《通玄真經纘義》Vol. 11

In the "Chapter on Supreme Righteousness," Laozi expounds the fundamental principles of governance. He posits that truly learned individuals must first comprehend the distinction between Heaven and humanity, and understand the root causes of national stability and turmoil. By maintaining inner purity and clarity, observing the complete process of phenomena, and returning to the primordial state of "emptiness and non-being," one can truly attain wisdom.

The foundation of governing a state lies in benevolence, righteousness, and virtue (De), while laws and regulations serve only as supplementary means. Just as life is fundamental to human existence—without which nothing else matters—the root and branches form an organic unity, much like humanity's innate capacity for compassion. The noble person prioritizes the root before attending to the branches, whereas the petty person focuses solely on superficial forms while neglecting the essence. Laws exist to support benevolence and righteousness; emphasizing laws while abandoning these virtues is as absurd as valuing hats and shoes while forgetting the head and feet.

Benevolence and righteousness resemble a building's foundation. Attempting to heighten the structure without first broadening its base will inevitably lead to collapse. Similarly, beams of insufficient size cannot bear heavy loads. In governance, virtue (De) is paramount—the relationship between ruler and people mirrors that between city walls and their foundations, or trees and their roots. Deep roots stabilize trees, while thick foundations secure walls. Thus, discourse that disregards the fundamental Dao and virtue cannot become canonical, and theories inconsistent with the ways of ancient kings cannot be considered orthodox. Superficial techniques and fragmented skills are never the true path to governing the world.

Those who truly understand "supreme righteousness" grasp the distinction between Heaven and humanity and the roots of order and chaos. Recognizing that governance has its priorities and proper sequence brings one closer to the essence of the Dao and virtue (De). How can mere political tactics alone properly govern the world?

Laozi employs a charioteering metaphor for governance: Like the legendary charioteer Zaofu controlling a four-horse war chariot, one must coordinate the reins while maintaining inner equilibrium—aligning personal intention with the horses' nature—to achieve effortless long-distance travel with energy to spare, executing turns and maneuvers with perfect precision. Political power resembles the ruler's chariot, while ministers are the draught horses. A ruler cannot abandon the chariot's stability nor lose control of the ministers. Untamed horses defy even Zaofu's mastery, just as discord between ruler and ministers thwarts even a sage's governance. By adhering to the correct Dao in administration, those of average ability can comprehend affairs; by clarifying respective duties, wickedness can be prevented. Confronting phenomena requires observing their transformations, while encountering situations demands appropriate adaptation.

This passage elucidates the wisdom of governing a state and cultivating the Dao. It begins by stating that the key to governance lies in maintaining order among those nearby, whereby distant people will naturally submit. There is no need to deliberately enforce doctrines—by following the natural patterns of the Dao, one achieves flawless execution. The essence of all things in heaven and earth is interconnected. The sage observes the fundamental nature of things and uses the analogy of driving a chariot to illustrate governance: likening authority to the chariot frame and ministers to the horses. The ruler need only steer in accordance with the natural flow, expending no contrived effort yet bringing all quarters into submission.

Next, it discusses the essentials of Dao cultivation: practitioners must block the paths of deviance and prevent problems before they arise. They should not esteem self-righteousness but rather value the avoidance of wrongdoing. Eliminating covetous desires eradicates the impulse to grasp; eliminating contention removes strife. When selfish desires fade, impartial justice naturally manifests. Resources must be distributed equitably—curbing excess while supplementing deficiency—thereby unifying the world. If officials neglect their duties, heed slander, or form cliques for private gain, it leads to the loss of talent, neglect of governance, and national chaos. Thus, a ruler who embodies the Dao masters others, while one devoid of the Dao is mastered by them.

Using the metaphor of a physician treating illness: the skilled doctor treats disease before it manifests, just as Dao cultivation prevents deviant thoughts. Without self-aggrandizement and by avoiding wrongdoing, one forestalls greed and conflict. Those who embody the Dao dominate circumstances; those without it become dominated by them.

Finally, it presents governing principles: statecraft must prioritize benefiting the people, with policies grounded in reality. If measures benefit the populace, there is no need to rigidly adhere to ancient models; if affairs are successfully managed, old customs need not be followed. The sage’s laws adapt to the times, rituals adjust to customs, clothing and tools must be practical, and legal systems must suit circumstances. Memorizing ancient texts is inferior to grasping their spirit; grasping the spirit is inferior to comprehending the ineffable Dao within them. Just as musical instruments can be tuned, rituals and institutions are merely tools of governance, not its essence. Therefore, one cannot discuss the Great Dao with those entrenched in rigid opinions.

