S2. Chapter 17: On Refusing Orders

What does it actually mean to refuse an unlawful order—when no one’s watching, and no one’s officially in charge?

In Chapter 17 of The Tao of Lloyd, Lloyd Dobler moves from a humiliating road-rage incident in a Whole Foods parking lot to a chilling national moment: U.S. lawmakers reminding the military of a long-settled legal truth—that service members are required to refuse unlawful orders, only to be accused of sedition punishable by death.

Drawing on Chapter 17 of the Tao Te Ching, Lloyd explores why the best leadership is almost invisible, why despised authority governs through exhaustion, and how real power operates long before it announces itself. Along the way, he turns the mirror inward, asking why it’s easier to demand moral courage from strangers than to disobey the quieter, illegal orders issued by our own fear, habit, and need to belong.

This episode blends Taoist philosophy, contemporary politics, and self-implicating humor to argue that refusal doesn’t start with soldiers or systems—it starts at the moment you notice who’s actually driving your reactions.

A meditation on leadership without spectacle, obedience without thought, and the unnerving freedom of realizing the steering wheel was never decorative.

From the edge of empire and the center of self—this is The Tao of Lloyd

Chapter 17: On Refusing Orders 

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Transcript

Welcome back for Chapter Seventeen.
I’m Lloyd Dobler.
Yes. That Lloyd Dobler.

And this is The Tao of Lloyd —
a podcast where I take the Tao Te Ching, one chapter at a time,
and use it to debug
the Western instincts I’ve been calling “normal”
my entire adult life

Before we begin —
we need to talk about chapter Sixteen.

A spiritual episode about stillness, emptiness, non-reactivity…
that ended with me nearly getting myself killed
in a Whole Foods parking lot
because a man with a MAGA flag
and I disagreed about who America belongs to.

So yes.
I’m teaching non-attachment
and immediately attached myself
to a road-rage duel
like a Zen monk auditioning for Fast & Furious: Midlife Drift.

That episode was embarrassing.
Humbling.
Educational.

It was the Tao gently tapping me on the forehead and saying,
“Hey, buddy.
Before you try to liberate the masses
maybe stop trying to get stabbed by Guy Fieri’s angrier cousin.”

So I arrive at Chapter Seventeen
not enlightened
but alive.

Which is what happens
when you realize too late
that something else
has been driving.

Which already feels like progress.

And then the news happened.

Because while I was busy
failing my own meditation exam in a parking lot,
the country was watching something surreal unfold:

Six Democratic lawmakers released a video
telling members of the U.S. military
that they are required — required —
to refuse unlawful orders.

Not radical orders.
Not political opinions.

Unlawful ones.

The kind of thing
every military code, oath, and tribunal since Nuremberg
has been extremely clear about.

And for saying that —
for stating settled law —
the president called it
sedition punishable by death.

Death.

Telling members of congress that they should be put to death for reminding
the U.S. military
that they are required — required —
to refuse unlawful orders is like …is like accusing the rulebook of treason
for being read out loud,
its like charging the fire alarm with arson
for reminding the building it’s on fire.

Which is especially impressive
because the attorney general —
the same one currently clutching pearls —
stood in front of the Supreme Court last year
and argued, in plain English,
that U.S. service members are legally obligated
to refuse unlawful orders.

Not as a hot take.
Not as a protest slogan.
As a legal fact.

Same sentence.
Same principle.
Same law.

Back then, it was called
respecting the Constitution.

Now it’s called
sedition.

So just to be clear:
the law didn’t change.

Who’s allowed to say it did.

The Supreme Court agreed with it.
The Uniform Code of Military Justice agrees with it.
Even the hypothetical where a president orders
an elite military unit to assassinate a political rival?

Everyone — including conservative justices — said:
“Nope. That would be illegal.
And the military would be required to refuse.”

So to recap:

Saying “refuse unlawful orders”
inside the system
earns you credibility.

Saying it out loud
earns you death threats.

Which tells you everything you need to know
about how authority works right now.

