《吕祖全书》Vol. 5

When the heart cannot find peace, one lets the mind run wild, going against the Dao of Heaven and right principle—then Heaven sees the evil conduct and may bring poverty, low status, illness, or early death.

Foolish people in the world do not reflect and fail to see that misfortune is of their own making: saying Heaven does not protect them and rashly resenting and slandering—this is “defying Heaven”; feigning good conduct and coveting what is not one’s due—this is “deceiving Heaven”; doing wrong in secret and hiding it when others appear—this is “concealing from Heaven”; speaking of benevolence and righteousness while the heart is full of evil intent, thinking Heaven does not know and others cannot see—this is “lying to Heaven”; before the Three Luminaries (sun, moon, and stars), lacking sincerity and reverence, careless in bearing and conduct, with no awe in the heart—this is “profaning Heaven”; when one’s own lot happens to go ill, envying others’ wealth and angrily blaming Heaven for unfairness—this is “slandering Heaven”; reading without grasping principle, reciting scriptures without understanding, rashly judging the ancients and mocking those who have the Dao—this is “despising Heaven”; even when one or two people know how to examine themselves and turn toward good, if the good intent is not yet pure, the root of goodness not yet firm, and the fruit of goodness not yet deep, yet they still hope for blessings and casually invite monks and Daoist priests to submit memorial after memorial (petitions to the spirits asking for favor)—this is “profaning Heaven.”

I now tell you cultivators (those who practice the Way): you must first revere Heaven and Earth. But reverence is not flattery to Heaven to seek blessings. Upright people will not accept sycophancy—how much less Heaven and Earth! Reverence means constantly examining yourself in the nature Heaven has given you and unceasingly checking yourself on the ground of your own heart-mind. If a word does not accord with Heaven and Earth, do not speak it; if an act does not accord with Heaven and Earth, do not do it. With your own clear nature-heaven, look up and embody that deep, solemn Heaven that never ceases to move; with your own quiet, steady heart-ground, look down and observe the tranquil earth.

As Master Ziyu (Mencius, styled Ziyu) said: “Preserve the heart and nourish nature to serve Heaven”; and as the Book of Rites says: “Hearing thunder, one is afraid, and in the middle of the night one must rise.” Only then can one say one uses one’s own heart-ground to look down upon that tranquil earth.

Mencius said: “Preserve the original mind and nourish the innate nature, and in that way serve Heaven.” The Book of Rites also says: “When thunder is heard, the heart fills with caution and awe; even at midnight one must rise.” Only that counts as true reverence. Mediocre people in later ages, with no genuine practice in daily life, merely perform sacrifices for show—that is deceiving Heaven, not reverence.

Mind and nature are not grasped all at once; one must begin from reverence. Even in a dark room or in the hidden corners where no one sees, one should constantly feel that Heaven and Earth and the spirits are watching from above. When the mind is kept in this way, deviant thoughts cannot arise. When deviance does not arise, the mind that rules is at peace, the nature is clear as the sky after rain, and the karma of body, speech, and mind naturally becomes pure. When the three karmas are pure, the six faculties (eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind) and the six objects (form, sound, scent, taste, touch, dharmas) can also be purified, and the foundation for entering the sacred realm is already laid.

Yet one must not relax for a single moment; one must continually apply the work of cleansing. When the yin talisman is fully exhausted (all turbid yin qi is transformed away) and the yang spirit (pure yang original spirit) emerges and appears, one is wholly silent and still; the Heaven-given true nature shines forth, seated in the heavenly court, now hidden, now visible, beyond measure. Call it Buddha—it is only a provisional name; call it immortal—it is only a provisional label. Immortal or Buddha, sage or worthy—the names are many, but all spring from this one mind. Mind and nature may be called two, or may be called one. Mind-nature and Heaven share the same substance without difference; even to say so is a provisional designation. This is the unity of the three powers (Heaven, Earth, and humanity) with the Dao.

Reverence toward Heaven and Earth is the most wondrous in its effect. Those who know no reverence yet claim aloud to be learning the Dao are only spirits of the demonic kind. After life ends they will surely fall into evil destinies (painful realms of rebirth) and forever lose the true Great Dao.

Chapter Four on Purifying Bodily Karma—the fourth chapter, on making the body’s karmic conduct pure.

Once you know that reverence must be kept in the heart, the three karmas of body, speech, and mind—deeds wrought by body, words, and thought—can be purified. Yet each of the three must still be examined one by one and checked at every moment; only then can they be gradually cleared.

As for bodily karma: killing, stealing, and sexual misconduct—regardless of poverty, wealth, high or low station, everyone has them. How can one say everyone has them? Take killing alone. At the large scale: emperors who exhaust the realm in war; generals who slay those who surrender or massacre cities; civil officials who treat human life like grass and easily kill the innocent. At the middle scale: great houses and the wealthy who slaughter living beings without reason; butchers and those who trade in slaughter who cruelly dismember sentient life. At the small scale: harming insects when they stir from hibernation in spring, or cutting plants while they are just sprouting. These are killing deeds easy to see.

There are also worldly people blind to the Way who, once they bear a grudge, wish at once to destroy the other. Resentment smolders for a lifetime until the impulse to kill rises; Heaven sees the offense and inscribes the name on the register of killing karma, so that one meets the retribution of being killed—with no way to escape.

Then there are harsh clerks and runners who can take a life with a stroke of the brush: heedless of Heaven’s principle, they twist the law and pervert punishment to harm the innocent. From that cause of killing, the fruit of killing ripens; grievance answers grievance without end.

The Most High said: “Heaven’s Way is this: without contending, yet good at prevailing; without speaking, yet good at responding. Heaven’s net is vast; though its mesh is coarse, nothing slips through.” If that is so, how could there be no retribution? Wrong answers wrong without cease.

The Supreme One (Taishang Laojun) said: “Heaven’s way is this: it does not contend with others, yet it is good at winning; it does not speak much, yet it is good at responding. Heaven’s net is vast and boundless; though its mesh is wide, nothing slips through—how could actions go without retribution?” In former times the sages urged people to refrain from killing and spoke only in general terms; now I will instruct you in detail. All who study the Dao, if you can clear away the karma of taking life, you follow heaven’s love of life. Every creature that moves and every being that holds spirit is one with us. Sages of old always took cherishing all things to heart. When you can love things, the karma of killing grows pure; when that karma is pure, the primordial qi of great harmony (the most harmonious root energy between heaven and earth) dwells in you, and this heart becomes one with heaven and earth. Then what disaster could not be dissolved, what blessing could not be increased?

The first precept is called “Do not steal.” When we speak of stealing, ordinary men and women, if they know even a little shame, will not do it—it seems rare. Yet they do not know: must stealing mean robbing in broad daylight or breaking through walls at night? Whenever officials embezzle public funds, or take others’ property without asking—even a blade of grass, a flower, a fruit, a sip or a bite—that is stealing. What was never yours, taken in secret, is deceiving people when they do not notice. Therefore the sages of old, what was not in accord with the Dao or with righteousness, they would not take even in the smallest amount; being cautious down to the finest detail was precisely for this reason. As for scholars who copy others’ words and steal empty reputation to deceive the world, that is the gravest kind of stealing. In the end, heaven detests such a heart, the spirits witness it, and in time it must be exposed and mocked by the community of learning. This karma of stealing many in the world commit, and it is hardest for others to detect—truly hidden and treacherous.

The first precept is called yin (licentious conduct). Among all faults, this is the one people in the world most easily commit; great families, the powerful, and men of letters fall into it most often. From antiquity, the classics of sages and worthies have warned against it again and again, in language earnest and plain. This evil of yin ruins others’ reputations, drains one’s own virtue, harms without end, and brings no greater disaster. One need not actually carry out the act to count as yin. Composing lewd words, making lewd objects, harboring a lewd thought, or telling a lewd story—all are shoots of yin not yet cut off, roots of yin not yet severed. When beauty is right before the eyes, how many can keep the mind utterly unmoved and unstained? Long ago the Buddha Shakyamuni instructed his disciples: when you see an older woman, regard her as an elder sister; when you see a younger one, regard her as a daughter. Guard the heart with reverence and do not let it run loose. Then, even if the eyes meet the realm of form (se jing), the mind can leave the dust of form (se chen). Hold fast at this gate, and the root of form-desire (se gen) is naturally removed, so one no longer clings and attaches.

Yet among the three karmas (shen, kou, yi—the deeds of body, speech, and mind), all take the mind as root. The rich, the mighty, and literary men transgress most often. You who study the Way, if you wish to purify bodily karma (shen ye), must first purify the mind. Once the root of karma is cut, new sprouts will not grow again.

Chapter Five: Eliminating Verbal Karma

When bodily karma is already pure, you must be all the more wary of verbal karma (kou ye). Verbal karma is easier to violate than bodily karma; even the clear and penetrating often fail to restrain themselves. Not to speak what conflicts with ritual propriety—that is the crucial point of self-restraint. Among the worthies in Confucius’s circle, only Nan Rong, who recited the “White Jade” ode (on how speech must be guarded) over and over, won special esteem from the utmost sage Confucius. Duanmu Ci (Zigong), though richly gifted and skilled in words, still left a sigh over one act that preserved the state of Lu—that fine words can wound sincerity—and how much more so for others?

In ancient times, Śākyamuni Buddha led his disciples across the Ganges and saw a fisherman lift out a huge fish whose head bore the forms of a hundred beasts. The disciples did not understand and asked the Buddha: “What evil thing is this, that it has received such a body—is it not very strange?” The Buddha said: “In a distant kalpa long ago there was a monk who relied on his skill in debate and always had to win when arguing with others. When things did not go his way, he gave way to anger and endlessly cursed people with names of every kind of beast. In the end, cursing others only harmed himself: his accumulated offenses grew deeper, the retribution for his sins grew heavier, and he was to suffer in icy hell for countless kalpas without release—how pitiful!” The great disciples listened carefully, warned one another to be cautious, and all wished that living beings would forever cut off karma of speech and no longer fall into evil destinies.

Karma of speech has four aspects: false speech and frivolous talk are more often committed by the clever; divisive speech and harsh abuse are more widespread among the foolish and lowly.

For example, a scholar newly entered into Confucian study, a monk who has barely touched Chan teaching, or a Daoist who knows a little about daoyin (breath and energy cultivation)—such people boast and strut, speak arrogantly, and deceive the world with big talk. The Confucian says: “I have attained singleness of mind and holding the mean!” The Buddhist says: “I have attained the supreme vehicle!” The Daoist says: “I have attained the Golden Elixir (jinye huandan)!” All of this is gross delusion. They cling to error themselves and mislead others, spend their lives in crooked paths, and never wake up. Hear their words and they seem fit to stand beside Buddha and immortals, to match sages and worthies; watch their conduct and in the end they are mostly muddled—no different from ordinary people.

When it comes to qiyu (flowery speech—ornate language, improper content, and words that easily stir wrong thoughts), literati are especially prone to it. They compose poetry and lyrics that are lush and clever, showing off talent alone, and thus break a major precept. Some even write heterodox doctrines that mislead the people, ruin virtue and reputation, and disturb custom—all for the pleasure of putting pen to paper, unaware of the endless harm they leave behind. That is why the karma of qiyu is the most hidden in fault, yet the most severe in retribution.

Liangshe (double-tongued speech—carrying tales between parties and stirring up trouble) is not only the wagging tongues of petty villains who twist right and wrong, or foolish men and women who tell one side one thing and the other another. When scholars debate and speak irresponsibly, when courtiers flip their positions, sound doctrine is confused and the worthy are pushed away; when heterodox teachers lack settled views and stay ambiguous, they hold back later students—all of this is liangshe.

Ekou (harsh speech) is when the ignorant seize on others’ faults, pick at flaws, and mock and slander freely, flaunting their own strengths and airing others’ weaknesses. Such conduct provokes Heaven; punishment already shows itself in the shadows—like fish in the Ganges (the great river of India) suffering retribution for their deeds—a thing truly lamentable.

These unwholesome acts are warned against not only in Buddhist scriptures and immortals’ classics, which speak of falling into nili (hell) and suffering the “tongue pulled out” retribution; Confucian teaching gives clear instruction as well: the Book of Documents records that “words once spoken can raise armies” (chukou xing rong), and “be careful in what you say” (shen er chuhua) is listed among such admonitions.

Various evil deeds are warned against not only in Buddhist sutras and texts of immortals, who use retribution such as falling into the hells (niraya) and having one’s tongue pulled out; Confucian teaching gives clear admonitions as well. The Documents says that words once spoken can “raise armies”—speech can spark strife; the Odes in the Classic of Poetry has “be careful in what you utter,” urging restraint in speech. The inscription on the three seals (three locks on the mouth of the metal man) says: “The mouth—what harm is there? It is the gate of calamity.” The mouth itself does not harm, yet it is the doorway through which disaster enters and leaves. The words of sages are most concise and cutting; the words of Buddhas and immortals are exceedingly detailed and clear.

I will analyze and explain further for you: all who are present now, and all beings to come, should follow what I say—strictly keep the rule of the three seals, remain quiet and self-contained, do not show off cleverness, do not flash the sharp edge of the tongue; in speech always be cautious, and in the heart always hold fear. Before speaking, deliberate; while speaking, examine yourself. Do not give rise to false speech, do not indulge in ornate, empty talk (flowery, unreal words), abandon divisive speech (sowing discord between others), and cut off foul speech (cursing and abuse) forever. Thus purifying karma of speech, one can cultivate the person and serve Heaven—this is the foundation of advancing in virtue, and is of utmost importance.

Chapter Six: Restraining and Blocking Karma of Thought (Yiye)

After karma of speech is pure, you must know that everything the mouth utters arises from intention; every kind of thought is born from the mind. The mind is master of the whole person; guarding it must be strict. If one is not always wary in daily life, binding conduct with righteousness and binding the inner self with ritual, evil karma will spring up at any moment and be hard to subdue—then karma of body and speech cannot be pure either. Thought is to be feared: it is like four horses yoked together—everything depends on skillful driving; they must not be allowed to run wild. Hence the ancient sages taught “being careful in solitude” (maintaining vigilance even when alone). With careful solitude, when intention stirs it is honest and not false; greed, anger, and delusion have no place to arise, and karma of thought can be pure.

