There’s an ancient Chinese philosophy attributed to a man named Lao Tzu (also spelled Laozi), often considered the founder of Taoism. According to legend, Lao Tzu was the guardian of ancient knowledge—a sort of librarian or sage who studied and mastered sacred texts in multiple languages. His role was to teach emperors and empresses the deepest secrets of existence.
At the age of 81, disillusioned by the growing tribal conflicts in China, Lao Tzu decided to abandon society and retreat into the mountains as a hermit. As he passed through the western gate of the capital, a high-ranking soldier recognized him and stopped him, insisting he was not allowed to leave. Lao Tzu made the soldier an offer: he would stay one more night and write down all his teachings in an easy-to-understand book—in exchange for safe passage. The soldier, knowing the value of such knowledge, could not refuse.
That night, Lao Tzu wrote what would become the Tao Te Ching—a text consisting of about 5,000 Chinese characters, divided into 81 short poems or sutras. One half of the book speaks about human nature and leadership; the other explores the nature of the universe and how it functions. The phrase “Tao Te Ching” roughly translates to “The Book of the Way,” referring to “the way” things are, or the nature of reality.
Because these teachings have been passed down through centuries and translated from ancient Chinese to modern English, much of the original meaning depends on the skill—and personal interpretation—of the translator. The more deeply a translator understands the spiritual and philosophical intent behind the text, the more accurate their translation may be. But even then, we must read with humility, knowing that we are far removed from the original mind that conceived these words.
One sutra famously says: “Those who speak do not know.”
The paradox is clear: Lao Tzu wrote this—and he was speaking. So does that mean he didn't know? On the surface, that would make no sense. Humans must pass knowledge down from one generation to the next. We’re not instinctual creatures like ants or birds. We have to teach each other how to build fires, find clean water, care for the sick, and treat each other with dignity. Teaching is essential.
So what did Lao Tzu really mean?
He likely meant that we must be cautious. True wisdom requires humility. When we teach others, there’s always a danger: we may become too attached to the sound of our own voice. We may enjoy the admiration, the status, the authority. In doing so, we move away from presence and truth and toward ego and rigidity.
This sutra is not saying “never teach.” It’s reminding us not to idolize teachers. Don't assume someone is wise simply because they’re articulate. Don’t become fanatical about gurus or masters. Respect great teachers—but don’t worship them. We often idealize our teachers because we want to believe someone has figured it all out. But perfection is an illusion.
The true responsibility of a teacher—or a lover of philosophy—is not to dazzle or dominate, but to serve. To help others relax into life, to recognize the impermanence of all things, and to teach the practical truths of compassion, presence, and self-awareness.
There is no cosmic reward for doing good, and no mystical punishment for doing harm. The reward or punishment is immediate. When we harm others, we feel disconnected. We become anxious, agitated, and stuck in the sympathetic nervous system—our fight-or-flight state. We suffer. When we practice non-harming, generosity, and compassion, we return to peace. That is the simple, observable truth behind many teachings.
Great teachers don’t just talk—they live the lesson. They demonstrate patience, resilience, courage, honesty, humility, and compassion. Not perfectly, but sincerely. The greatest teachings are often silent. When we’re calm, when we’re grounded, people learn from our presence more than from our words.
And so Lao Tzu was right: those who speak may not truly know. But those who embody their teachings—who live humbly, serve quietly, and prioritize character over control—don’t need to speak much at all.