And that brings us, beautifully and painfully,
to Chapter Seventeen of the Tao Te Ching.

Let’s settle in.

(Bell chime. Ultra calm.)

Close your eyes.
Or don’t.
I’m not your spiritual advisor.

…legally.

Take a long, slow, deep breath in through the nose…
… and let it go, 

Like someone just told you
the steering wheel might be decorative.

Good.

This is Chapter 17 of the Tao Te Ching.

When the Master governs,
the people are hardly aware that he exists.
Next best is a leader who is loved.
Next, one who is feared.
The worst is one who is despised.

If you don’t trust the people,
you make them untrustworthy.

The Master doesn’t talk; he acts.
When the work is done,
the people say,
“Amazing—
we did it all by ourselves.”

(Bell chime.)

Okay.

First of all —
this chapter would absolutely wreck American politics
if anyone in power could read past the second line.

Can you imagine Trump doing anything in a way that we are hardly aware that he exists?

That’s like the sound of one hand clapping —
except the hand demands applause,
calls the silence fake news,
and threatens the other hand with prison.

The best leader, Lao Tzu says,
is the one you barely notice.

Which immediately disqualifies anyone
with a merch store, a catchphrase,
or a podcast called
The Charlie Kirk Show, The Joe Rogan Experience, or the Tao of fucking Lloyd.

The next best leader is loved.
Then feared.

And the worst?

Despised.

Not opposed.
Not criticized.

Despised.

Because despised leadership doesn’t govern through belief —
it governs through exhaustion.

And this is where Chapter 17 stops being abstract
and starts stepping on my toes.

Because it’s very easy —
very easy —
to watch soldiers being told
they must refuse unlawful orders
and feel morally tall.

To nod solemnly and say,
“Yes. Of course. Refuse. Be brave. Be principled.”

It’s much harder
to notice how rarely I do that myself.

Because here’s the uncomfortable part:

I want soldiers to refuse illegal orders
while I obey every illegal order
issued by my own fear.

I want moral courage from strangers
while I can’t even disobey
the voice in my head that says:
“Don’t say the thing.
Don’t risk it.
Don’t be weird.”

I want integrity at scale
while I can’t even refuse
my own worst habits.

I mean —
I couldn’t even refuse road rage.

I couldn’t refuse escalation.
I couldn’t refuse the itch
to dominate a stranger
in a parking lot
over vibes.

And suddenly I’m like,
“Hey troops — you should risk prison,
court-martial, or worse
by disobeying unlawful orders.”

So Chapter 17 quietly flips the mirror.

Because Lao Tzu isn’t just talking about emperors.

He’s talking about drivers.

Who’s leading you
when no one’s officially in charge?

Because someone always is.

Fear.
Rage.
Comfort.
The need to belong.
The terror of being alone.
And “Habit is a great deadener,” says Valdimir in Waiting for Godot. 

No dictator required.

And this is the quiet horror of the moment we’re in:

Chapter 17 says:
real leadership doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t bark orders.
It doesn’t demand loyalty.

It creates conditions
where people discover their own agency
and say, afterward:

“Wait…
did we do that ourselves?”

That’s the kind of power empire hates.

Because you can’t brand it.
You can’t monetize it.
You can’t threaten people into it.

And you definitely can’t build
a personality cult around it.

Which means —
if you want a political revolution,
a moral reckoning,
a refusal big enough to matter — 
if you want to tear down the whole fucking capitalist system 
if you don’t hesitate when the question of reform or revolution comes up 
and answer “revolution”

you don’t start with soldiers.

You start with yourself.

Which means: I have to start with me.

With the moment
my nervous system issues an unlawful order
and i choose — just once —
not to obey.

Not to escalate.
Not to numb.
Not to outsource my thoughts and actions
to fear or habit or vibes.

Chapter 17 isn’t asking:
Who should lead us?

It’s asking:
Who’s driving — right now?

And do you trust yourself enough
to take the wheel?

From the edge of empire
and the center of self —

this is The Tao of Lloyd