What is called “greed” is not only wielding power to intimidate others, demanding harshly, craving profit without knowing when to stop, taking bribes in defiance of law, or amassing wealth without end. Merchants who scour the marketplace for every scrap of profit and monopolize trade by every means, and powerful families who fish for gain by deceit and will not let go even of profit as small as a hair’s weight—all of this counts as greed.

The Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun, the Daoist honorific title for Laozi) said: “When the eyes do not see what stirs desire, the heart is not disturbed; rare goods can harm one’s conduct.” The “Qu Li” (a chapter of the Book of Rites) says: “Take only the share that is yours; do not seek more.” Once greed arises, one thinks only of oneself and does not care for others; good intent fades away, and evil karma (negative deeds and their consequences) begins from there.

The threads of greed are many and cannot all be told.

If one is greedy for fame, the mind is dragged about by reputation—fear of loss and craving for gain—and one will do anything; when fame is not obtained, one resentfully blames others at will, and greed turns into hatred and anger.

If one is greedy for profit, one seeks to seize what belongs to others to satisfy one’s own desires, plotting and deceiving in ways more serious than burglary through a wall. Master Ziyu (Mencius) said: “At cockcrow they rise, bustling about only to seek profit.” Such people belong to the same kind as the robber Zhi (a legendary great bandit)—have they not become thieves?

If one is greedy for sensual beauty, one sinks into good looks and indulges without limit, lacking shame and propriety, and does not keep proper boundaries between men and women in the household—greed further becomes lust.

These deeds of greed issue from the heart and are carried out in action: sometimes relying on power to bully others and force them to submit; sometimes setting crafty schemes to make others obey one’s will. The various karmas of body and speech all gather from this. The harm of greedy karma keeps arising and changing without end—how can one not fear it?

I now lay the principle open and tell you students: you must vow to keep yourselves pure, make your minds clear, and not covet, lest you fall into evil destinies (realms of suffering to which one is consigned because of evil karma).

The first is “chēn” (anger and resentment). The harm of anger is like fierce fire: once the flames rise, they spread like a wild blaze—neither easy to extinguish nor safe to approach. The Yinfu Jing says: “Fire is born from wood; when disaster breaks out, it must in turn overcome the wood itself.” Therefore buddhas and immortals of old all devoted themselves to practicing patience and forbearance, to put out the fire of angry ill-will.

The Most High (Taishang Laojun) said: “The highest good is like water. Water benefits the ten thousand things yet does not contend with them, and so it is close to the Dao. The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong.” The Qu Li says: “In fierceness, do not strive to surpass others.” If a person can be yielding, place himself below others, and not seek to outdo them, how would anger arise? Former Confucian sages—for example, Yanzi (Yan Hui), who when offended did not take it to heart, and Mencius, who when treated harshly turned inward in self-examination—all regarded anger as something that obstructs cultivation and damages merit and virtue. So even when others treated them unreasonably or with violence, they bore it peacefully and did not fixate on it. Foolish people in the world, the moment someone offends them, immediately think of revenge; often they end up in mutual enmity—at a small scale, bitter words and mockery; at a large scale, knives and killing. Thus, for a moment’s rage, they forget the calamities that may befall themselves and their kin. The karmic weight of anger lurks within; bodily and verbal misconduct then break loose outward. Fools cling to delusion and never understand even at death—how is that not pitiable?

The first type is called chi (delusion). The delusion spoken of here is not the absence of all understanding or dull, muddled ignorance. Rather, it is when people wrongly cling to their own views, press stubbornly down one path alone, fail to recognize the Dao, do not grasp what is truly right, and remain long obscured by deviant views without knowing how to awaken. The root of their confusion runs very deep; even if they meet a perfected person (one of great attainment in the Way) who expounds the correct path to them, they still refuse to repent and turn back. Such deluded people are truly benighted.

There is another kind: people of talent and intelligence who clearly know that worldly affairs are all illusory, that splendor passes quickly, and that everything one possesses ultimately returns to emptiness—yet they cannot uproot craving and desire, or cut off emotional attachment. Though they wish to restrain themselves by force, in a moment they lose their way again, and correct understanding cannot open in them. It is like a bright sun blocked by clouds and mist: their true nature cannot shine clearly, and they spend their whole lives in delusion. Only when things dissolve and the body is gone do they regret the past—and by then it is too late! Too late!

Yet to purify the three karmas of body, speech, and mind is not equally difficult in every case. Karma of body and speech shows outwardly and is somewhat easier to watch and correct; those who understand the principle may manage it. Only karma of mind stays hidden and is hard for others to detect; it is harder to subdue than body and speech. Purifying these three karmas is what is called the “ten wholesome acts” (ten kinds of good conduct arising from body, speech, and mind). When all ten are fully present, one may be born in the heavens. Letting the three karmas run wild is what is called the “ten unwholesome acts.” Turning in the cycle of the ten unwholesome acts, one sinks into the realms of suffering (places of pain and affliction). All of you who study the Way, treat these three karmas with care—only then can you enter the Great Dao.

The above is Chapter Seven of Investigation of the Original Nature.

Having purified the three karmas (deeds of body, speech, and mind), one should set out to understand the supreme Dao (the Way). The essence of the supreme Dao is hard to put into words: though it has no form of its own, it gives shape to all that has form; though it has no image of its own, it makes the myriad phenomena appear. Call it by sound, and it is not really sound; depict it by form or color, and it is not really form or color. Dark and indistinct, elusive and unstable, it cannot be grasped by cleverness or recognized by ordinary perception. In terms of its “being,” nothing fails to contain it; in terms of its “non-being,” even heaven and earth do not know it. If heaven itself does not know it, how much less can human beings? Yet this great Dao—when you seek it, seems vast and empty, without trace; when you embody it, it is utterly real and not false. Heaven and earth are this Dao; humans and the ten thousand things are this Dao as well. It is empty yet can be full, full yet can be empty; from non-being arises being, from being returns to non-being. Non-being is not without being, being is not without non-being—they contain each other, the principle is profound and the meaning subtle.

The Most High (Taishang Laojun) said: “The Dao that can be spoken is more mysterious still.” Wen Shi Emperor Lord (Yin Xi, traditionally said to be the disciple to whom Laozi transmitted the teaching) said: “It is not that there is some other unspeakable Dao apart from this; what cannot be spoken—that is the Dao.” The Dao originally has no name; we only provisionally call it “Dao.” Since we already call it Dao, can it never be sought? The Yijing says: “The alternation of yin and yang is called the Dao.” Zisi (Confucius’s grandson) said: “Following one’s nature in action is called the Dao.”

Human beings are born endowed with yin and yang; nature (xing) resides in the heart-mind. The key to cultivating the Dao is also to discern it within this yin and yang. The substance of the Dao is one, yet the paths of teaching differ and the methods of practice vary slightly. Both Buddhism and Daoism esteem the subtle and empty; Confucianism focuses on earnest practice in daily life. Hence the Yijing: “The humane person who sees it calls it humane; the wise person who sees it calls it wise.” This is what is meant by teaching dividing into three gates.

Though the substance of the Dao is empty, its function is real. Those skilled at embodying the Dao directly exhaustively investigate nature and life (xingming), ceaselessly advancing until they suddenly break through and understand everything thoroughly. This is direct entry in one step—only those of superior capacity can achieve it. People of middle and lower capacity can only personally practice amid the movement and stillness of daily life; when practice deepens and they meet an enlightened teacher, a single pointer awakens them—this is realizing the substance through the function. From lower learning one reaches higher attainment; though the effort differs in difficulty, clarifying the Great Dao is the same. If cultivators can earnestly practice in daily leisure when nothing presses upon them, and after deep effort receive a teacher’s pointing and awaken, they likewise move from function to substance; difficulty differs, but there is no difference in clarifying the Dao.

Those who cultivate the Way, if they can quiet their minds and reflect inward upon themselves during daily moments of leisure, before contact with external things, need not seek the fundamental body of the Dao elsewhere—it is present in the mind and inherent in one’s nature. Some Confucian scholars, without careful examination, rashly criticize Buddhist and Daoist talk of emptiness and stillness-extinction as incompatible with the sage’s teaching. They do not understand: emptiness is not utter void, but emptiness in which reality is established; non-being is not sheer absence, but from non-being being arises. As for stillness-extinction, it means that within stillness one can still be aware, and when deluded thoughts cease, the fundamental substance remains.

Consider plants and trees: in decay they may seem empty, void, still, and extinct; yet when spring comes they flourish again as before. If there were not a still, empty, and numinous root hidden within, how could growth and splendor arise again and again in the same way? Thus stillness-extinction is not annihilation, and emptiness is not false fabrication. To treat the empty and numinous body of the Dao as hypocrisy, or to call constant stillness with clear awareness barren dead silence, is a mistake. The body of the Dao is originally formless and nameless. Daoist practice consists solely in probing this root; Buddhism does likewise. And not only Buddhism and Daoism—ancient sages practiced in the same spirit. Because most people have middling or lower faculties and the highest Way cannot be fully expounded, teachers especially give guidance through daily conduct so that people have something to follow.

If students of the Way can grasp this meaning, investigate the root, the branches and leaves will naturally follow; clarify the substance, and function will naturally unfold. Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism can all be understood through this one principle.

Chapter Eight, “Cultivating Virtue and Condensing the Dao,” treats the cultivation of virtue so that the Dao gathers and holds firm. Those who learn the Way must cultivate De (Virtue/Power). The Dao is the whole that embraces everything; De appears in countless forms. It is like the four seasons—spring growth, summer nurturing, autumn gathering, winter storing—each distinct in its way; yet the Dao is one seamless principle running through all four seasons and governing creation and transformation.

Heaven and Earth take generating and transforming the myriad things as their innermost intent and nourish all life—this is the benevolence of Heaven. Buddhas, immortals, and sages each employ various forms of compassionate nurturing toward sentient beings, and they also have times of gathering in and storing away; their methods are not the same. The Dao, however, is a single principle in undifferentiated unity, pervading the four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter and presiding over the generation and transformation of all things.

Buddhas, immortals, and sages, filled with such compassion, strive so that ordinary men and women may each find their proper place and benefit widely reaches all beings—this is benevolent virtue. Is the compassion of Buddhas and immortals really different from the Confucian heart of commiseration? Giving to others what one wishes for oneself, seeing another drowning as if one were drowning and another starving as if one were starving—this is no different from vowing to deliver others and universally bestowing the nourishing “Dharma milk” of teaching that feeds the mind.

Order between elder and younger is propriety; acting in sequence according to the season, without disorder in the pattern of human relations and constant norms. The fruition ranks of Buddhas and immortals are apportioned according to merit. Mahayana and Hinayana differ; in teaching there is gradual cultivation and sudden awakening; the three thousand dignified deportments and eighty thousand subtle rules of conduct—if this is not propriety, what is?

What righteousness values is solely what is fitting and balanced: firm and strong yet not yielding, able to sacrifice one’s life for righteousness. Buddhas and immortals forbear insult yet hold steadfast—this too is righteousness.

The virtue of wisdom lies chiefly in retreat and concealment. Precisely because it can hide away, it is subtle and beyond measure. The wisdom of Buddhas and immortals is deep, remote, and abstruse—only this counts as great wisdom, and therefore it cannot be fully known by others.

Thus, from these four virtues unfold myriad practices, boundless deliverance of others, and the drawing in of beings through skillful means, joy, and giving: turning toward benevolence means honoring the teacher and revering the Dao, drawing close to good spiritual friends who guide one toward the good; turning toward propriety means enduring insult without giving rise to anger, keeping upright and pure and holding oneself in discipline; turning toward righteousness means cutting off greedy attachment and single-mindedly studying the Dao in order to seek release from birth and death; turning toward wisdom means clearly understanding cause and effect, not being deluded by karmic ties from past lives, holding the center and embracing the One without changing one’s resolve, cultivating in earnest and seeking fruition in earnest.

When one speaks of the ultimate meaning of xin (honesty without deceit, reliability that never fails at the appointed time): Heaven’s De (virtue/power) employs xin to thread through the four seasons; the qi of the four seasons also rely on xin, gathering and returning to the ultimate place. Confucius said: “If a person lacks xin (trustworthiness), he cannot establish himself.” What makes a human being precious is precisely this xin.

From antiquity, Buddhas, immortals, and great sages all required the myriad virtues to be complete before they could realize the jiguo (supreme fruition, the highest fruit-position). Among the myriad virtues, ren (benevolence, humaneness) ranks first. If one does not first give rise to cibei (compassion and mercy) and seeks only one’s own liberation, there is no benefit to the world. Yet the ci (compassion) meant here is not the indulgent, doting sort of “woman-and-child ren,” but must discern Heaven’s intent and put one’s own De into practice: in ci, be truly compassionate; in she (giving), truly give. Grieve others’ suffering as if it were one’s own; rejoice in others’ good deeds as if they were one’s own. Earnestly practice the si wuliang xin (the four immeasurable minds—ci, bei, xi, she: compassion, sympathy for suffering, sympathetic joy, and equanimity in letting go), without seeking recompense and without shrinking back in regret. Shangshi (adepts of higher capacity), with all virtues complete, are upright persons in life and become mingshen (luminous spirits) after death; xiashi (adepts of lower capacity), if they cultivate diligently, can also keep the human body secure and stable. If one cultivates not a single virtue and commits every kind of evil, one falls into the san tu bitter realms (hell, hungry ghosts, and animals) with no end in sight and no release.

Therefore cultivating De is the gateway into the Dao, and the key to chengzhen (becoming a perfected person). Buddhas, immortals, and sages from ancient times to the present have none who, without cultivating De, could ningdao (fix and accomplish the Dao). Though affairs of De are many and names are broad, the Dao is only one principle: within overall sameness there are myriad differences; though De divides into many aspects, when analyzed it is still one root. When the multitude practices together, my words are not idle talk.

Chapter Nine: Earnestly and Solidly Fulfilling Tianlun (Heaven-ordained human relations, the bonds of kinship and social duty ordained by Heaven).