This passage discusses the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and law (fa), as well as how to establish appropriate legal systems according to changing times.

The most profound Dao is often constrained by worldly conventions and established dogmas. The Dao serves as the foundation of law, while law represents the concrete application of the Dao. Governing a state must prioritize benefiting the people—this embodies the Dao; while policies and education require structured systems—this demonstrates the function of law. The legal systems of sages adapt with the times, rituals adjust according to customs, and all institutions must suit local conditions. Therefore, one cannot discuss the great Dao with stubborn individuals, as they remain bound by dogma.

Laozi said: How could there be eternal, unchanging laws in this world? As long as they align with the principles of human affairs, follow the patterns of heaven and earth, and consider the ways of spirits, they can be used to govern a nation. In the era of the Three Sovereigns, there were no laws yet people naturally complied; during the Five Emperors, laws existed but punishments were unnecessary; the Xia dynasty people valued commitments, the Shang relied on oaths, and the Zhou used covenants. By the decadent ages, people endured humiliation while coveting profit, becoming shameless—thus requiring legal constraints. Even tools and instruments must improve with the times.

Those bound by legal statutes cannot accomplish great deeds; those rigidly adhering to rituals cannot adapt to change. Only with independent insight and judgment can one truly grasp the Dao. Those who understand the roots of legal systems can progress with the times, while those ignorant of governance fundamentals will create chaos even when following old systems. Contemporary scholars who rigidly cling to classical texts to govern are like trying to force a square peg into a round hole—how could it fit? Resolving crises requires wisdom, yet even fools can recite ancient laws. Thus sages don't employ outdated regulations, and enlightened rulers disregard useless rhetoric.

The original intent of sages establishing laws was to prohibit evil, redress injustices, and protect the people. From the Three Sovereigns' effortless governance without decrees to the varying reward-punishment systems of subsequent dynasties beginning with the Five Emperors—all reflect changing times. How could enlightened rulers not study this?

Wenzi asked: "From where do laws originate?" Laozi replied: "Laws arise from justice, and justice stems from the needs of the people. Aligning with popular sentiment constitutes the essence of governance. Laws neither fall from heaven nor sprout from earth—they emerge from human society and require self-reflection. Those who understand fundamentals won't be confused by details; those who grasp essentials won't be troubled by doubts. Don't demand of others what you yourself practice, nor impose on others what you yourself cannot achieve. Those in subordinate positions..."

The passage discusses governing a state in accordance with the principles of the Dao (the Way). Its core philosophy emphasizes that laws must be impartial and rulers must lead by example.

When rulers establish laws, they must first abide by them themselves. If even those in power can follow the prohibitions, the people will naturally comply. Laws function like plumb lines and measuring tools—standards by which all things under heaven are judged. Once laws are established, those who conform should be rewarded, and those who violate them should be punished, regardless of status—the noble are not spared for their crimes, nor are the humble wronged for their obedience. Only in this way can selfish desires be eliminated and fairness upheld.

In ancient times, officials were established to govern the people, rulers were established to oversee officials, and laws and Daoist methods (Daoshu) were used to restrain rulers themselves. This layered system of checks ensures that no one acts recklessly, allowing the world to return to the state of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). Here, "non-action" does not mean doing nothing, but rather acting in accordance with natural laws.

Laozi believed that good rewards need not be lavish to motivate the masses, and good punishments need not be severe to deter wrongdoing. The sage ruler encourages virtue by aligning with the people’s desires and prohibits vice by aligning with their aversions. Rewarding one person can inspire the whole world to emulate, while punishing one can make the whole world cautious. Thus, the most effective rewards are not wasteful, and the most powerful punishments are not excessive. By grasping these key principles, the sage achieves broad governance.

Heaven and Earth follow the natural cycles of growth and decline (the Dao of Heaven), while human governance follows the principles of reward, punishment, giving, and taking (the Dao of Humanity). The sage ruler models the Dao of Heaven and aligns with the will of the people—this is the fundamental method for achieving peace under heaven.

This passage elucidates principles of state governance and the relationship between rulers and ministers. A ruler who masters the judicious use of rewards, punishments, and appointments can effectively govern the realm. Rewarding one individual inspires emulation throughout the land, while punishing another instills universal caution.

Laozi teaches that ministers must discern right from wrong, lead by example, and fulfill their duties faithfully to achieve merit. Clear division of responsibilities between ruler and ministers ensures orderly governance; their confusion breeds chaos. Just as branches must not overshadow the trunk nor twigs overpower the main stem, all elements must maintain proper proportion. Those wielding authority often control vast affairs with minimal effort—like a ten-span beam supporting a thousand-weight roof through balanced force distribution, or a five-inch bolt securing massive gates by occupying the pivotal position.

