Rejoice In the Surplus (Tao Te Ching 32)

32

The Tao is ever nameless.
Though it is a million
billion
billion
times smaller than a single atom,
nothing in heaven and earth can
contain it.

If the powers that be
could harness it,
they wouldn’t rule the universe;
they would joyfully become one with it.
Heaven and earth would join together
to lavish blessings
on every sentient being.
Likewise, all the people
would naturally receive what they need,
would be content with it,
and rejoice in the surplus.

We order the world
by assigning names
to natural things.
Find joy in mastering the names
of the things we experience.
But let that be the extent
of your attempted mastery.
Knowing how to stop trying
to control everything is the
key to averting disaster.

The Tao works throughout
the world like this:
water melts into valley streams,
then spills into rivers,
then sinks into the depths of the oceans.

Written Reflection

The language of “a million, billion, billion times smaller than a single atom” is actually a direct quotation from MIT physicist Alan Lightman (Nancy Szokan, “What Came before the Big Bang,” Washington Post, Jan. 4, 2016). The language sounded both scientific and poetic. The Tao is sort of like that. It’s the aesthetics of mathematics and the mathematics behind good art. It is the awe inspired by fractals, which demonstrate the infinite depth behind our concrete material world.

Lao Tzu speaks of a profound and perhaps dreadful power that one could wield through deciphering the power in, with and under a single atom. Perhaps he even knew that one day humans could channel this power in the form of nuclear fission and weapons capable of leveling entire cities. He would have understood quite well J. Robert Oppenheimer’s reflections on his experience witnessing the first detonation of an atomic weapon:

We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita; Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and, to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds."

Indeed, the Tao is powerful. So what ought we to do with this power once we start to understand it? For Lao Tzu, the goal isn’t to blow it up, but rather to unite with it. To do so is to bring heavenly blessings on all living things.

Consider this: if there’s enough energy in an atom to set off a devastating explosion, why can’t we use our modern alchemy to create abundance? Some certainly have been trying to do that for as long as there have been master weapon-builders. The problem, of course, is where the funding comes from, and thus the lucrative business of manufacturing machines of death.

This chapter reminds us of the ring of power in the Lord of the Rings. But there’s a joyful twist here. Sure, trying to grab power can turn you into a demon. But the deeper insight is that if one were to tap into the true power of the Tao, it wouldn’t ultimately be an ugly power but a beautiful power of universal love and concern for the interconnectedness of all sentient beings. In other words, the power that corrupts is a parody of true heavenly power. If you become empowered by Te, which flows from the Tao, it does not turn you into a demon. It heals you and makes you an instrument of healing.

Consider a peaceful and seemingly mundane example of this principle from the world of amateur ornithology or birdwatching. We’ve identified various species of feathered beasts from Latin America to China, and all throughout North America. It isn’t just a hobby for us. It’s a sort of prayer practice. When we just trudge through life, we do see birds. Maybe we take note of big birds, small birds, and a few notable species, like flamingos or bald eagles. But when we start to identify more precisely, we see the splendor of nature. We start to know that we’re not just looking at some bird, but rather a rufous motmot, a crested oropendola, American kestrel, or stork-billed kingfisher.

This is a beloved pastime for many, but what does it have to do with power? Naming the birds brings intimacy with nature. It tells us when a habitat is out of whack. Maybe there are no birds because of ecological degradation. Maybe there are too many invasive species in a place. It also tells us when we’re in a good space to relax. Often, blue herons can let us know if all is at peace near a pond, and a family of quail can let us know we aren’t immediately in danger of having our dog attacked by coyotes around the corner. The point is that, by lovingly beholding even the little things in nature, like sparrows (Matthew 6:26), we connect with the animating principle behind those little gems of the natural world. This is why we think of naming plants and animals is a spiritual act.

In our rendering of this chapter, we also allude to deep ocean circulation patterns, wherein the depths of the sea have less salinity, yet ultimately find their way up eventually to evaporation into the sky. The hidden implication is that by patience, and surfing the Tao, there’s always a way back up to the heights without striving.

Let us learn to rest then. Let us receive and channel the gracious energy that is all around us without trying to own, control and weaponize that energy. In this way, we stand a better chance of avoiding the embarrassing act of shooting ourselves in the spiritual feet.