If the Dao lacks De, it cannot hold together and coalesce. Among all virtues, none ranks before filial piety and respect for elders (xiaoti). Filial piety (xiao) means honoring one’s parents; respect for elders (ti) means loving and revering one’s elder brothers. For this reason the Four Books—the Great Learning, the Doctrine of the Mean, the Analects, and Mencius—take xiaoti as their root. Even when Yao and Shun ruled the realm, they first saw that human relationships and the constant moral order each kept its proper place; only then could they distinguish the people and bring all sides into harmony. The proof of xiaoti reaches its fullest measure at that point.

People differ in rank and in wealth, yet each need only do what fits his or her station and fulfill the duties of a child. If those under one roof share daily meals and the routines of life yet know only support without true affection, or know affection without reverence, neither counts as filial piety.

In antiquity, when King Wen was heir apparent, he visited his father King Ji three times each day and asked those about him whether all was well: if he heard that all was well, he was glad; if he heard otherwise, he was anxious and afraid; and after he withdrew he still could not be at ease. Love for his kin arose from his inmost nature—in this alone others could hardly equal him. The account appears in the “Qu Li” chapter of the Book of Rites and may be checked there. Today, when parents are ill, many do not even inquire with a sincere heart or do their utmost with medicine—still less in other matters.

Confucius composed the Classic of Filial Piety to clarify the highest virtue and essential Way of the ancient kings, and to report his achievement to Beidou—the star lords revered in Daoism who oversee human life, merit, and fault—thereby handing down instruction to later ages. Confucian scholars have read it from childhood, yet many can recite it without putting it into practice, or explain it without living it. When a book meant to guide the world and transform the people is treated as mere words on a page, what good does that do?

Filial piety is not found only in Confucian writings; Buddhas and immortals also speak of it with equal earnestness. There has never been anyone who attained the Way and true realization without being filial to parents, nor anyone who pursued Buddhism or immortality without filial piety toward parents. People in the world are foolish: they do not examine the matter carefully and rashly slander Buddhism and Daoism, thinking that leaving home means abandoning kin, cutting off love, and ending ancestral rites—calling that unfilial. They do not know that since ancient times, after Buddhas and immortals have shed worldly ties and attained true fruition, they can lift nine generations of ancestors to transcendence—not merely benefiting father and mother alone!

The ancients regarded guiding one’s parents toward goodness as the greatest filial piety—and that view was well founded. Confucius praised the filial piety of Shun, the sage-king of antiquity famed for devotion to his parents, and the first thing he emphasized was that “virtue made him a sage.” When the son himself possessed the virtue of a sage, his father could be called a holy father and his mother a holy mother—what filial piety could surpass that? Later Confucians—could they still be called sages? Some arrogant people in the world, relying on talent or flaunting wealth, behave insolently before their own parents. They do not realize that their learning and prosperity come from the accumulated goodness of ancestors and parents. Instead of repaying that root, they grow more disrespectful day by day—can such crimes of unfilial conduct be escaped? From antiquity, sages carried filial virtue to its utmost: sincere, solid, and never empty. Before a parent’s intention had even taken visible form or sounded in words, they could already discern it. Thus they could move Heaven and thunder in the wind; fragrant offerings could be presented, and sacrificial vessels of meat and grain could be set out in worship. Nothing greater exists than filial virtue brought to this extreme.

As for monks and Daoist priests who leave kin to enter religious life, they too should reflect: parents gave them this body; if they cannot repay the debt of nurturing, and cannot even fulfill the daily duty of supporting parents with simple food and drink, they must resolve sternly upon the path and practice diligently until they attain the fruit of the Way—only then can they repay their root, and only then can their parents’ wishes be roughly fulfilled. When teachers and elders instruct them, they should respect, cherish, and obey, serving them as they would their parents, for as heirs to the lineage they must carry forward and enlarge the work of those who came before—not treat it lightly.

Even people of ordinary discernment know only this toward their parents: while they live, serve them with all one’s strength; when they die, grieve with all one’s heart; in sacrifice, approach with full sincerity. The Book of Odes says: “Rise early and retire late—do not bring shame on those who gave you life.” That is exactly the point. If the household is already well-off, there is no harm in preparing fine dishes; if it is truly poor, coarse morning and evening fare is nothing to despise. What matters is that filial love and reverence run deep—why fuss over lavish display versus plain living? Scholars who have mastered the Book of Odes and Book of Documents ought all the more to understand how to fulfill filial duty. If, while parents are alive, one disregards the lesson of “cherishing each day” (airi—the days while they still live), and after their death never reflects on Laoe (the Book of Odes lament for lost parents), then even arraying ritual vessels for sacrifice is empty form; even building a mourning hut beside the tomb is deceiving the world. Can that be called filial piety? Would Heaven accept it?

As for brothers: one blood, like branches on one tree—the ancients compared them to hands and feet. The Book of Odes says: “Are there not others? None are quite like the brothers who share my father.” Such brotherly affection—how could it not be nurtured? Moreover, among all things parents love most, none surpass their own children. Children may be worthy or not, yet a parent’s love is the same. All my brothers, though some be rich and some poor, high or low—should brotherly feeling change in the least? Hence the Han dynasty story of the Jiang brothers sharing one cover was praised in every age; the tale of burning bean stalks to cook the beans—brothers destroying one another—is what sages and wise men mourn. Can one fail to be careful? Even monks and Daoist priests, among fellow disciples, observe a bond like brotherhood: the younger must show extra kindness; the elder should meet them with humility. Only when this affection and respect are complete can one gain benefit in the presence of shanshi (good knowledgeable friends—teachers and companions who guide one toward the good). If one relies only on arrogance and harms those of the same path, one fails the grace of parents who bore and raised one, loses the virtue of teachers and friends, and is scorned by Confucian scholars—what a weight of fault!

All of you, living beings: take this filial piety and xiao-ti (filial devotion toward parents and respectful love among siblings) to heart and put it into practice. Once this root scripture is firmly established, to advance in virtue and xiulian zhendao (cultivate the true Dao) is not hard.

Chapter Ten: Exhausting Loyalty and Devotion

Human beings receive the finest and most refined portion of the vital energy of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water)—only then do they become human. Without parents, from what would one be born? Without a sovereign, how would one achieve anything? Union with parents arises from nature; union with the sovereign arises from human affairs. What aligns with Heaven takes root in one’s innate nature; what aligns with human relations is grounded in moral principle. The two kinds of grace are equally weighty; originally there is no difference between them. Yet among children toward parents, those who know the toil of nurturing still think of repaying their root; among subjects toward their sovereign, those who can serve with reverence and diligence without slackening are hard to find. Understand this: once one’s name is entered on the roster of officials, every stipend is the sovereign’s gift; every morsel eaten and every drink taken is the sovereign’s grace. Upward one can bring honor to one’s ancestors; downward one can shelter one’s descendants. If one does not think of repayment, the integrity of a subject falls short—how could one’s own conscience be at ease? As for wicked and treacherous men, they usurp the sovereign’s authority and blessings, build up private factions far and wide, fawn for favor and flatter to hold onto power, fear neither Heaven’s way nor public opinion, refuse to give their full loyalty, and seek only momentary eminence. In the end the whole court points fingers at them; public judgment cannot spare them. Once name and life are lost, disaster follows close behind—what use is regret then?

Those who serve as tutor-councillors—high officials who guide the ruler—should, toward the ruler above, correct his faults and fulfill their role of assistance; toward those below, they should take recommending the worthy as their task and must not harbor jealousy. Those in charge of criminal justice should enforce the law impartially, treat people with leniency and compassion, and value the people's livelihood. Those responsible for education and moral transformation should change customs for the better and guide the people toward goodness.

All who hold office should first honor public duty and only then think of their salary, and serve faithfully according to their proper role. Those serving as inspection commissioners—officials who tour to oversee governance—should inquire into affairs of state, travel through the regions, and observe with thoroughness and acuity. Those on the remonstrance path, charged with offering counsel, should consider how to speak tactfully and guide from the side, so as to stabilize the court’s discipline; they should offer sincere advice—submit it when it applies, offer substitutes when it does not—to strengthen the lifeblood of the state. When the ruler does what is good, follow and help complete his excellence; when the ruler errs, correct his faults. Better to be an upright, outspoken loyal minister than a yes-man who flatters.

If one holds a frontier or regional post, commanding both civil and military affairs in a region, one should rectify oneself and set an example for subordinates: do not cruelly tyrannize those below, do not ruin affairs through stubbornness, and do not depart from the right way to chase reputation. If one holds sole military command, one should think of holding the territory firm and securing the altars of state; having accepted the ruler’s stipend, one ought to be loyal to the ruler’s affairs. Even if one governs a single commandery, supervises a province, or administers a county seat, each should apply his heart fully and cultivate his own duty.

Do not suppose that the people’s affairs may be neglected, or that the people’s lives may be held cheap; do not twist oneself to please superiors for favor, and do not greedily accept bribes or strip the fat and marrow of the people. Discern the ruler’s intent, carry out the ruler’s orders, spread the ruler’s benevolence widely, and extend benefits upon the ruler’s land. Only then can one be called a follow-the-law official—an upright magistrate who honors the law and loves the people.

Since ancient times, loyal and steadfast ministers have not hesitated to give their lives to fulfill humaneness (ren), and in the face of danger they have not wavered in resolve. Their loyalty shines with the sun and moon; their upright qi fills heaven and earth; their names are recorded in the historical annals and honored with sacrifice for a thousand generations. As for ordinary scholars and common people, though they never received titles at court, when the state appoints officials, divides duties, and promulgates laws so that bandits dare not disturb and neighbors in the lanes live in peace—that too is the ruler’s grace. How much more when overdue taxes are remitted, famine years bring relief, old age is provided for by statute, and chastity and filial devotion are publicly commended—how could one not feel gratitude? The state has fixed levies; one should pay them on time. The state has projects to undertake; one should carry them out promptly, fearing to lag behind. That also counts as loyalty.

Loyalty and filial piety—these two poles—are the foremost root under heaven and earth. Those who cultivate the Way must still pass through many kalpas of bitter practice before they can attain true realization and fruition. Only those of great loyalty and great filial piety, once the light of life is extinguished, ascend straightaway. Even among those who attain the highest grade of birth in the Pure Land of utmost bliss, many are people of loyalty and filial piety. Thus the loyal and filial are commended by the court, remembered in the histories, protected by the Way of Heaven, and revered by ghosts and spirits. Compared with the disloyal and unfilial—punished and executed in life, reproached by ghosts and spirits after death, mocked for ten thousand generations, forever sunk in evil destinies (hell, hungry ghosts, animals, and other painful paths)—the difference is not merely that between heaven and earth. Therefore plagues, war, flood, drought, and famine are all summoned by disloyalty and lack of filial piety.

Students of the Way, if you resolve to cultivate but do not earnestly practice what it means to be a son and a subject, and vainly hope to become an immortal or true person—that is utterly impossible.

After the Celestial Lord finished these ten chapters, the immortals and perfected ones together with the presiding lords rejoiced, their hearts full of delight. With one voice they praised him and composed a hymn:

The supreme lord, beyond all height, in vast compassion saves beings from calamity; he expounds subtle teachings, opens the chapters, and reveals the Eminent Truth. The principle of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) as the one origin, the secret words of the three vehicles of cultivation—each line penetrates to the core, each character is utmost depth. The Great Dao is originally ordinary; one must first purify the roots of karma. Reverence for Heaven with utmost sincerity moves the cosmos; harmony in human relations and earnest practice follow. Cultivating goodness leads to birth in heaven; doing evil sinks one into perdition. The constant norms of humanity and the patterns of things, together with the lessons held in the Five Classics and the Three Ancient Tomes—when jointly investigated they can be verified, and by this one ascends to sagehood and enters the gate of the Mysterious Way. All sentient beings contain Buddha-nature; their own nature is inherently luminous. May you board the great ship of the Dharma and not betray the sage’s compassionate heart. How wondrous the master’s words—through a hundred million kalpas, forever revere and follow them.

When the immortals and lords had finished the hymn, they gathered before the Celestial Lord’s seat and bowed in thanks. The guardian generals likewise rejoiced and exclaimed that such a thing had never been seen. Then dragons and cranes flew in the sky, clouds and light spread their splendor, precious banners and crimson insignia cleared the way, and the procession escorted the phoenix carriage back to the supreme realm. The disciples present each bowed in thanks, received the teaching in faith, and put it into practice.

Praise:

The compassionate lord who saves the world with a heart of compassion spreads the Way of Heaven and makes human relations clear. The enduring teaching of fulfilling nature: loyalty to one’s lord and filial piety toward parents—generation after generation, forever take these as your rule.

Hymn to the Cāntóng Jīng (Scripture of Unity). Praise of the middle fascicle.

The boat of compassion ferries all people across, guiding many who have lost their way. The essential method of the Xuanguan (the critical passageway to the source in Daoism) strips away all cumbersome fragmentation and points straight at the pivot of the origin. The Dharma-body in its essence is True Suchness; in study and realization, do not hesitate.

Hymn for Opening the Scripture

The gate of heaven opens, and the golden immortal descends. The luan-drawn carriage returns once more to the dharma assembly. In the first principle of truth the subtle teaching is proclaimed; in the deepest mystery, that which is mystery upon mystery is expounded.

From the Middle Scroll of the Scripture of the Supreme Lord on Rescuing from Calamity, Dispelling Disaster, Bestowing Blessings, Resolving Hardship, Protecting Fortune, and Verifying Truth through Mysterious Union

Chapter Eleven: Clarifying Principle and Dispelling Doubt

At that time the Celestial Lord, bearing the jade decree, proclaimed the profound text. When the ten chapters were finished, he mounted the luan and returned to pay homage at the imperial court, then descended again upon the dharma assembly. The various immortal sages came some driving azure dragons, some riding spirit cranes, escorted by immortal regalia, arriving to the sound of Buxu (pacing-the-void) hymns. They scattered every kind of precious flower; celestial music filled the sky, auspicious clouds coiled, and propitious qi spread everywhere. The Celestial Lord took his seat and remained silent for a long while. The various celestial lords all wished to hear the teaching.