When decrees are issued with absolute authority—benefiting the compliant and punishing the disobedient—the world naturally follows. This exemplifies acting in accordance with the Dao (the Way). The power to command obedience derives from collective strength. A benevolent ruler need not benefit every subject directly—when one person gains, multitudes follow. Likewise, a tyrant need not harm all—when one suffers, rebellion spreads. Thus appointments and punishments demand utmost prudence.

Rulers govern through ministers; ministers manifest ability through rulers. The sovereign reigns through wuwei (non-action) above, while ministers labor diligently below. Discerning truth and fulfilling responsibilities define ministerial duty. When each occupies their proper place, superior and subordinate cooperate seamlessly, with major and minor affairs mutually regulating. Clear role differentiation enables statecraft, where personnel decisions determine order or chaos—a matter demanding the ruler's solemn attention.

Laozi further observes that flexibility proves essential: minor concessions may achieve greater righteousness, as practiced by sages. Contemporary rulers often evaluate ministers by fixating on trivial faults while ignoring major achievements, thereby losing worthy talent. For those possessing substantial De (Virtue), minor shortcomings matter little; for those with great reputation, petty flaws warrant no censure. All have imperfections—what matters is correct fundamental direction. Excessive rigidity with details hinders great accomplishment; fault-finding undermines authority. Judge ministers by their cardinal virtues: those with grand vision tolerate minor laxities, while broad-minded individuals earn far-reaching renown.

Finding perfect talent in this world has always been difficult—this truth holds across all ages. When craftsmen seek pillars and beams, they do not obsess over minor flaws in the timber, thus securing great materials. When rulers select ministers, those who tolerate small shortcomings while valuing great abilities will obtain true worthies. Since no person is flawless and no endeavor perfect, what achievement remains beyond reach if one overlooks minor defects to harness major strengths? What endeavor cannot succeed if we emphasize virtues rather than dwell on shortcomings?

Laozi said: From antiquity to the present, there has never been a person of absolute perfection. Thus, the noble-minded do not demand flawlessness from others. One should be upright yet not harsh, incorruptible yet not injurious, forthright yet not unrestrained, erudite yet not disparaging. Neither moral cultivation nor martial and civil talents should be expected in perfect measure. If one governs oneself by the Dao (the Way) without harshly judging others, contentment comes easily; if one cultivates oneself by the Dao, no true deficiency remains. Just as the jade discs of the Xia dynasty could not be entirely flawless, or night-shining pearls perfectly pure, the world still treasures them—never dismissing their greater worth for minor blemishes. To fixate on others' shortcomings while forgetting their strengths makes the search for worthy talent in this world impossibly difficult.

Ordinary people often judge others by status, rank, or circumstance without discerning true capability. Hence, the method for evaluating a person is this: Observe whom the high-ranking recommend; note how the wealthy give; see what the impoverished refuse; and witness what the lowly abstain from. By observing someone in adversity, you discern their courage; through their conduct in joy, you perceive their integrity; by testing them with wealth, you gauge their benevolence; and by confronting them with fear, you understand their fortitude. Only then can one truly grasp a person's character.

Those who constantly excuse themselves never correct their faults; those who incessantly blame others find no true friends. The noble-minded refrain from harsh judgment because they understand that no one is a Yao or Shun (ancient sage-kings)—perfection in all things is unattainable. If a person possesses great talent, how can we discard them for minor flaws?

Laozi said: Temporary yielding prepares for future expansion; momentary bending leads to ultimate uprightness. To endure small humiliations for great achievements, to bear minor bends for ultimate straightness—this is the way of the noble-minded. A hundred rivers flow, yet only those reaching the sea are called valleys; multitudes act, yet only those oriented toward goodness are called noble. Fine speech is valued for its practicality; good conduct is prized for its alignment with benevolence and righteousness. The faults of noble-minded individuals are like eclipses of the sun or moon—they do not diminish their inherent radiance. Thus, the truly wise do not act recklessly, and the genuinely courageous do not kill indiscriminately. Choose the right path, act in accordance with ritual propriety, and success will follow.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principle of governing one's conduct through benevolence and righteousness. Truly wise individuals must establish their achievements upon this foundation. The sages employed these virtues as their standard—those who embody them are called noble persons (junzi), while those who violate them are deemed petty individuals (xiaoren). Even in death, the noble person's reputation remains imperishable; even in power, the petty person's transgressions cannot be erased.

