminish by a grain. If you wish to be one with Tao—nature rejoices; if you wish to be one with codes—nature rejoices; if you wish to go contrary to dharma—nature rejoices.

But remember, this sutra is incomplete. Lao Tzu has not said the second half here—knowing that those who understand will grasp that too. He is sparing of speech. I will say the other half to you; because it is not certain you will understand.

If you become one with Tao, Tao is pleased—and you too will be pleased. If you become one with codes and precepts—precepts are pleased; you will not be as pleased. If you go contrary to Tao—the absence of Tao is pleased even in that; but you will become miserable. That second part. It has nothing to do with Tao; it has to do with you. And do not lay your misery upon Tao. Tao is pleased even with your going to hell; but you will not be pleased. Tao is pleased even if you drink and fall in the gutter; but you will not be pleased. Even if you are killing yourself, Tao is pleased; but you will not be pleased.

Your bliss can be complete only in one state—that you become one with Tao. Therefore one who is one with Tao—you cannot make him unblissful. Whatever you do—he is blissful. Whatever you do—he is blissful. You go contrary to him—he is blissful; you come into accord with him—he is blissful. But you will not be able to be blissful by going against him. Your limits are there, your conditions are there.

So, keeping Lao Tzu’s statement in mind, keep in mind the second half as well.

He who is not reverent toward himself will not receive the reverence of others.

But this great pilgrimage of becoming one with Tao begins with reverence toward oneself.

He who is not reverent toward himself will not receive the reverence of others.

We all want reverence, respect, without caring that we ourselves have no reverence toward ourselves, no respect for ourselves. In truth, there is no one we treat with as much disrespect as we treat ourselves. If we ask within, what do we think of ourselves, those thoughts will not be good.

This great journey begins with reverence for oneself. For only one who reveres himself will one day gather the courage to be one with his own intrinsic nature.

We do not revere ourselves, and so we have devised a trick. So that the lack of self-reverence does not prick, we revere others. Some revere Mahavira, some Buddha, some Krishna. One who reveres Krishna because he has no reverence for himself and thinks that by revering the other, perhaps a path will open—he will arrive at the second sutra, he will follow conduct. One who says, since I do not revere myself, why should I revere anyone—he will become an atheist, he will arrive at the third sutra. One who has reverence for himself will learn from Krishna, from Lao Tzu. But his reverence will become denser through this learning; through satsang his reverence for the Self will grow. Even if he bows at the feet of Krishna it is only because Krishna is a symbol of his own future; tomorrow he too can be like Krishna. He bows at the feet of what he can become tomorrow.

Someone asked Buddha, people bow at your feet—why do you not stop them?

Buddha said, if they bowed at my feet I would surely stop them. But they bow at the feet of their own future; I am only an excuse. In me they see their future; tomorrow they too can be Buddhas. And thus they bow. Therefore there is no reason to stop them.

If there is reverence for oneself, one can become one with Tao. If there is no reverence, there are two dangers—either we substitute reverence for another and follow conduct; or, lacking self-reverence, we revere no one and go contrary to Tao.

Tao is pleased in every case; you cannot be pleased in every case. Therefore keep watch on your misery. The greater your misery, understand that you are caught in the third sutra. If there is misery, not too much—just enough to make do—understand you are in the second. If there is no misery at all, no need even of contentment—then understand you have come near the first.

That is all for today. Sit for five minutes, let us do kirtan.