Then an immortal on the left flank stepped from the ranks and reported: “Formerly the Celestial Lord, at Flower Stone City, expounded the precious instructions on loyalty and filial piety, citing one by one the deeds of sages of former ages to instruct those who came after, leaving more than ten thousand characters—thorough, clear, earnest, and practical. Until today, one has not heard of anyone reciting them, nor seen anyone putting them into practice. The surging waves of the world grow ever stronger, while the raft of compassionate rescue is deployed in vain. In this disciple’s dull view, this seems to bring little benefit to the Great Dao!”

The Heavenly Lord (the Taoist title for the supreme deity) sighed and said: “What kind of talk is this! What kind of talk is this! In former times the Supreme Lord (Taishang Laojun) dwelt on Jingshi Mountain; together with the Five Old Emperors of the Five Directions he expounded scriptures on heaven and earth, yin and yang, the nine spirits, longevity, and much else—more than a million fascicles in all. Later he descended to the capital of Shu (Chengdu) and discoursed on the profound at the Jade Bureau; exquisite chapters piled up in abundance, have been handed down to this day, and have never been lost or abandoned. When Shakyamuni Buddha taught, his words filled the Tripitaka (sutras, vinaya, and treatises); the teaching is not limited to a single vehicle (one ultimate path), and schools differ—why must everyone practice in exactly the same way?

The Supreme Lord said: ‘My words are easy to understand and easy to put into practice; yet people under heaven neither understand nor practice them.’ Speaking is mine; whether one listens or turns away is up to others. How could I, because people differ in faith and doubt, diligence and slackness, change my compassionate mind that saves all beings? Moreover loyalty, filial piety, friendship, and harmony among brothers are gifts of heaven—what people call the constant way of the folk and the rule of things. Alas, as the age declines and the true teaching does not flourish, people do not trust the Way; perverse qi brings calamity, so disasters, plagues, and famine follow one after another. What I say now is precisely to assist kings in transforming the people, to turn back the fortune of the calamitous kalpa (jieyun), to rescue beings, to guide the multitude out of confusion, and to see that everyone awakens and earnestly puts the principle into practice. Moreover heaven’s heart is benevolent; nothing is sought but that people return to simplicity and recover their original nature. If everyone turns toward goodness and every household values benevolence and reverence, and a sincere tone fills the world, harmonious qi will bring auspiciousness—is that not a golden age? If one clings rigidly to the usual forms of preaching, then in the various scriptures I expounded before, I have already explained the essentials of the mysterious principle and made the aim clear.”

Look at how vast the universe is: people differ in wisdom and folly, in nobility and baseness—they are not all of one kind. How could everyone study immortality or everyone study Buddhism? That is why Guanyin Bodhisattva (Guanyin Dashi), in the Universal Gate chapter, teaches in thirty-two responsive forms according to each person’s capacity—there is real sense in that. If someone truly and wholeheartedly cultivates the Way, I myself will explain and guide them so that they may leave worldly entanglements behind and attain the upper truth (high rank among immortals and perfected ones).

Then the various immortals and perfected ones, together with the true overseers (the immortal spirits in charge), rejoiced and leaped for joy, all praising “Excellent!” They then stilled their minds in silent reflection, waiting for the teaching to begin.

Chapter Twelve: Carefully Serving Teachers and Friends

The Celestial Worthy (the supreme divine title in Daoism) sat at ease on the jade terrace of the immortal realm and addressed the assembled perfected ones: In life there are three great relationships to honor—besides ruler and parents, the way of the teacher is the most to be revered. The duties of son and subject are what human beings ought to fulfill, yet the line between right and wrong, orthodox and heterodox, is fine as a hair’s breadth; miss it by a fraction and you err by a thousand miles. One must discern this at the subtlest level and cannot be careless. Therefore one must rely on a clear-sighted master to explain principle and discuss together in earnest—only then will actions not go astray, so that loyalty is true loyalty and filial piety true filial piety, without falling into faults that harm the ruler or implicate one’s parents.

The ancients, when they sought to deepen virtue and pursue learning, always sought out enlightened teachers as the foundation of cultivating the Way. Yet “teacher” and “friend” are not the same: there are teachers of broad learning, teachers whose virtue surpasses the crowd, teachers of great renown, and also teachers outside the ordinary world—fangwai masters.

In antiquity the Yellow Emperor took Guangchengzi as teacher; Yao took Yin Shou; Shun took Wuchengzi; King Wen of Zhou took Lü Xiong; the Supreme Old Lord (Taishang Laojun) took Rongchenggong; Confucius also inquired about ritual—each had his teacher. The Most High said: “Such a one is a teacher.”

In antiquity, the Yellow Emperor took Guangchengzi as his teacher, Yao took Yin Shou, Shun took Wuchengzi, King Wen of Zhou took Yuxiong, and the Supreme Venerable Sovereign (Taishang Laojun) took Rongchenggong; Confucius too once asked Laozi about ritual. Each of these sages had his own lineage of instruction. The Supreme One said: “I was not a sage by birth; only after learning did I come to understand.” From ancient times, sages, Buddhas, and immortals alike all received transmission from a teacher before they awakened to the Way. The Book of Documents says: “He who can seek out teachers for himself may achieve kingly accomplishment; he who thinks no one equals him is bound to ruin. To delight in asking questions is to broaden one’s understanding; to rely on one’s views alone is to narrow one’s horizon.” If even emperors were thus, how much more so ordinary people? The Supreme One also said: “One who sees only himself is not wise; one who thinks himself always right cannot truly illuminate others.” It is precisely because people cling to their own opinions and deem themselves correct that, once they gain a little, they are satisfied and cannot humbly receive what others offer. They fail to grasp that human beings are not born knowing everything—they learn through teachers.

Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism differ in doctrine, yet in honoring teachers they agree. As for cultivation in our own tradition, unless one personally receives the oral secret formulas (koujue—the essentials of practice passed mouth to mouth from master to disciple) from a true teacher, no matter how thoroughly one has read the alchemical classics (danshu—internal alchemy scriptures), how could one know what can actually be put into practice? Even with the greatest exertion, there would be no achievement. Therefore Buddhism likewise treats drawing close to good spiritual friends (those who can guide one on the path) as the joy of the bodhisattva. Master Zhao Zhou of Chan still traveled on foot at ninety, precisely because the great matter was not yet clear and he had to seek a true teacher. Friends serve to help one advance in virtue. The Book of Changes says: “Two lakes joined—Lake (Dui)—the noble person therefore discusses and studies with friends.” The Book of Poetry says: “Stones from another mountain may be used to polish jade.” When ancients found a principle unclear or a meaning unresolved, they always went forward to ask their elders, then returned to verify with friends, until accumulated doubts melted like ice and their practice flowed smoothly in accord with principle. In former times, the sage Yan Hui, though he could infer ten things from hearing one and was exceptionally quick of mind, still used his own ability to consult those who had less, and his own abundance to ask those who had less still—because in his heart he truly saw that the Way has no end and learning has no limit, and so he could be so humble in seeking instruction. Later generations of foolish and arrogant people are often proud and self-satisfied, unable to accept good counsel with an open mind; even when a lofty predecessor stands before them, they disdain to ask, to say nothing of turning to friends.

Therefore upright people drift farther apart day by day, while crooked people draw closer day by day. False teachers and harmful companions excel at flattery and ingratiation, at soft compliance and cunning shortcuts; they foster wrongdoing and band together in wrong, gathering into a pack of failures. When the way of teacher and friend is broken, it is truly lamentable! Take my own case: if the Holy Master Zhengyang (Zhongli Quan, master of Lü Dongbin) had not transmitted the heart-method (the essentials of inner cultivation), how could I have transcended the mundane and entered sagehood, and attained the rank of upper true immortal (high immortal)? Listen, all of you: whether you cultivate Chan or cultivate the Dao and hope for sagehood, if you do not seek a clear teacher and good friends to sharpen one another and learn by example, it is like heading south while your cart’s axle points north—you go farther and farther, and the Dao cannot be obtained.

Chapter Thirteen: Precepts, Weight, and the Source of Transformation

Once there is Heaven and Earth, then there are the ten thousand things; once there are male and female, then there are husband and wife, and only then father and son, ruler and minister. Husband and wife are the first place in human relations and the source of creation and transformation. If the human way turns south while the cart points north, one goes ever farther and the Dao is not to be had.

Once there is Heaven and Earth, the myriad things come into being; once there are men and women, there are husbands and wives, and then fathers and sons, rulers and subjects. Thus the relationship of husband and wife stands first among the human relationships, is the source of creation and transformation, and is the beginning of the human way.

When Heaven and Earth are in harmony and Yin and Yang intermingle and blend, the myriad things are nourished in richness; when rain and sunshine arrive in season, every kind of life can grow and flourish. When husband and wife are in harmony, the man keeps his proper place outside the home and the woman keeps hers within, one leading and one following, so that the way of the household is upright and offspring can thrive. Can this be anything but vital?

The way of husband and wife matters immensely: from the state down to the lanes and courtyards of common folk, the rise and fall of order and disorder all rest upon it. Look to antiquity: the story of Yu Shun began on the banks of the Wei and Ruo (where he married Yao’s two daughters); the Xia dynasty’s founding was tied to Tushan (where Yu married the daughter of the lord of Tushan). The rise of Shang and Zhou came from rulers and consorts sharing the same virtue. Qi could rouse itself early through the lesson of the “Cock’s Crow” (a wife urging her lord to rise at cockcrow and attend to government), while Wei fell into disorder through the rebuke of “Enduring Wind” (a poem satirizing the failure of husband and wife in virtue)—and for good reason.

Since Heaven and Earth have existed, the way of husband and wife has been held in high esteem. The human way starts with husband and wife: without restraint by ritual and righteousness, conduct slides into dissipation; when restraint is misapplied, the two drift apart. Thus within the inner chambers and behind the curtain, couples either fail through excessive intimacy or through mutual estrangement, and rarely achieve what is just right.

Those before us, fearing excessive intimacy, admonished that husband and wife should respect each other as guests and relate as friends; fearing estrangement, they likened harmony to playing qin and se in unison. The Book of Odes praises “setting an example beginning with one’s wife,” and the Book of Changes treats “the woman’s steadfastness” as favorable. Can such teachings fail to be taken to heart?

When the sages of old composed the Yi (Book of Changes), the upper canon opened with the hexagrams Qian and Kun, and the lower canon with Xian and Heng. Qian and Kun are simply one yin and one yang; yin and yang are also like husband and wife. Thus Qian stands for Heaven and the father, Kun for Earth and the mother. When the virtues of yin and yang unite, hardness and softness each take form; one odd and one even, and change arises from this. Then the eldest, middle, and youngest sons together with the eldest, middle, and youngest daughters—the “six children” born from Qian and Kun—come into being. The saying that yang alone cannot generate and yin alone cannot grow, the principle of opening and closing, and yang giving while yin receives—all have their root here.

The meaning of Qian is that all things begin through it and it presides over Heaven. The meaning of Kun is that all things are brought forth through it and it follows Heaven. Husband and wife in the human realm are likewise like Heaven and Earth: the husband, with the virtue of firm strength, leads the wife; the wife, with the virtue of yielding softness, receives from the husband. One leading and one receiving—only then is the way of the household established and children born.

Lord Wen Shi (Yin Xi) said: “One husband and one wife beget one child, and their forms can unite; one husband and one wife beget many children, and their forms can separate. Within this moment of union and separation lies the hidden wonder of Heaven and Earth’s endless generation and transformation.”

When it comes to the mysterious gate of Daoist cultivation (the xuanmen, the “profound gate” of practice), refining lead and mercury—the paired yin and yang essences in internal alchemy—and guiding fire and water to rise and fall in the body is likened to husband and wife: it takes the principle of yin and yang joining before the holy embryo (the sage fetus—the condensed point of pre-heaven true qi in neidan) can form. Buddhism likewise sets aside both form and emptiness, yet still treats dharma joy (the delight born from the Dharma) as one’s “wife.” Every auxiliary method in cultivation serves to steady body and mind inwardly; only then can one become a sage and continue and enlarge the Buddha’s lineage (shaolong fozhong—the living wisdom-line of the Dharma), just as a wife manages the inner household and helps her husband fulfill the family’s work.

Thus the Book of Odes opens with “Guan Ju,” the Book of Documents praises Yao’s giving his daughters in marriage to Shun (li jiang), the Book of Rites gives weight to wedding rites, and the Spring and Autumn Annals treat the receiving of a bride with great seriousness. Clearly the bond of husband and wife is no small matter.

If people can keep the marriage harmonious—the husband instructing the wife and the wife encouraging the husband, each urging the other toward goodness—they should seek the fulfillment of “lute and zither in tune,” and not leave behind the resentment of abandonment found in “Gu Feng”; they should together pursue the mutual respect of “raising the tray to eyebrow level,” and not fall into the ridicule of wheels stripped from the carriage and spouses turned against each other. In this way, brotherly harmony and filial duty toward parents can all be achieved from that foundation.

But if the husband cannot live in concord with his wife, or the wife does not respect her husband, discord gathers under one roof and greatly violates the root of moral teaching—how then can one expect worthy descendants who are filial to parents and fraternal toward siblings?

As for drowning in bedchamber indulgence, doting on wife and children while forgetting one’s parents—that truly corrupts virtue and is detested by Heaven and Earth and rebuked by ghosts and spirits. Is that what is meant by the principle of husband and wife walking together in mutual support (fuchang suisui)?

Chapter Fourteen on Preserving the True Primordial (Baoshou zhenyuan zhang di shisi)—that is, the fourteenth chapter on “conserving one’s own true primordial essence.”