The text employs striking contrasts to illustrate its point: Not even the most foolish person would accept dominion over the world with their left hand while slitting their own throat with their right, for life is more precious than the empire. Yet those who sacrifice themselves for sovereign or parent face death unflinchingly—because benevolence and righteousness outweigh life itself. The greatest worldly gains pale before life's value, yet life itself appears insignificant when measured against these virtues—such is the logic of prioritizing moral principles.

Like dragons and snakes conserving energy through winter hibernation to extend their vitality, the noble person may temporarily bend (minor deviation) to ultimately achieve greater integrity (major rectitude). Nourishing words and deeds that benefit all beings stem from first humbling oneself to cultivate virtue (De). The sages understood that life surpasses worldly power, yet moral principles surpass life itself. Thus they could face peril for ruler and kin, achieving immortality through righteous sacrifice.

The radiance of Dao and De shines like sun and moon—even the distant barbarian tribes of Yi, Di, Man, and Mo (ancient terms for ethnic minorities) cannot alter its course. Choice lies with oneself, judgment with others; opportunity depends on circumstance, implementation hinges on heavenly mandate (tianming). Therefore when the moment arrives, the noble person acts decisively without hesitation.

Historical parables conclude the teaching: The Red Emperor (Yandi) caused conflagrations until the Yellow Emperor subdued him; Gonggong unleashed floods until Zhuanxu quelled them. Ancient warfare sought not territory or wealth, but to end chaos and eradicate public harm. When greedy tyrants plunge the world into darkness, sages arise—transforming turmoil into order, converting peril into peace.

This scripture primarily addresses two core themes: the way of governing a state and the consequences of rulers losing their De (Virtue/Power).

Regarding governance, the text presents an ideal nation where: rulers refrain from issuing harsh decrees, officials avoid cumbersome administration, scholars abstain from hypocritical conduct, and artisans shun extravagant craftsmanship. All affairs follow their natural course without interference, and tools remain practical without deliberate ornamentation. Conversely, in chaotic times, people compete in displaying false virtue and ritual propriety, excessively pursue flashy carriages and impractical implements, merchants hoard goods for speculation, scholars obsess over trivial regulations, and legal cases drag on unresolved—all detrimental to proper governance.

The text cites the governance principles of Shennong (the Divine Farmer): when able-bodied men don't plow, hunger arises; when women don't weave, cold ensues. Therefore, rulers should personally engage in farming and weaving to set examples for the people. They should teach the populace not to value rare objects or useless things. When everyone sustains themselves through labor, society naturally stabilizes, leaving no room for the cunning or the violent to exploit circumstances.

The second part discusses the dangers of rulers losing their De. If a ruler uses military force to compel obedience, kills innocents to maintain unjust rule, or exhausts the world's resources for personal desires, great calamities will follow. The very institution of rulership exists to prevent chaos, but when rulers instead harm the people, it becomes as dangerous as giving wings to a tiger. Just as one removes otters to preserve fish or drives away wolves to protect livestock, governing a people requires eliminating harmful influences.

The text also introduces the "Five Cycles" theory (ancient belief connecting dynastic transitions with the mutual generation and restriction of the Five Phases). For instance: when the Red Emperor (symbolizing Fire De) rules improperly, fires erupt; when Gonggong (symbolizing Water De) governs poorly, floods occur. This illustrates how a ruler's De directly influences the state's fate—losing it invites disasters and warfare. All rulers must remain vigilant against losing their De and bringing calamity upon their nations.

This passage discusses the differences between ancient and modern approaches to governance, as well as the military principles of hegemonic rulers.

In ancient society, people were simple and honest. The rulers imposed no harsh decrees, officials didn't harass the common people, scholars avoided hypocrisy, and craftsmen didn't pursue extravagant craftsmanship. Thus, people were easily content and governing the state was not difficult. Later generations witnessed moral decline—when those above indulged in luxury, those below followed suit, becoming insatiable in their greed. This made people difficult to satisfy and governance increasingly challenging.

Laozi said that the way of hegemonic rulers requires strategic planning and action guided by righteousness, not for self-preservation but to save others from peril. If hearing of a tyrannical ruler oppressing his people, one should raise an army to punish him—but with strict discipline: no felling of trees, no desecration of graves, no destruction of crops, no burning of supplies, no capture of civilians, and no plundering of livestock. The declaration should state: "The ruler of this state has defied heaven and earth, blasphemed the spirits, administered unjust judgments, and slaughtered the innocent. Heaven seeks to punish him, and the people demand vengeance. Our campaign aims to abolish injustice and bring benevolence to the people. Those who resist heaven's will shall be eradicated; those who submit shall be rewarded accordingly."

