Tao Te Ching — Chapter 62

The Tao is the deep refuge of all things — the treasure of the good, and the protection of those who are not good. Fine words can buy honor, and noble conduct can lift a person above others; but as for those who are not good, why should they be cast away? So when the Son of Heaven is enthroned and the three high ministers are installed, though one might present a great jade disc before a team of four horses, it would be better to sit still and offer this Tao. Why did the ancients prize this Tao so highly? Was it not because, sought, it is found, and because by it the guilty are forgiven? This is why it is the most precious thing in the world.

James Legge (1891)

Tao has of all things the most honoured place. No treasures give good men so rich a grace; Bad men it guards, and doth their ill efface. (Its) admirable words can purchase honour; (its) admirable deeds can raise their performer above others. Even men who are not good are not abandoned by it. Therefore when the sovereign occupies his place as the Son of Heaven, and he has appointed his three ducal ministers, though (a prince) were to send in a round symbol-of-rank large enough to fill both the hands, and that as the precursor of the team of horses (in the court-yard), such an offering would not be equal to (a lesson of) this Tao, which one might present on his knees. Why was it that the ancients prized this Tao so much? Was it not because it could be got by seeking for it, and the guilty could escape (from the stain of their guilt) by it? This is the reason why all under heaven consider it the most valuable thing.

Dwight Goddard (1919)

The Tao is the asylum of all things; the good man's treasure, the bad man's last resort. With beautiful words one may sell goods but in winning people one can accomplish more by kindness. Why should a man be thrown away for his evil? To conserve him was the Emperor appointed and the three ministers. Better than being in the presence of the Emperor and riding with four horses, is sitting and explaining this Tao. The reason the Ancients esteemed Tao was because if sought it was obtained, and because by it he that hath sin could be saved. Is it not so? Therefore the world honors Tao.

The chapter calls the Tao the ao of all things — a word meaning the deep, sheltered inner corner of a house, hence a refuge, a sanctuary, the hidden source of protection. It is, the text says, the treasure of the good — but, crucially, also the protection of those who are not good. This is the chapter's moral heart and its most generous claim: the Tao does not divide the deserving from the undeserving. It shelters everyone. The line ren zhi bu shan, he qi zhi you — "as for those who are not good, why should they be cast away?" — refuses the logic of abandonment. No one is written off.

The middle passage notes that fine words and honorable deeds can win social advantage, but then pivots to insist that even those without such polish are not to be discarded. The political image that follows dramatizes the Tao's supreme value: at the grandest state ceremony — the enthronement of the Son of Heaven, the installation of the three highest ministers — the most precious offering is not the great jade disc carried before a team of four horses (the height of material tribute), but simply to zuo jin ci dao, to sit and offer this Tao. The chapter ends by naming why the ancients prized it: because it is found by those who seek it, and because through it you zui yi mian — the guilty are forgiven, the one with fault can be released. Both Legge and Goddard land on this note of redemption; Goddard's "he that hath sin could be saved" makes the parallel to grace explicit.

The Tao as the refuge that shelters the bad as well as the good, refusing to cast anyone away, is one of the closest points of contact between this text and the gospel of grace — the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine for the one, the father who runs to the prodigal, the sun that rises on the evil and the good alike. "Why should anyone be cast away?" is a question Christianity answers the same way.

The idea that the Tao is the sanctuary in which the guilty are forgiven also echoes the Buddhist refuge (the practitioner "takes refuge" in what shelters all beings) and the broad mystical conviction, found in Sufism and Hasidism, that the divine mercy is wider than the divine judgment — that the way home remains open even to the one who has gone furthest astray.

The deepest source of value shelters everyone, not only the deserving. Social polish — fine words, impressive deeds — can win advantage, but it is no basis for writing anyone off; those who have failed are not to be discarded. What is truly precious is not the grandest material offering but a quiet alignment with the Way, which can be found by anyone who seeks it and through which even the guilty are restored.

In a culture quick to sort people into the worthy and the cancelled, the deserving and the discardable, this chapter's refusal — "why should anyone be cast away?" — is striking. It insists that the highest good is a refuge open to the flawed and the failed, not a reward reserved for the impressive. The image of the jade disc versus the quiet offering of the Tao reframes value itself: the most precious thing is not the expensive, conspicuous gift but the inward realignment available to anyone, at any time, for the asking. And its closing note — that the way back is never closed, that the guilty can be restored — is a quiet argument for mercy over condemnation.