In ancient times, people established schools and academies to clarify human relationships and to treat them as principles to be followed in daily life. These principles are originally present in human nature—they are nothing strange or difficult. It is only that people take them for granted and fail to put them into practice, not realizing that great sages and worthies reached the highest level by sincerely living out the fundamental ethics of society (the relationships between ruler and subject, parent and child, husband and wife, and the like). Our tradition also says: “If you wish to cultivate the path of immortals, first cultivate the path of being human. If you do not cultivate the human path, the immortal path will remain far away.” One should of course do one’s utmost to fulfill these ethical bonds; yet if one does not know how to cherish Jing (essence) and nurture Shen (spirit) to strengthen the body, one cannot dispel illness and extend life—and that is not the way of nurturing life. The Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun) said: “Block the openings of the senses and shut the doors of desire, and you will not be worn out all your life; open them to chase worldly affairs, and you will be beyond help all your life.” Therefore one should also be careful about daily routine and restrain indulgence. In extreme cold or heat, during thunder, violent wind, heavy rain, or murky weather, before the first quarter moon (around the seventh or eighth day of the lunar month) and after the last quarter (around the twenty-second or twenty-third), at the dark and new moon (end and beginning of the month), or when seasonal weather is abnormal, one should take care to avoid harm and protect the body. Do not indulge desire and lose Jing; do not vent anger and scatter Qi; do not drink to excess and injure Shen.

Mencius (Zi Yu) said: “Guarding oneself is the root of steadfast practice.” What matters in this human body is precisely the three treasures of life in Daoist teaching: jing (essence), qi (vital energy), and shen (spirit). Jing and qi are like water and fire, also called “lead” and “mercury” in internal alchemy—metaphors for kinds of refined essence and qi. Fire tends to flare upward; it should be restrained so it does not burn wildly. Water tends to drain away; it should be guarded so it does not leak. Alchemical texts say: “Follow the ordinary course and you remain a mortal; reverse it and you may become an immortal.” Water naturally flows downward; it must be turned back so it rises. Fire naturally burns upward; it must be brought down. With this ascent and descent, yin and yang swap places, and the hexagram Jijì (Fire below, Water above) appears—water and fire in harmony. Yet without quiet clarity, without letting things run naturally and without forced contrivance, this is not easily attained.

The immortal master Guangcheng Zi said: “You must be still; you must be clear. Do not weary your body; do not stir and dissipate your jing—only then can you live long.” Guard the inner mind carefully and shut out distracting influences. Knowing too much can ruin the work. When inner visions are not leaked outward, the heart does not race after externals, and shen stays housed in the body. When outer sights do not invade, deviant qi cannot harm you; spirit is whole and the whole person is regulated—one can both nourish life and extend years. The Supreme One (Laozi) said: “Manifest plain substance, embrace simplicity, lessen selfishness and thin desires—nothing in the way of nurturing life is more essential than this.” Craving wide knowledge, though different from outward temptations, is enough to disturb the mind and drain shen. Moreover, if one always seeks to know more, there is no strength for holding to simplicity; the more one knows, the farther from the Dao—and that turns against the Dao. Thus Confucius did not prize vast hearing and learning, and warned against letting the mind be pulled by things. The Vimalakīrti Sūtra says: “The Dharma cannot be sought through seeing, hearing, feeling, or knowing; if you practice while clinging to seeing, hearing, feeling, and knowing, you are not truly seeking the Dharma.” Therefore those who are good at nurturing life neither leak their inner state through the six senses (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind), nor drown in the myriad outer things—they simply maintain a deep, clear stillness.

Within, hold fast to the true original essence (zhenyuan)—the root primordial Jing (essence) one is born with—and do not let worry, fear, vexation, or idle wandering of thought cling to the mind; only fear that it will leak away and be lost. The human body is like a tree: if the inside is hollow and rotten, without full vitality, one gust of fierce wind and it snaps at once. Therefore those who are poor at nurturing life (shesheng) dread cold when it is cold and heat when it is hot; water cannot rise and fire cannot sink, so they neither withstand cold and heat nor let water and fire rescue each other. Can the way of nurturing life go unexplored? To seek nurturing life, one must engage in reverse cultivation (nixiu)—going against the usual trend of Qi (vital energy) draining outward and gathering it back—so that water rises and fire sinks, and the scene appears of “medicinal splendor on the mountain peak” (shantou yao xiu) and “the sun red at the ocean floor” (haidi ri hong). The Huangting Jing (Scripture of the Yellow Court), a classic on inwardly dwelling with the spirit, says: “Inwardly hold fast to what is truly real; in emptiness, stillness, and ease the divine naturally draws near; quickly guard the chamber of essence (jingshi), do not rashly let it go, seal and well preserve it, and you may long endure.” Those words could not be better! If a person can carefully guard the self while living in the world, illness can retreat, years can extend, and long life comes within reach.

Chapter 15: Practicing and Honoring Good Conduct

Born into the world, if one knows how to inwardly guard the true original essence and use that to nurture life; if one can carefully guard the self in the world, illness can retreat, years can extend, and long life comes within reach.

To live in the world, if one knows how to turn inward and guard the true primordial essence—the innate root qi one is born with—and use it to nourish this body, one is like a sturdy, upright tree: true essence held within, the root already firm. Yet though the foundation is deep and the core solid, what matters even more is luxuriant branches and leaves and fullness on the outside, so one can receive the nurture of rain and dew. The human body is the same: knowing how to inwardly guard essence, if one does not strive to honor good conduct and accumulate merit outward, it is like a tree without branches and leaves—alive yet not flourishing; how then can one receive the nurture of rain and dew? The ancients said: “For planting virtue, nothing surpasses nourishing it deeply.” Shu is to plant; zi is to cultivate deeply—so virtue must be planted and constantly tended. Though virtues are countless, aiding others and benefiting all beings comes first. Day by day, value righteousness and delight in giving; when you see someone in urgent need, set your heart on helping; when you hear of someone in distress or loss, find ways to rescue. Where strength allows, offer support tactfully; where it falls short, still think how to handle it. When you see someone unclear in principle or stuck in affairs, guide gently; encourage what is good and do your utmost to dissuade what is not. Every thought for others’ sake, every moment making things easier for them.

The Supreme Lord said: “The wealthy give material goods to others; the benevolent give good words to others.” Giving money and goods is indeed a form of relief; teaching people with words is fashi—giving through the Dharma and good counsel—which brings great benefit and is something everyone can do. The reason people in the world fail to do it is that they cling in their hearts to the distinction between self and other. Why not consider the words of the Ximing (Western Inscription) by Zhang Zai of the Northern Song: “The people are my siblings; the myriad things are my companions.” If one can realize that the people and the myriad things are all intimately one with oneself, then since the myriad things are originally one body, what goodness could one fail to honor, what virtue could one fail to cultivate? The Yijing says: “The noble person accords with virtue, accumulating from small beginnings until it grows great.” Thus the ancient sages wished the aged to be at ease and the young to be cared for—truly a measure as vast as Heaven. From antiquity, Buddhas and immortals have regarded all living beings as they would an infant. Buddhism says: “Every sentient being with life is originally inherent in my own nature.” If one can approach doing good with the mind of Buddhas, immortals, and sages, even if one does not fully match the sages, this mind is already the foundation of becoming a sage; even if one does not fully match Buddhas and immortals, one is in essence no different from them. When the mind holds a disposition toward goodness, can one be entirely without fault in daily life? It is only that when one knows there is fault, one should quickly correct it. The Yijing says: “When one strays, one turns back before going far—no great regret, supreme good fortune.” Correct one fault and one gains one good. As the proverb says: the person who does good is like grass in a spring garden—you cannot see it growing, yet every day it increases. Because goodness is originally inherent in the person, whether one acts on it depends on oneself; one need only work diligently, not seek reputation, not seek reward.

The Supreme Lord also said: “The highest virtue is like an empty valley; vast virtue still seems insufficient; hold to what is solid and you will see it grow—each day there is increase.” Goodness is inherent in human beings; putting it into practice depends on oneself. One need only earnestly act, not chase fame, not seek recompense.

The Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun) said: The highest De (Virtue/Power) is like an empty valley—open and able to hold; the broadest De looks as if it still fell short. In how one stands in the world, one should stand on depth and weight, not on shallowness; on plain sincerity, not on flashy display. The Book of Changes says that the noble person bears all things under heaven with profound virtue.

The sages of old established themselves and helped others establish themselves; they attained clarity themselves and helped others attain it. Buddhas and immortals achieved deliverance for themselves and at the same time delivered others. Yang Zhu, by contrast, spoke only of benefiting himself, and Mencius refuted him. Some Confucians in the world, without looking closely, rashly slander our Dao as the same sort of teaching as Yang Zhu or Mozi (Mohism), not knowing that our Dao is vast in compassion and leaves no one outside the effort to deliver—only that those who do not believe are hard to deliver. Yang Zhu could not benefit others; how could that compare with our Dao?

Moreover, those who cultivate the Dao must first build up De. That is why the scriptures on internal alchemy (Neidan) say that unless one accumulates virtue and meritorious accomplishment, all sorts of obstructive forces will arise at every turn. When people do good, the Way of Heaven surely protects them, and the spirits look favorably upon them. The Book of Documents says that doing good brings down every kind of blessing. If one does good yet sees no return, the good cannot yet have been pure enough. Those who truly set their hearts on goodness do not fail to receive recompense. When good deeds are kept up over time, fortune and celebration pass down to one's descendants, and grace extends to later generations. This is what the Book of Poetry means by receiving Heaven's hundred blessings and long-lasting fortune granted to you.

If someone can inwardly preserve the true vital essence (the root of one's being) and outwardly honor good conduct, never slackening to the end of life, yet still cannot attain the Dao—that simply does not happen.

Chapter Sixteen, "Strictly Discerning the True Confucian": This chapter bears the title "Strictly Discerning the True Confucian" to make a rigorous distinction as to what the true way of the Confucian really is.

If someone devotes himself wholeheartedly to Confucian learning and does not wander onto other paths, he should follow what was said above: inwardly guard body and mind, outwardly honor virtue, and first make the root thoroughly clear. He should exhaustively investigate the principles of Heaven, humanity, nature, and fate, and fully explore the meaning of benevolence, righteousness, the Way, and virtue. Carefully hold fast to the perilous, unsettled “human mind” (the selfish inclination that the Documents says is easily unrestrained), and do not let it drift away; constantly awaken the subtle, hard-to-discern “mind of the Way” (the upright heart that accords with principle), and nurture it deeply. Restrain wrong thoughts to remove errors; maintain reverence to establish sincerity. Require loyalty of yourself and treat others with forbearance. In advancing virtue, take as your model the spirit of King Tang’s bath inscription—“renew each day, renew again,” renewing yourself every day; in pursuing study, follow the approach of Documents: Charge to Yue—“humble in aspiration, diligent in season,” modest in aim and ever attentive in practice. Use humility to restrain yourself and an open mind to receive others. Learning has no end; do not rely on talent and become arrogant. When examining yourself, often fear you have not done enough; do not cover up faults. Often keep the sages before you as in the “soup and wall” image (when Shun thought of Yao, he seemed to see him in his broth at meals and on the wall when seated); do not incur the “quilt and shadow” shame (being ashamed alone with your bedding or standing alone—doing nothing wrong even in secret). When accumulation is deep, brilliance naturally shines forth; what matters is unwavering modesty, like Yan Hui’s “having as if not having, full as if empty” (possessing learning yet seeming without it, inwardly rich yet outwardly humble). Begin from what is near and you will see what is far; above all, rest content in simplicity, remembering what Duanmu Ci (Zigong) said: poor without fawning, rich without arrogance. Immerse yourself in the Six Classics (Poetry, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, Spring and Autumn), exhaustively study the texts of the Four Masters (Confucius, Zengzi, Zisi, and Mencius—the Four Books), read the sages’ books, embody the sages’ hearts, do the sages’ deeds, and become a person like the sages. Take as what you must learn Yiyin’s joy in Yao and Shun’s Way and his conviction that this can be mastered; take as what you must emulate Mencius’s resolve to study Confucius. This is the fundamental duty a Confucian should fulfill. For the character ru (Confucian/scholar) combines “person” with “need”: it carries forward the sages’ transmission of the Way above and opens the way for later generations below—it is precisely what the world needs.

As for the various masters and historical works, they are also enough to broaden one’s hearing and sight, expand one’s thought, and enrich one’s knowledge; one should search widely, discard the dross and keep the essence, set aside what is doubtful for the time being, and preserve what is trustworthy. The ancients could sit in one room yet know the vastness of the world and the gains and losses of events across a thousand years—books made that possible. Only Yang Xiong’s works, for the most part, use language that is abstruse and hard to understand.

Xunzi held that human nature is inherently evil—a view that, in my judgment, has lost touch with the root. Only the chapters in his work that discuss governing the state still have something worth taking seriously. The histories of the Six Dynasties often diverge from the standards of the sages, yet they still let us see how the world waxed and waned in order and chaos; that is precisely what a Confucian should study with care. As for florid writing and books that do nothing for body or mind, they only lead people to amuse themselves with trifles and forget what matters. Worthies of earlier ages warned of this again and again—we must be cautious.

To be called a Confucian is not merely to wear the cap and gown of the school. Even when one already looks the part outwardly, one must earnestly practice Confucian conduct and establish Confucian character. Be a true Confucian, not a counterfeit one; a broad-minded Confucian, not one trapped in petty rules; a great Confucian, not a small one. Better to stand firm in dignity and be a bulwark of the sage’s Way than to bend to the fashion of the day, become a “village worthy” who seems honest but goes along with the crowd, and ruin one’s virtue. Purify the inner heart and withdraw into depth; aspire toward the sages and worthies. Preserve Heavenly principle and restrain selfish desire, so as to fulfill one’s nature and reach the mandate of Heaven. When prosperous, carry this Way forward—even in wealth, honor, and ease, do not boast. When in hardship, hold fast to this Way—even in seclusion among springs and stones, do not change. That is the true Confucian’s capacity, and the nobility of the scholar’s character.

I too once pursued Confucian learning and mastered the classics and histories; only afterward did I enter the Dao and attain the rank of celestial immortal (tianxian). Thus although Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism differ in form, in essence they are one teaching. What is that one thing? It is the heart-mind.