After conquering the enemy state, the people must not be harmed—only the tyrant is to be removed. Reform the government, honor capable individuals, care for orphans and the impoverished, release prisoners, and reward those who merit recognition. The people will then open their gates in welcome, preparing food stores, fearing only that the army might not come. A righteous army halts tyranny at the borders without battle; an unrighteous one leaves corpses strewn across the land. Those who fight for the people gain their support; those who seek personal gain are abandoned by all. With popular support, even the weak grow strong; without it, even the mighty perish.

The Twelve Chapters of Wenzi observe that by examining the phrase "Not to preserve oneself, but to preserve those facing destruction," one can perceive a noble spirit of reviving what has declined and continuing what was severed—far surpassing the unjust acts of later ages.

Laozi held that true benevolence and righteousness lie in governing the state well and practicing Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue) within its borders.

This passage elucidates the wisdom of state governance and military strategy, with its core philosophy revolving around the coordinated application of "righteous governance" (a ruling approach grounded in Daoist principles) and "awe-inspiring virtue" (the balanced exercise of authority and benevolence).

The foundation of a powerful state lies in the ruler's adherence to the Dao (the Way). When a sovereign establishes impartial laws and blocks corrupt practices, ministers will naturally draw close in allegiance, while the people unite in harmony. With ruler and subjects sharing one heart, and sovereign and officials working in concert, neighboring states will stand in awe of its majesty while distant lands appreciate its virtuous influence. Such a ruler needs only to cultivate proper governance within the court to intimidate enemies a thousand miles away—where every command resonates throughout the realm—representing the highest art of statecraft.

The secondary scenario involves: extensive territory with abundant population, enlightened rulers with excellent generals, national prosperity with formidable military strength, strict discipline with clear commands. Even before engaging in battle, such a state would make adversaries flee at the mere rumor of its approach. A lesser approach requires knowledge of geographical advantages, familiarity with strategic terrain, understanding of policy dynamics, and mastery of troop formations—yet victory demands bloody confrontation.

War's outcome ultimately depends on governance. When governance surpasses the people's needs through enlightened policies, citizens support their ruler and military strength naturally follows; the opposite leads to decline. The true "Way of Supreme Righteousness" must embody: virtue sufficient to transform the populace, achievements adequate to meet crises, talent selection worthy of attracting sages, and strategic wisdom decisive in major affairs.

The art of warfare emphasizes "counterattacking after the enemy strikes." The initiator of war plays the aggressive role (host), while the responder assumes the defensive position (guest). Laozi cautioned that military action requires utmost prudence—to be employed only when absolutely necessary. Among options, an army fighting for righteousness stands supreme, causing enemy collapse ranks second, and direct confrontation represents the lowest approach.

A nation's fundamental strength lies in soldiers' willingness to die for their cause, and this sacrificial spirit springs from moral inspiration. Therefore, civil virtue educates the people while military preparedness enforces discipline—only through balanced kindness and severity can true power emerge. When warriors compete to advance through swordplay, it stems from clear rewards and punishments. A ruler who treats subjects as children receives parental devotion; one who regards citizens as siblings earns fraternal loyalty. Sovereigns attaining this level inevitably rule universally, with people gladly dying for them. Thus, wise rulers internally cultivate governance to accumulate De (Virtue/Power), while externally guarding against treachery to manifest authority—by understanding popular sentiment, they make troops view death as homecoming, all achieved through the application of benevolent righteousness.

[Key Terminology Notes]

• Tongxuan Zhenjing (Scripture of Penetrating Mysteries): An important Daoist classic attributed to Laozi, primarily expounding on statecraft and military strategy
• Zhechong: Originally meaning "making enemy chariots retreat," extended to signify strategic victory
• Shangyi zhi Dao (Way of Supreme Righteousness): The highest form of moral governance emphasizing virtue over military conquest

There is a proper Dao (the Way) to govern the world—why resort to military force? Arms should only be used as a last resort. When the armies of powerful states dare to fight to the death, it is because they are driven by righteousness. How, then, could a truly righteous ruler bear to sacrifice the people's lives for the sake of strengthening the state? A sage ruler regards the people as his own children, and the people serve the ruler as their parent. Thus, a ruler who follows the Dao strengthens the state naturally by cultivating enlightened governance and accumulating virtuous policies (De). History abounds with such examples.

(Note: The Tongxuan Zhenjing is a Tang dynasty commentary by Daoist priest Xu Lingfu on the Wenzi text. The term "zuanyi" means to inherit and elucidate its essential meaning. This passage emphasizes governing through virtuous rule rather than military force, reflecting the Daoist political philosophy of "non-action" [Wuwei].)