Tom Weiser

REL 701 Final Paper

I’m writing this at a desk in the Naropa library. The shadow of a pine

branch has fallen on the wall before me. It’s slightly out of focus and

diffuse. I watch as it dances and shimmers. What’s the cause of this

perception? Is it my brain? My mind? My eye? The light bouncing off the

wall? The sun? The wind? The pine branch?

It All Depends: Contemplations on Causality

Introduction: The Smackdown

This paper began with a question that struck me when I first

encountered the “five great Madhyamaka reasonings,” summations of the

fundamental logic of the teachings of the Buddhist Madhyamaka

Philosopher, Nāgārjuna. As I began to become familiar with these

reasonings, it seemed to me that two of them were in conflict with one

another.

The first reasoning is entitled “Analysis of cause: the reasoning

that refutes arising from the four extremes.” It is also given a

nickname, “Tiny Vajra.” “Hmm..” I thought, “Nāgārjuna refutes

causality!”

The second reasoning is entitled “Analysis of Mere Appearances:

the reasoning of dependent origination.” It also has a nickname, “The

King of Reasonings.” “Now wait!” I thought, “How can Nāgārjuna refute

causality and accept dependent origination?” Thus was born the topic

of this paper.

If the two reasonings are in conflict, which one is correct? How

could one determine the winner in the smackdown between Tiny Vajra and

the King? My first impulse was to investigate the definitions and

usage of the two terms. First, I would locate Nāgārjuna in his

historical context. Then I would note his use of specific terms

within his oeuvre and the way in which these terms were used within the

discourse of his day. I would then be able to hypothesize with some

justification the reason Nāgārjuna made a distinction between

causality and dependent origination. Armed with my hypothesis, I

could examine the distinction between causality and dependent

origination as it ramified within the commentarial tradition. I would

then be able to declare one the winner, or to demonstrate that the

apparent conflict was never really a conflict in the first place.

The Fly in the Ointment

I quickly realized that this approach was flawed because: a) I

didn’t have the linguistic skills and b) I was lacking the historical

material. I believe that it will turn out to have been fortunate that

I was not able to pursue this approach, because on further reflection

I realized that even if I had the historical material and the

linguistic skills, the approach itself is questionable. It presupposes

that one can analyze something from a distance, objectively and

independently.

But my analysis could never be distant and independent; my

analysis is the result of my interaction with Nāgārjuna’s works, and

interaction is, by its nature, intimate and subjective. My

reconstruction of Nāgārjuna’s context must be made from my point of

view; therefore my point of view must intrude into that

reconstruction. Even if I try to keep my voice out of the process and

only cite evidence that I have gathered, the evidence that I present

will have been selected in accordance with my ideas of what is

significant and what is not significant.

This doesn’t mean that it is futile to engage with Nāgārjuna’s

writing. Far from it! Why pretend that I must arrive at an accurate

objective reconstruction? Why not admit my subjectivity and engage

Nāgārjuna’s writing in order to illuminate my own experience?

I already have support in undertaking this engagement. The

context of my study and practice includes a lineage that stretches

back to Nāgārjuna’s time. The Buddhist tradition insists that lineage

is extremely important: without a lineage of transmission, a text is a

dead thing. I can use whatever understanding I’ve achieved through

hearing, contemplating, and analytic meditation as my guide in

examining Nāgārjuna’s works. The meaning that I discover will emerge

dependently upon my subjective engagement with the text. I won’t

arrive at an objective understanding of the meaning that the text had

for Nāgārjuna, but even if I were talking to directly to him, I could

never apprehend that intimate, personal meaning.

Aspiration

My aspiration is to understand the Analysis of Cause and the

Analysis of Mere Appearance and to relate them to my own experience. I

also aspire help others around me by communicating what I learn. Since

I aspire to be able to teach these reasonings, I’ll start with what is

commonly accepted, and work my way toward the more difficult logic of

the Analysis of Cause and Analysis of Mere Appearance. I’ll use

everyday, non-academic language and each step of the way I’ll examine

in what way the reasoning is helpful. May it be of benefit!