The Supreme Lord (Taishang, the highest revered deity in Daoism) said: “Do not give rise to a discriminating mind; do not give rise to a clinging mind.” Mencius said: “The Way is simply one!” Ancient sages and later sages alike uphold the same standard. Only shallow Confucians cling to textual clauses and never probe the root; they seize upon names and appearances and insist on carving out distinctions. They do not realize that observing the inner climate before joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure have stirred—the state before the heart is pulled by emotion—and what Buddhist and Daoist adepts investigate as the original face of one’s nature, are not different at all. Moreover, Confucius is the patriarch of Confucianism for ten thousand generations; he has now been confirmed in the rank of Celestial Emperor and is praised by the Buddha as well. Yan Hui, Zengzi, and the other Four Sages who attend Confucius in sacrifice hold lofty titles in the celestial palace, and his three thousand disciples never fall into calamity or tribulation. Does this not mean that to be a true Confucian is the very seed of becoming a Buddha or an immortal—that the genuine Confucian is precisely one in deep accord with Buddha and immortal? If there are true Confucians in the world, I should set forth the principle to guide them. Why insist on separating Confucian from Confucian, Way from Way, or Buddhist from Buddhist?

Chapter Seventeen: The Secret of the Mystery Pass (Xuanguan). Xuanguan is the Mystery Pass—the pivotal gate where nature (xing) and life (ming) meet in internal alchemy (Neidan) cultivation; this chapter explains that secret.

If someone grows weary of worldly entanglements, cherishes in their heart the mysterious wind of the Dao (the refined and subtle teaching of Daoism), resolves to seek liberation, and wishes to understand the way of long life and enduring vision—as well as to cultivate the work of returning essence, spirit, and qi to their source—they must first recognize the single aperture of the Mysterious Pass before they can apply fitting and direct methods and avoid straying into heterodox paths.

This aperture is hidden within the human body, dwelling in emptiness—vacant and still, utterly subtle. It is not the heart, not the kidneys, not the mouth, and not the nose. Some say it is at the Mud Pill (the crown of the head); some say inside the navel; some say between the two kidneys—all such talk is mistaken. Without meeting an enlightened master to point it out and transmit the teaching, how could one know it? The alchemical classics say: “Even if one’s intelligence surpasses that of Yan Hui and Min Ziqian, without meeting a true teacher, do not guess at random.”

This aperture connects upward with the heart and downward with the kidneys. It is the place through which true breath (the inner, authentic qi—not the breath of mouth and nose) must pass in coming and going, hence it is called the Mysterious Pass, and also the bellows-key (the pivotal opening of the bellows, a metaphor for the hub through which qi enters and exits). Those who refine the elixir concentrate the sacred embryo (a metaphor for the formed inner elixir) within this Mysterious Pass.

The Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun) said: “Between Heaven and Earth—is it not like the bellows and its valve of a forge? Though hollow within, it never runs dry; once stirred, breath keeps pouring forth without end.” The pivot of true breath (zhenxi, the natural respiration of internal alchemy) is exactly like this: as if a refining furnace were fitted with bellows and valve; when the mechanism is set in motion, the meridians throughout the body, the ying qi and wei qi (nutritive and defensive qi), the hundred vessels and nine orifices—all depend on it for ingress and egress, for ascent and descent, circling and reversing. Within a single day and night it completes its circuit, traversing three hundred sixty-five degrees in the microcosmic orbit (shenzhong qi ji zhouliu yi zhou), with qi never ceasing for an instant; its operation has no limit. This is also called xuanpin—the “Mysterious Female” (xuan as yang, pin as yin). The Supreme Venerable also said: “The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. Endlessly continuous, as if present yet absent—you need not apply force when putting it to use.” Xuan is yang; pin is yin. The Heart Seal Scripture (Gaoshang Yuhuang Xinyin Jing) speaks of “emerging from xuan and entering pin”—that is, true qi moving in and out, turning left and circling right, circulating within the body without pause day or night.

The Yijing says: opening the gate is called Qian; closing the gate is called Kun. One opening and one closing is called change; going and coming without end is called penetration. Human breath works the same way: one exhalation is outward, opening, rising, and yang—in that breath one connects with the root of Heaven, hence it is called Qian. One inhalation is drawing in, closing, descending, and yin—in that breath one connects with the root of Earth, hence it is called Kun. The opening and closing of yin and yang all arise from this single Mysterious Pass (xuan guan)—the hidden pivotal gateway in internal alchemy (neidan). How subtle! How profound! For those who cultivate immortality, what must be cultivated first is precisely this aperture.

This aperture is utterly empty and spirit-like. It lies between Qian and Kun; it is where the “Metal Lord” and “Wood Mother” (metaphorical names for yin and yang qi in neidan) meet, where the “infant boy” and “maiden” (again figures for yin and yang) unite, and where even the Four Great Elements and the Five Phases cannot touch. Returning to the root and restoring life, setting the furnace and erecting the cauldron (steps in inner practice for settling body-mind and condensing essence)—all depend on this place. Because it is deep, remote, and obscure, it is called “mysterious” (xuan); because it is like a hollow within emptiness, it is called “feminine” (pin). The names are many, but in reality there is only one.

If you seek it with deliberate intent, it seems vague and formless—you cannot see that it exists. If you seek it without intent, qi flows and fills everywhere, yet you cannot say it is nothing. Only by letting go of all entanglements, washing away worldly cares, and silently recognizing it—in neither clinging to being nor clinging to non-being—can you naturally attain it. Once this gate opens, the formless True Person comes and goes without ceasing; the ordinary body is transformed into golden fluid (jinye), and the work of laying the foundation and refining the self (zhuji, lianji) can proceed in order, without obstruction.

The gist of the Golden Elixir (jindan) only those of superior spiritual capacity (shanggen) can fully receive; those of middle or lower capacity may not yet be able to. Yet whoever yearns for the Dao and cultivates truth—though roots differ in grade—if they sincerely follow the Way and never slacken, every grade can leave the dusty world and reach the true realm; every method can extend life and deliver one from the mundane world.

In the past, when I was in the Mian region (along the Han River), I once taught the cultivation methods of celestial immortals (tianxian), terrestrial immortals (dixian), and human immortals (renxian)—each with dozens of points. Celestial immortals are divided into thirty-six grades according to the zhou tian (the full cycle of heaven and earth’s movement); terrestrial and human immortals are aligned with the twenty-four solar terms and take their count from the seventy-two hou (each solar term has three hou). Sadly, that book was kept secret in the Mian region and never spread in the world.

Those who wish to study the Dao, if they can live long in temples and abbeys, recite scriptures, burn incense, and practice with minds free of worldly grime, have done their part for Quanzhen (sincere cultivation and keeping one’s true nature). If one only wears the yellow cap and feathered robe (Daoist cap and Daoist gown) yet has no idea where the Great Dao leads, and does not grasp how to leave birth and death behind, impermanence (death) may come very soon. At the Hall of Dense Forest (the underworld court of judgment) and in the turning of rebirth, one cannot escape by looking like a Daoist alone. Once the human body is lost, it is hard to get back even through ten thousand kalpas.

Ordinary people, in their ignorance, do not understand the Great Dao; they lose the human body and still blame it on never having known how to cultivate truth. Having entered this Way of mine, if one does not turn the heart upward and practice hard, but drifts in a daze and treats this life lightly—as if slighting my Way—one will sink for countless kalpas and lose the human body forever. Is that not sad? Is that not painful? All who are gathered here should wake up at once: the human body is hard to obtain!

Chapter Eighteen: Fire Phases and Medicinals (on fire phases and medicinals in refining and nourishing).

Those who cultivate the Dao, once they have understood the Mysterious Gate (xuanguan)—the pivotal pass in internal alchemy where the body’s qi converges—must also understand the “medicinal substances.” Each substance has its own source. Here, the medicines spoken of are lead and mercury. Lead arises in the west: in the Eight Trigrams (bagua) the west is Dui (Lake), and in the Five Phases it belongs to Metal; Metal is the mother of Water. Mercury arises in the east: the east is Zhen (Thunder), belonging to Wood in the Five Phases; Wood is the mother of Fire. Metal summons and draws Water; Wood summons and draws Fire—and from this arise Kan (Water) and Li (Fire). Therefore the Supreme Venerable (Taishang Laojun) said: “Know the mother, and you can know the child she bears; once you have obtained the child, you must turn back and hold fast to the mother.” That is the principle of knowing the streams and sources of the medicines.

Gathering the medicine is not gathering by deliberate intent in the ordinary sense—it is gathering by means of fire. The alchemical classics say: “When lead meets the first emergence of guishui (Yin Water), you must gather it at once; if you wait until the full-moon day to seek the Metal, it can no longer be used.” When the medicines enter the furnace, transformation unfolds of itself; refining them requires mastering the fire phases. Fire timing is not of one kind alone: there is gentle fire (wenhuo) and intense fire (wuhuo), what comes first and what comes after, what is slow and what is urgent—the sequence of effort differs in each case.

The alchemical scriptures say: “The perfected person transmits the medicine but not the fire; from antiquity, few have truly understood fire timing.” It is not that they do not know—rather, fire timing depends entirely on the heart’s inward turning, advancing and withdrawing according to the zi and wu hours (extracting when the fire is too strong, adding when it is too weak). This extracting and adding is hidden and formless, subtle and invisible—not like firewood and charcoal, which have shape and are easy to grasp.

For the world’s sake, let me point out the medicine: Yellow Sprout, White Snow, Dragon and Tiger, and other such names all come down to mercury and lead; mercury and lead are also alternate names, and in the end they are simply water and fire. The images of water and fire are taken from Kan and Li (the trigrams that symbolize water and fire). The heart in the south is Li—Li is fire, and the Primordial Spirit (Yuan Shen) dwells there; the kidneys in the north are Kan—Kan is water, and Primordial Essence (Yuan Jing) dwells there. True Qi is transformed from true essence, and true essence in turn is fused from True Qi. True Qi is the medicine; it must be governed by the Primordial Spirit’s true fire. To refine the medicine requires a furnace and cauldron—also alternate names—for the place of the Mysterious Pass (Xuan Guan): a single aperture in empty space, with the image of a furnace. Where there is no image, an image appears; within this realm of seeming presence and seeming absence, water and fire ascend and descend—this is called refining and cooking.

The Supreme Venerable Lord (Laojun) said: “Nurture what has no form, and form can long endure; hold fast to what has no body, and the body can preserve its true nature intact. When true nature is full and kept in mutual guard, one can endure for long.” This is the essential point of the firing process (huohou—the measure of intensity, advance, and retreat in breath and intent during practice). Use spirit to move qi, use qi to draw essence; silently allow it to turn, until body and mind are settled and at ease, reaching emptiness and stillness, serene, detached, and without forced action. When circulating qi, each breath returns to the root—neither forgotten nor forcibly pushed. In beginning the work, one relies entirely on reverse cultivation (nixiu—turning essence and qi back toward their source instead of letting them dissipate outward), keeping the Original Spirit (Yuanshen—the innate spirit one is born with) guarded within, while essence and qi condense. Then through refining essence into qi, refining qi into spirit, and refining spirit back to emptiness, one arrives at empty spontaneity, and the Sacred Embryo (the inner elixir fully formed, in allegory) takes shape. After that one warms and nourishes it, suckling it in silence, wholly guarding it with the quiet root of being. Before the embryo is fully formed, one often uses martial fire (wuhuo—firmer, more concentrated intent) to retreat through the yin talisman phase (the yin segment of the refining cycle). When the yin talisman is fully withdrawn and a purely yang, vigorous body appears, one need only use civil fire (wenhuo—gentle sustaining heat) to warm and stabilize it, keeping it securely in the center. Martial fire is like war; once the Sacred Embryo is complete, it is as when the realm is at peace—one should cease martial affairs and cultivate civil order; what need is there for force? The Supreme Venerable said: “Weapons are inauspicious tools; one uses them only when there is no choice, therefore tranquility is best.” At this stage of the work, one should only guard oneself in calm detachment, and strictly avoid “pulling up seedlings to make them grow.” After long ripening, when the time comes for the infant (the Sacred Embryo grown to maturity) to be nourished, it naturally sheds the shell and transforms spiritually, free and at ease. Though one dwells in a single room, one may roam as widely as the four seas and nine provinces; though one remains within the dusty world, one may rise into the empyrean and the far reaches of mystery. The Book of Changes says: “Beauty is contained within, flows through the four limbs, and shows in one’s undertakings—this is the utmost of beauty.” Mencius said: “A moist radiance appears on the face, fills the back, extends to the four limbs—the limbs need not speak yet make themselves clear.” Once the returned elixir (huandan—the completed inner elixir) is obtained, returning to youth is no empty claim; such signs truly appear. What the Scripture of Salvation means by “preach the scripture ten times and withered bones sprout anew” is all brought about by this kind of cultivation.

If one enters the Way only in midlife, the external medicine (waiyao—postnatal essence and vitality) is already depleted, and one must use methods of connecting life and extending years to make up for what the postnatal body lacks. Yet even with genuine effort, if the prenatal endowment is not complete, the Sacred Embryo still cannot fully form. If one’s resolve is firm, guarding spirit and qi, breathing in due season without ceasing morning or evening, then even if one does not reach shedding the shell, entering sagehood, and transcending the ordinary, foundation building and self-refinement (zhuji lianji—consolidating the root and refining oneself) will indeed have real effect: one may long remain in the world and enjoy extended years, quite unlike ordinary people. One’s root will naturally pass from kalpa to kalpa within the gate of cultivation, and good causes and karmic ties with the Dao will not be wasted—this is what is meant by sowing the seed early. Whoever desires long life must early turn inward to cultivate and examine themselves, and not wait until old age when regret is useless.

Chapter Nineteen of Upward in the Chan School (a section on seeking the root directly and awakening by turning upward in Chan):

In the past, when Shakyamuni Buddha taught the Dharma, Mahakashyapa (the Buddha’s great disciple) and Shariputra (foremost in wisdom among the disciples) had already mastered the arts of longevity and were widely versed in alchemical texts; each led disciples to come and submit, and both later received the Buddha’s prediction that they would become Buddhas. Shenguang (later the Second Chan Patriarch Huike) had originally grounded himself in Daoist learning, then turned to take refuge in Bodhidharma (the First Chan Patriarch). The Fifth Patriarch of Huangmei (Hongren) was in a previous life a pine-planting Daoist. Tanluan burned his immortality scriptures and switched to Pure Land practice. These are cases of entering Buddhism from the Dao. Perfected Lord Xu (Xu Xun) in a former life had studied under Dipankara Buddha (the Buddha of Burning Lamps) as a Buddhist disciple; later he took Lady Zhen as his master, received the great way of the Golden Elixir, and his whole household ascended in broad daylight. Li Changyuan had first become a monk and was stuck in “stubborn emptiness” (clinging to blank void and blind asceticism); only after I (Lü Dongbin) pointed the way did he realize the celestial immortal. That is entering the Dao from Buddhism. Danxia (Master Tianran) gave up the path of official selection and office to study Buddhism, and later awakened through that—entering Buddhism from Confucianism. I myself once studied Confucianism until I met the holy master Zhengyang (Zhongli Quan), who transmitted the subtle mystery—entering the Dao from Confucianism.

