There's Power In Not Speaking

The Southern Baptist pastor through the lens of the Tao.

Image from Unsplash

When I was growing up, I used to watch my pastor speak in front of an enormous sanctuary full of 1,000 people. I attended a Southern Baptist church, and my pastor was a big deal. We called him “Brother Allen.” I’m unsure why we didn’t say “pastor,” but maybe it was an old-fashioned tradition. It wasn’t fire and brimstone every Sunday, but occasionally, we received the “gay” sermon. No, my pastor didn’t throw glitter from the podium and dress in drag. Instead, he spent 45 minutes describing all the examples in the Bible where homosexuality was wrong. Next, he made sure to mention that sin causes us to burn in hell forever, and if people who were gay didn’t repent of that particular sin, they would undoubtedly follow.

As I grew older, I discovered a few inconsistencies with his logic. First, in the Christian faith, everyone has sinned, and everyone is going to hell if they don’t repent and accept Jesus as their savior. Secondly, everyone goes to the same heaven and hell. So, why is one sin so much greater than another if the reward and punishment are the same? Why did we, as Southern Baptists, spend so much extra time on homosexuality if gambling and many other sins were sinful yet much more widely accepted?

But those logical reasonings didn’t stop him, and not that I ever had the courage to discuss them as a twelve-year-old. His sermons were grand, loud, and passionate. I had never heard someone speak as clearly and articulately. Looking back, perhaps his talent in public speaking influenced my desire to become an actor in high school, which led to public speaking in college. Regardless, when I read Tao Te Ching, the seminal text of Taoism, the final chapter reminded me of Brother Allen.

Warnings about manipulation through speech are as old as the practice itself. From the sophists in ancient Greece to the religious leaders in ancient China, a well-spoken individual could lead an entire nation to their deaths in battle or trick kings into their doom. Chapter 81, the final chapter, is another warning about speakers using their eloquence for their own purposes and self-interests. The irony of using words to warn others about words is not lost on me, but if all we have is words, what other method did Laozi, the legendary author, have to warn us?

Today, I’ll use Stephen Mitchell’s interpretation, as I feel it better conveys the meaning than a direct translation.

Let’s get into it.

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True words aren't eloquent;
eloquent words aren't true.
Wise men don't need to prove their point;
men who need to prove their point aren't wise.

The first two phrases remind me of a story from ancient Greece. One day, a man went to the Oracle, a fortuneteller, and asked for the name of the wisest man in the world. The Oracle replied, “Socrates.” The man ran back into town and told everyone his answer, but when Socrates heard of the man’s story, he was shocked! He thought, “How could I be the wisest man when there was so much I don’t know?” So, he, too, visited the Oracle and asked, “It’s impossible that I am the wisest man. There is so much about the world that I do not understand or know.” The Oracle replied, “That is why you are the wisest man.”

Even if this story is complete fiction (it likely is), the point is well-proven. True wisdom comes from understanding you are not all-knowing. Any person who stands on a box on a street corner and tells you they know everything about everything is clearly lying. Yet, politicians and religious leaders state this all the time, just in fancier words. Pastor Allen did it every week!

Be wary of those who use emotionally charged speech to convince you of their opinion. Those men and women use the beauty of language to twist and sour your thoughts. Beyond all reasoning, they must always be right, without exception. Those ‘smart’ people are anything but.

The Master has no possessions.
The more he does for others,
the happier he is.
The more he gives to others,
the wealthier he is.

The first sentence can be taken metaphorically before you run off and sell everything you own. In Mandarin, the phrase “聖人不積” (Shèngrén bù jī) directly translates to “Saints do not accumulate.” This can be interpreted as the accumulation of physical possessions or knowledge. Buddhist monks follow the same principle of physical possessions as they give up all desire, including the desire for property and wealth. In Taoism, the ideal follower lives completely off the land. In fact, in stories, Taoist masters lived in caves and wandered into town from time to time, looking for food or to share their wisdom. My old teacher, George Thompson, claimed that some people continue this practice today.

However, as I was raised in a wealthy country and didn’t discover Taoism until I was married with children, giving away all my possessions isn’t a realistic goal. But is the warning about all possessions or just accumulating needless possessions? Or is the statement about sharing and collecting knowledge?

The wisest person does for others without needing anything in return. He shares what he learned and steps away from the discussion, only listening to the response. He is happier because he does not respond since arguments and debates arise when the conversation needlessly continues. If you can thoroughly articulate your thoughts, opinions, and beliefs on the first try, there is no need to continue after you speak, as there would be nothing left to say. Therefore, you both remain happy.

Physical gifts are similar. Giving brings joy to our hearts; if we freely give away everything, our hearts can be full for free. In other translations, such as Stefan Stenudd’s, the final statement in this section is worded differently.

The more he thereby gives to others,
The ever more he gets.

It’s a small yet subtle change. What you receive in return is not money or wealth but love and support. Giving your time and energy to your friends and family will be met with their own time and energy. If I ignore my children, my children will ignore me. If I leave my wife, my wife will leave me. She would not welcome me back with open arms if I abandoned her. Love is reciprocal.

The final two lines are wildly different depending on which version you read. I’ll list a few of them for you.

Stephen Mitchell

The Tao nourishes by not forcing.
By not dominating, the Master leads.

Stefan Stenudd

Heaven's Way is to benefit and not to harm.
The sage's Way is to act and not to contend.

Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English

The Tao of Heaven is pointed but does no harm.
The Tao of the sage is to work without effort.

We need to feel these statements but not read them. When different writers come to varying conclusions, it’s essential to look beyond their words and see their intentions. What does the first sentence mean? It means the Tao —the way of the universe, the way of heaven — benefits all things regardless of their morality, ethics, or beliefs. The Tao is like water. It nourishes everything equally. If an evil man and a good man drink from the same cup, do they not reap the same benefits? This is Tao.

Secondly, the Mandarin translation ends with the word “爭” (zhēng), which means to struggle, dispute, or contend. This variation in meaning likely gives rise to the different endings. So, what does the final sentence mean?

A truly wise person follows the example set forth by Tao—they act without struggle, teach without expectation, and share knowledge without debate. A sage collectively obtains these qualities and extrudes them. They flow naturally from their lips and actions, not forcing or stressing. The master is who they are naturally, and he does not pretend or force his will upon others.

Brother Allen was an amazing, gifted, and natural-born speaker. He was wise in the world in a way I may never be, having lived through wars and social uprisings I may never experience. Leading a church of thousands is indescribably difficult, and a part of me hopes I’m never placed in his position, as I’d likely fail.

However, for all his strengths, Chapter 81 points to his biggest weakness—forcing his will and desire upon others using pretty, emotionally charged, and manipulating language. He could have read the text, given his understanding, and moved forward. Instead, he railed and yelled until he was moved to tears. He pointed at the youth group and warned us not to fall into “temptation,” telling us that should we fall, eternal damnation was our reward.

Looking back, Brother Allen’s fiery sermons captivated me as a child, but they also sowed fear with their forceful eloquence. Tao Te Ching’s Chapter 81 offers a quieter truth: wisdom nourishes without dominating, giving without demanding. His passionate warnings about sin and hell shaped me, yet Laozi’s calm flow freed me from them. The irony isn’t lost on me—his loud lessons led me to a silent peace. Now, I choose to live simply, share freely, and let the Tao guide where words once ruled.

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