From this it is clear that at first there is no fixed rule whether one cultivates Buddhism or seeks immortality; whether one learns the Dao or learns Buddhism depends entirely on the person. Where you vow, there you endure hardship; where you vow here, here you strive. Therefore, if you devote yourself to Confucian learning, you should follow what was said earlier—become a sage or worthy; beyond that there is nothing else to pursue. If you cultivate the immortal way, you should deeply investigate the work of return (gongfu that turns body and mind back to the source) and the gate of recitation and holding (chanting scriptures and guarding the practice), so as to break free of worldly ties. Since you are called Quanzhen (Complete Perfection), you should preserve this nature that is truly one and undivided, neither destroyed nor born; let the slightest selfish thought mix in and it is no longer true. What heaven gave me was complete from the start—if one part is not whole, it no longer fits the meaning of fully receiving and fully returning. The two words “Quanzhen”—can such a title be lightly assumed?

If someone admires Chan, delights in the Buddha’s teaching, and leaves home by cutting off love for kin, they should cast off worldly entanglements, resolve to turn upward, and stake their life on the great intent that came from the West (Bodhidharma’s root teaching from India), cultivating forward. If they can exhaust the fine meaning in the Buddhist canon, seeking morning and evening, wherever something is not clear they should ask a good knowing advisor (a teacher or friend with genuine insight) for guidance—not trusting their own opinion or guessing at will. Long ago in the Avatamsaka Sutra, “Entering the Dharma Realm,” Sudhana visited fifty-three great good knowing advisors in succession and finally stood shoulder to shoulder with the Buddhas—what aspiration was that! If a person lives within the abbot’s quarters or sits on the meditation platform yet dust and defilement are not cleared and worldly bonds are not cut, the original true mind is still not understood, and instead they mistake the mind that rises with outer conditions for their own true mind, then a whole lifetime is like walking in fog; how could they ever see a clear, bright sky?

The Surangama Sutra (the Buddhist scripture known as the Shurangama Sutra) says: when the mind arises, all dharmas (phenomena and things) arise with it; when the mind ceases, all dharmas cease with it. Because this mind is stirred up by prior sense objects (the forms, sounds, and other external conditions before one), it both arises and perishes, and is therefore called the deluded mind. The deluded mind is empty and unstable; the true mind abides constantly and is never shaken.

Most people who study Chan in this degenerate age do not clearly know the true mind. They simply follow their habitual tendencies and take the conditioned mind that arises when they respond to affairs and encounter things to be their original true mind, without realizing they must earnestly cultivate and investigate ahead. If one is willing, in the four deportments of walking, standing, sitting, and lying—the ordinary modes of daily conduct—to examine this conditioned mind: from where does it arise, and toward where does it perish? Right within this arising and perishing, seek the true mind that neither arises nor perishes. Once one breaks through the barrier of confusion and sees the root, one knows it is illusion; when illusion is left behind, that is enough. There is no need to borrow another expedient method; leaving delusion and illusion, awakening is present immediately, without successive stages. This resembles the Confucian “return through self-restraint” (ke fu—restraining the self to recover ritual propriety, restraining selfish desire to return to li): when selfishness is restrained, propriety is restored; when one knows to leave illusion, the true mind awakens. The two were never really different.

Still, to leave delusion and illusion and see true constancy, one must rely on the work of precepts and samadhi. Precepts are guarding the norms of body, speech, and mind; samadhi is keeping the mind from scattering. If one does not strictly hold the precepts, the mind easily wanders, is pulled away when things happen, and cannot attain great samadhi. Through holding precepts one enters dhyana-samadhi, and the mind no longer moves rashly; long restraint and discipline until purity and singleness—the true and constant mind (the ever-real mind) will naturally appear. So I have said: “The true and constant mind must respond to things; when responding to things, one must not lose oneself.” That is exactly what is meant. Yan Hui’s “four prohibitions” in Confucianism (do not look, listen, speak, or act contrary to ritual) are likewise precepts for guarding body and mind; at first there is no difference.

If one can persist in precepts and carefully follow the Buddha’s teaching, first seeking clarity for oneself, then the “single turn upward” (the further step of Chan insight) can advance. If one does not rely on precepts, or receives them but cannot keep them, and wishes to clarify the mind-ground—without samadhi, where would wisdom (the insight born from samadhi) come from? The gate of non-duality (the ultimate teaching that does not fall into either extreme) cannot be penetrated either. Those who aspire to investigate Chan should rouse themselves with utmost vigor.

Chapter Twenty: Warning to the Zen Lineage

If you wish to become a Buddha, you must first understand Buddha-nature. This Buddha-nature is complete from the moment you are born; everyone has it inherently, and there is no difference between sage and ordinary person. Some call it the “Great Vehicle”; some call it the “Supreme Vehicle”—both refer to this same innate nature. The nature itself is not twofold, yet the fruit of practice differs, because faculties are not alike. Faculties differ because the qi each person receives is clear or turbid in varying measure. Thus those of superior faculties understand as soon as they hear, grasp how to practice at once, and find it easier to train under a teacher; those of middling and inferior faculties, compared with the superior, do not understand as readily when they hear, but if they are willing to apply bitter effort, they can still awaken—it only feels harder. Because the three kinds of faculties are not the same, the work of cultivation also differs. Hence the “perfect penetration” positions described in the Surangama Sutra differ in more than twenty gateways of entry; the three contemplations in the Sutra of Complete Enlightenment each allow solitary practice, paired practice, sequential practice of first one then another, or simultaneous practice together; and the ten abodes, ten faiths, ten dedications, and the forty-one stages of mind in the Avatamsaka Sutra likewise vary in depth and shallowness. Therefore you should concentrate on studying the sutras and treatises and penetrate their subtle, profound meaning. The Buddha reproached those who valued much learning alone, holding that it falls short of practicing the unoutflowing (cutting off afflictions so one no longer leaks into birth and death)—yet he also said, “Bodhisattvas should constantly recollect and widely learn much, to increase wisdom.” Clearly the Buddha did not wholly discard much learning; he only meant, “To cross a river you need a raft; once you have crossed, you need not cling to the raft.” Thus it is wrong to seek the Dharma by clinging to sutras and treatises, and equally wrong to seek the Dharma by abandoning sutras and treatises.

If one seeks enlightenment through Zen meditation alone, without studying the classical sutras and treatises, then why did the Tathagata (Shakyamuni Buddha) teach the Dharma for forty-nine years, and on the eve of his Nirvana entrust the scriptures to the Venerable Ananda? Clearly, clinging to fragmentary understanding while dismissing those well-versed in the Buddhist canon as misguided is ultimately the way of those who settle for too little and fall into zengshangman—the arrogance of claiming attainment without true realization. The ancients, in their study of the teachings transmitted from India, plumbed their deepest mysteries and clarified their essential aims. Without treatises to elucidate the sutras and sutras to reveal the Dharma, how could they achieve complete awakening? Thus Yongjia Xuanjue attained realization of the Mind School through reading the Vimalakirti Sutra, and the Tiantai patriarch gained samadhi through reciting the Lotus Sutra. Those recorded in the Transmission of the Lamp were mostly monks of broad learning and deep insight—there were no eminent monks of shallow understanding. Yet though the Buddha established his teachings, the return to the original source is one; the expedient methods are many. Hence sutras are divided into sudden and gradual teachings, and vehicles into Great and Lesser. Those of sharp faculties may awaken suddenly even within gradual teachings; those of dull faculties must gradually penetrate even sudden teachings. The parable of "three animals crossing a river" illustrates the Lesser Vehicle for those of inferior and middling faculties; while "three carts leaving the house" in the Lotus Sutra moves from gradual to sudden, first opening the expedient wisdom of skillful means, then revealing the ultimate wisdom of the One Vehicle. Therefore the Buddha's teaching finds its most complete expression in the Lotus Sutra, which gathers the three vehicles into the One Vehicle. The great disciples then received in succession their predictions of future Buddhahood—regardless of gender, whether human or heavenly, young or old, all received such predictions. This is what is meant by "full in the ravine, full in the valley"—as Confucius said, "Nothing is without it, no time is without it." Though Buddha-nature is no different in sage and ordinary person, without exhaustive investigation and realization, how can one transcend the mundane and enter the sacred?

In former times, when the Sixth Patriarch (Huineng of Chan) was still a layman, he tied a stone to his waist to pound rice—such extreme ascetic discipline. How many later people could grind themselves like that? Beyond investigative meditation there is sutra recitation and mantra practice; beyond recitation and mantra there is the Pure Land path. Since Master Huiyuan opened the altar on Mount Lu, those who left the cycle of rebirth and were reborn in the Pure Land through Buddha-recitation are fully recorded in the Pure Land Biographies. Those who awakened to mind-nature through sutra recitation and appear in biographies of eminent monks are beyond counting. Among monks in the world, those who practice Chan often look down on Buddha-recitation, yet they do not know that Bodhisattva Mahasthamaprapta also attained perfect penetration through Buddha-recitation; Bodhisattva Samantabhadra personally saw the Tathagata Amitabha (Infinite Light), received the prediction of enlightenment face to face, and used this to encourage all beings. Is that a “small fruition”?

Therefore, monastics: those who favor recitation should practice as the sutras teach and investigate mind-nature within recitation; those who favor the Chan vehicle should still all outward conditions and directly inquire upward, investigating mind-nature within meditation; those who favor Pure Land should recite the Buddha with the Buddha’s mind and keep one-pointed concentration, investigating mind-nature within Buddha-recitation. When mind-nature is not yet clear, that is exactly when you should strive hardest in inquiry. Like a wanderer returning home—you are not at ease until you arrive; like a light boat crossing a river—you are not truly “there” until you reach the shore. If you stop halfway and fence yourself in, wishing to transcend the ordinary—how can the ordinary be transcended? Wishing to enter sagehood—how can sagehood be entered? The first fruition of the path is already hard; how much more the fourth? The first dhyana is not yet attained; how much more the fourth? Practicing thus, one may never penetrate in a lifetime, and the meaning of the Patriarch’s coming from the West (the mind-seal transmitted by Bodhidharma) will surely not be obtained. These are the ones who “lose their footing under the kasaya”—hard to redeem.

Chapter Twenty-One: Uniting the Three Paths in One—Returning to Investigating Mind-Nature

When the immortals at the assembly had heard this, they all rose and reported to the Heavenly Worthy: “From ancient times in the upper age…”

At that time, after the assembled immortals at the Dharma assembly had heard these words, they all rose and reported to the Heavenly Lord: “In remote antiquity, though wise sages and holy ones were born and divine beings appeared from time to time, the ancient classics had not yet been compiled, the jade volumes of Daoist scripture had not yet been opened, and Buddhist sutras had not yet been written. At first there were no separate names for Confucianism and Daoism, still less any talk of Buddhism. Later, culture and teaching spread, canonical law was established, circulated through the realm, and shone as brightly as the sun, moon, and stars. From the middle antiquity onward, simplicity and honesty gradually waned. People no longer knew the great Dao; most were lost in teachings that take mind-nature as fundamental, and did not grasp the supreme principle—so Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism rose together to guide a world as if deaf and blind. Yet the branches split apart and grew ever more distant. An old saying runs: ‘Those whose ways differ do not make plans together.’ Han Yu said: ‘Enter one school, and take that school as master; leave one school, and treat it as servant. Coming out from there, one enters here—that is how circumstances push one.’ Now, if the three teachings are said to share one supreme Dao, there ought not to be three separate names; yet since Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism have already divided, one cannot say the three teachings are one and the same principle. Even within what is held in common, there remains that by which they differ. We only ask the Heavenly Lord to declare this clearly, so that later generations may know where to turn, and not fall into the barrier of doubt.”

The Celestial Sovereign said: In the beginning, when Hongmeng—the primordial chaos at the universe’s first opening—had only just divided, there was as yet no writing. People governed affairs by tying knots in cords. Heaven lowered signs for all to see: the patterns of sun and moon, stars and constellations, clouds and rosy light stood out clearly in the sky. The sages took these heavenly forms as their model: they watched the stars and fashioned characters, took cloud and mist as the pattern for seal script, observed the tracks of birds and beasts and turned them into written forms, and made written contracts so that the people could use them with ease.

In that age the name “Confucian” did not yet exist, still less the names of Buddhism and Daoism. Though the teachings had not yet been founded as separate paths, the broad design was already in place. From the generating numbers of the Hetu and Luoshu—the legendary numerical diagrams said to have emerged from the Yellow River and the Luo River—Paoxi (Fuxi) drew the trigrams; the meaning of Qian, Kun, Kan, and Li and the essentials of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases had already opened the transmission later summed up as “holding fast to the single-minded center”—the way of keeping the heart unified and dwelling in the middle way—which became the common source of the three teachings: Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism.

The Yi says: “One yin and one yang—this is called the Dao.” Do the various passages on yin and yang in Daoist writings on the mysterious really mean something different? For those who cultivate, the first thing is to understand the ascent and descent of fire and water; yet the principles of Weiji (Not Yet Fulfilled) and Jiji (Already Fulfilled)—two hexagrams naming the unfinished and the completed—were spoken of long ago in the Yi. What Qibo told the Yellow Emperor also speaks of “Heaven at one generates water”—the Hetu’s teaching that the celestial number one gives birth to water. When the secret of the Hetu is applied to lead and mercury—the inner-alchemy image for the two vital ingredients of yin and yang—it is what Buddhism calls the golden immortal; metal is the mother of water. That is precisely the generating number of the Hetu; from the start it is one and the same principle.

The tie between Daoism and Confucianism is even easier to see. Is there any art of long life that lies outside the sixty-four hexagrams? Fuxi’s trigrams begin from the prior heaven (xiantian): Qian in the south, Kun in the north, and so on. The later-heaven (houtian) teaching of King Wen of Zhou starts Qian from the northwest and places Kun in the southwest. Those who refine the elixir set the furnace and erect the cauldron within Qian and Kun—treating the body’s place of refinement as furnace and vessel—and use the later-heaven ingredients to restore the prior heaven. That empty, hollow realm is “the single stroke that opens Heaven”—the first line that divides heaven from earth. Seen this way, were the sages of high antiquity Confucians, Buddhists, or Daoists?

Sages of middle antiquity understood that people in later ages could not all fully embody the complete teaching in every respect, so they had no choice but to distinguish the Three Teachings (Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism) by name. Though the names differ, the principle is one. Hence it is said: a sage appeared countless ages ago—this mind and this principle were the same; a sage will appear countless ages hence—this mind and this principle will be the same as well. Therefore the Buddha says in the Lotus Sutra (Fahua Jing): after the Buddha Sun-Moon-Lamp Bright came another Buddha Sun-Moon-Lamp Bright; after the Buddha Voice-King Awesome came another Buddha Voice-King Awesome. And it is not only so—even through all future kalpas, the Three Teachings take different paths yet converge in one destination. This is not my private view alone; it is the shared judgment of sages past and sages to come. The Supreme Sage (Confucius) once praised the Supreme Venerable (Laozi) with the words “like a dragon”—incomparably deep and unfathomable—which shows the highest respect and that the Supreme Sage never rejected the Dao. The Taishang Xisheng Jing says: my teacher, the ancient holy king and sage of India, is there; I am about to depart. This shows that the Supreme Venerable never rejected Buddhism. Moreover, Shakyamuni Buddha in kalpas of the past took an immortal of longevity as his teacher, and at the assembly on Vulture Peak he heard the Lotus Sutra and personally expounded it to those who cultivate the Way—showing that the Tathāgata never rejected the path of immortality either. The minds and principles of the three sages were never different; because they were never different, they were never truly separate.

Those who study and seek the Dao need not from the outset master Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism all at once. If one can awaken to the same root origin and, within heart-nature (xin and original nature), pursue it deeply until it is clear through and through, then whether one studies Confucianism, Buddhism, or the Dao, when one truly penetrates to the bottom, one will naturally understand that the three teachings issue from a single source. Therefore the Confucian should be a true Confucian, the Buddhist a true Buddhist, the Daoist a true Daoist. What “true” means is to embody utmost sincerity in heart, recognize utmost sincerity in principle, and cultivate utmost sincerity in practice—pure and undivided. Thus sagehood can be aspired to, the Buddha can be learned from, and immortals can be approached. A Buddhist sutra says: “What is called sentient beings is precisely not sentient beings.” If one merely clings to outward forms, ridicules one another, and willingly becomes a transgressor against the three teachings, that is what is called being a sentient being.

When the immortals had heard this, they bowed their heads (qishou) in praise and composed a eulogy, saying: The Celestial Worthy (Tianzun), great in compassion, expounds the principle of the three teachings for the multitude. Heart-nature shares one source; heaven and the human realm alike accord with this subtle essential teaching. Like a mirror reflecting empty clarity, like the moon mirrored in still water—the root teaching (zongcheng) is fully disclosed, and only then does cultivation have a foundation. Confucianism, Buddhism, and the Dao—ultimately, why must we distinguish them? Only when one attains the fruit of perfect penetration (yuantong) can one understand these words. We universally vow that all sentient beings shall not let doubt and obstruction arise.

When the immortals had finished the eulogy, for a moment heavenly flowers scattered, circling the seat three times; they withdrew with reverence, received the teaching in faith, and put it into practice.

Eulogy on the Cantong Jing

Praise for the lower volume: The dharma words are clear, deep, and still; the great classic is remote and profound. It joins in harmonizing the original transformation (yuanhua), brings forth a compassionate heart, explains the meaning, points out the ford for the lost, universally saves the multitude, and through cantong (joining in accord) reaches the supreme vehicle (shangcheng).

Opening gāthā: Fragrant clouds drift in haze, shrouding the mid-heaven; spirit cranes dance lightly, encircling the dharma assembly (fayan). The True Emperor broadly proclaims the thirty-two teachings; the Buddha, immortals, and Confucian Way flow on forever.

Taishang Yanshu Jiujie Xiaozai Cifu Jie’e Baoyun Zhenzhen Cantong Miaojing (Supreme Lord’s Scripture of Rescuing from Tribulation, Dispelling Calamity, Bestowing Blessing, Resolving Adversity, Protecting Fortune, and Certifying Truth through the Wondrous Cantong), lower volume.

Chapter 22, “Preserving Through Calamity Depends Only on Goodness”: to survive disaster and tribulation, nothing avails but doing good.

At this time the Heavenly Lord (the Daoist honorific for the supreme deity) was expounding the unity of the Three Teachings—Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism—and transmitting secrets that sages of old had never made public. When the teaching session ended, he went with the immortals in reverence to the Miro Heavenly Palace and the sacred realm of Jade Clarity (Yuqing). After presenting his report, he withdrew to the Palace of the Unsurpassed and rested in spirit and truth, discoursing with the fairy maidens of the jade palace and the true lords of the jade isles on the practice of pure quiet cultivation and on the Way of Taiyi Containing Primordial Qi (nourishing primordial qi with a pure heart and aligning with the Dao). As he spoke, he suddenly sighed: “I see that among the people below, many are deluded and few awaken; many turn from the Dao and few walk it; many talk of the Dao and few truly attain it. No wonder fire and flood, pestilence, and great disasters cannot be warded off. To turn back the tide of kalpa-calamity, one must understand the utmost Dao; to understand the utmost Dao, one must first cultivate the heart-mind. If we do not use methods of heart-mind cultivation to teach and save in many ways, how will living beings know how to seek fortune and avoid harm? I shall not spare myself labor, but proclaim teaching on Heaven’s behalf and ferry those who wander in confusion.”

Then the Heavenly Lord again rode five-colored auspicious clouds and descended to Ezhu (an ancient place name on the Yangtze, in present-day Hubei). The trees were beginning to shed their leaves; the autumn wind was sharp; a bright sun filled the sky; crimson clouds drifted; the mountains stood still; purple qi rose. The immortals rejoiced and together attended at the teaching assembly, hoping to hear the most essential doctrine.

The Celestial Lord (Tianzun)—the honorific title for the supreme deity in Daoism—said: I observe within the divine land and throughout the territories of Yudì, near and far, all manner of improper influences: drought or flood, water disaster or fire disaster, locust plagues or epidemics. In the afflicted regions, people do not know that these are karmic retribution for their own deeds; instead they grow more perverse, so that calamities pile up day by day and cannot be lifted.

According to Daoist scriptures, the period from zi to yin counts as one minor kalpa (a shorter cycle of fortune and fate); the twelve earthly branches together form four minor kalpas; when minor kalpas accumulate, they become one major kalpa. Then years of famine appear, plague breaks out, warfare rises, drought and flood come in succession, and strange portents multiply. Or the sun and moon stray from their proper courses, the stars lose their measure, mountains collapse and waters overflow, and hunger follows hunger. Such ill omens, though spoken of as arising from the turn of cosmic qi, in truth stem from human conduct.

Therefore when the ancients met disaster they became fearful and cautious, turning inward to restrain themselves and cultivate virtue. From the ruler above to the common people below, none dared to be negligent. Thus when the sovereign cultivated virtue without fault, comets did not appear, and solar or lunar eclipses that should have occurred did not; when officials were pure and self-restrained, locusts did not cross the borders, tigers even crossed rivers and left, and the wind would turn to blow out fires. These events are recorded in the histories and are exceedingly clear.

There was once a city whose people had all planted the seeds of karma from past lives—sins accumulated in former existences—and by the turn of fate they were due for slaughter. The matter was reported upward to the Yuefu, the divine court that oversees human good and evil and the retribution of life and death. The Supreme Lord could not bear it and personally looked down from the clouds. He saw only poisonous vapors and dark miasma massed over the city without dispersing. Then a beam of auspicious light rose from one corner of the walls and pierced straight to his throne. The Lord said: “Excellent! That is the light of a filial son. Where such a person exists in the city, the massacre may be lifted.” He then ordered the Greedy Wolf Star Lord—one of the deities of the Northern Dipper—to go forth bearing his credentials and protect the place, and the whole city was spared the slaughter. This is recorded in the Records of Emperor Wenchang Exhorting Filial Piety, a work in which the Wenchang Emperor urges people toward filial devotion, and may be consulted.

A city marked for slaughter is the greatest tribulation and the heaviest disaster, yet it was remitted because of one filial son. This shows that turning back catastrophe lies in human effort; it does not depend entirely on the allotted turn of fate. The Book of Documents says: “Calamities sent down from Heaven may yet be avoided; offenses one has made for oneself cannot be escaped.” This event is a clear confirmation of that saying.

People today, when faced with natural disasters and epidemics, do not know to examine themselves and strive to do good; instead they resort to improper, heterodox prayers—and so they sink into degraded practice. Some go further, indulging in extravagance and useless acts; that is to oppose Heaven. Mencius (Zi Yu Shi) said: “Those who accord with Heaven survive; those who oppose Heaven perish.” What “accord” means here is to align with the principle of Heaven—not to seek blessings by straying from the right Way. The ancient Book of Documents also says: “Revere and accord with the vast Heaven.” “Revere” means the deepest awe; “accord” means to trust and follow sincerely. If, when disaster strikes, one cultivates virtue and benevolence: when one household acts well, that household may be spared; when one region acts well, that region’s hardship may be lifted. If all living beings can deeply take my words to heart, think carefully, and put them into practice—constantly turning toward the good—they can move the Supreme Emperor (Shangdi): disasters may be averted and distress resolved. Even long-accumulated guilt and defilement can be scattered like clouds before a fierce wind, or melted like frost under a blazing sun. Do not be misled by sorcerers, shamans, and heterodox wizards (xixi) into presumptuous prayers beyond your proper place; that not only fails to help but adds to wrongdoing. To guard yourself strictly and steadfastly uphold good conduct—that is the true Way to dispel calamity and hardship (jie’e).

Chapter 23, “The Unity of Heaven and Human Principle” (Tianren li yi): This chapter is titled “The Unity of Heaven and Human Principle,” meaning that the Way of Heaven and the way of humanity are fundamentally one; it is the twenty-third chapter.

The Celestial Lord (Tianzun, the supreme honorific title for the highest deity in Daoism) spoke again to the assembly: when heaven sends inauspicious qi of disaster and misfortune, that qi can be shifted away; when the stars stray from the degrees they ought to hold, they can be turned back. Thus the turning of the heavenly way hinges on how people act. Therefore whether a person’s life is rich or noble, base or poor, trapped or smooth, long-lived or cut short early is never fixed. When virtue is cultivated to the utmost, the lowly may become honored, the poor may become wealthy, the short-lived may gain long life, and the blocked may find their way through; for those who are utterly wicked, the retribution runs the opposite way. So though gain and loss are ruled by heaven, human steadfastness can in turn prevail over heaven, yet heaven’s fixed allotment can prevail over the person. Heaven and humanity respond to each other; the principle is one.

“Stream” is water in motion; building a dike to block it can make it stop. It flows because its form is open. “Deep pool” is still, stored water; cutting an outlet can make it rush away. It stays pooled because a narrow vessel confines it. The same holds for people. Before they have broken through, they seem unable to do or achieve anything; every move meets obstruction and turmoil, and they suffer emptiness and want, hunger, anguish of heart, and blocked thought—as if shut inside a narrow vessel. Once they have broken through, they can raise achievements that span heaven and earth and perform deeds that startle the age. Traced to the root, it is still one and the same body; the capacity was not absent before and only appeared later.

The turns of fortune and fate can bring a person to hardship, yet wealth and poverty cycle without end. The man who planted melons at Green Gate was once Marquis of Dongling (Shao Ping of Qin, who after the fall of Qin grew melons at Green Gate in Chang'an); how long can riches be relied upon? Those who now serve as Vice Grand Councilors (high ministers who govern alongside the chief) include men who were once mocked as sleepy fools (such as Lü Mengzheng, ridiculed in early poverty and later honored); can poverty be despised?

Therefore the sage embodies the Dao and follows heaven's workings: in wealth and rank he is not proud, in poverty he is not sorrowful; he is content with heaven and knows his lot, and his heart is like the Great Void (vast and unobstructed). True Qi (the innate breath that pervades body and mind) fills the four seasons; his clarity rivals sun and moon. His conduct accords with Heavenly Virtue, hence the order in the Changes: Pi (obstruction) and Tai (great peace) follow each other; Bo (stripping away) and Fu (return) succeed one another.

The qi of heaven and earth does not strip away forever; when stripping reaches its limit, return comes. Human affairs are the same: Tai cannot last forever—when it goes too far, it turns to Pi.

The Supreme Venerable said: "Is not the way of heaven like drawing a bow? What is high is pressed down; what is low is raised up; what has surplus is reduced; what is insufficient is supplemented." The human way is likewise: beside fortune lurks misfortune; within misfortune fortune is hidden. Who knows where it ends? Is there not a fixed rightness? Rightness turns again to strangeness; goodness turns again to portent. Thus the human person and the way of heaven are inner and outer to each other.

The Yinfu Jing says: "Heaven's nature is man; man's heart is the pivot. Establish heaven's way to settle mankind. When heaven and man move together, the myriad changes take their root." Therefore whoever aspires to sagehood or immortality must first grasp the aim of unity of heaven and man; only then can one speak of "the cosmos in the hand, myriad transformations born from the body," of encompassing the way of heaven and earth and assisting heaven and earth in their proper course—the highest principle. This unity of heaven and man is the utmost work of fully realizing nature (jinxing), and the highest skill of penetrating fate (zhiming). For students at the beginning, what they must recognize is precisely this highest principle of assisting heaven and earth in their proper course, and this unity of heaven and man in fully realizing nature and penetrating fate.