Causality and the Buddhist Path

Since “causality” is a more familiar term than “dependent

origination”, we’ll start there and proceed until we arrive at

dependent origination. Don’t worry, we’ll get there: I have an

outline.

Causality is central to the path of Buddhism. Indeed, why would

you bother to follow a path if you didn’t think it would lead

somewhere? Buddhism asserts that the principle of causality is very

good news: because there is causality, one’s situation can be

improved. This principle is enshrined in the Four Noble Truths.

But causality isn’t a principle that is specifically Buddhist,

nor one of which we need to be convinced. We believe in causality

because we see the principle demonstrated over and over. Imagine the

alternative: a life in which there was no causality. You would not be

able to control your movements; people and objects would appear and

disappear without any predictability. Life would be disorienting at

best and terrifying at worst.

We trust in causality and use it to navigate our lives, yet we

don’t adhere to our belief rigorously. Sometimes we think that maybe

we can escape the reality of causality. I can verify this from my own

personal experience (okay, you can call them “foibles.”) Sometimes, I

behave as if my actions will not, in fact, bear consequences: as I get

more and more wound up about this paper, I start exercising less,

eating more poorly and consuming more caffeine. And then I’m surprised

that my mind is less clear than usual.

On the other hand, I sometimes hope for a result to arise without

my having undertaken the actions that would be the basis for that

result: I’d like to lose weight, but I hope that won’t have to change

my diet or exercise habits.

The principle of causality says there is actually no way to get

something for nothing, and no way of getting nothing for something.

Buddhism teaches that karma has “strict results” and that it is

“inevitable”.1

How is this helpful?

Trust in the reality of causality is helpful because it leads us

to renunciation. “Renunciation” is not a very popular word in most

circles. It comes across as a sort of holier-than-thou party-pooper:

we have to renounce things that are fun because some stick-in-the-mud

saint or Buddha has told us that we must. But that’s not the spirit

of Buddhist renunciation.

Consider the following example: the stove in the kitchen of my

residence has a large metal hood over it. The other day, I was

talking to the cook, and placed my hand on the hood. When the stove

is in use, the metal hood is HOT; I quickly removed my hand from the

stove hood, and decided not to put it there again again. In Buddhist

terms, that decision not to put my hand on a stove again was

“renunciation.” As Dzigar Kongtrül Rinpoche said “What we renounce is

stupidity.”

1 Gampopa, Jewel Ornament of Liberation, Trans. Guenther, Herbert V. (London: Rider & Co. 1959), 82-83.

Faith in the principle of causality is helpful because it gives

us hope and motivation: if we renounce stupidity, we will suffer less.

This is not a specifically Buddhist principle, as a very old joke

demonstrates:

Patient: Doctor, whenever I drink coffee I feel a stabbing pain in my

eye.

Doctor: Remove the spoon from your cup.

Chain, Chain, Chain: The Twelve Links of Dependent Origination

As we examine causality, we note that the cause that gave rise to

a specific result was itself the result of some previous cause. There

is a chain of causality that stretches back into the past. For

example, if I look at the causal chain that resulted in my wearing a

pair of jeans, I can see that it reaches back to the merchant that

sold me the jeans; the transportation system that brought the jeans to

the store; the manufacturer that assembled the garment; the textile

plant where the material was woven, the farm on which the cotton was

harvested, the seed that was planted, etc.

The Buddhist teachings of the twelve links of dependent

origination, or Nidānas, elucidates the principle of causal chains. The

Nidānas show how states of mind that arise from ignorance form the

basis for actions that propel one forward into future states of mind

that generate more ignorance, and so on. Each link in the chain is the

result of the link that precedes it and becomes a cause for the link

that follows. One cycles endlessly around and around the wheel unless

one achieves enlightenment.

How is this helpful?

When we see that causality is an endless chain of events, we can

see that any given result is not the final link in the chain. This

can give us hope: there’s no situation that’s final, none that is a

dead end. As Yogi Berra said “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” (Of

course, Siddhārtha Gautama might reply “It’s endless.”) It can also

sound a note of caution: we should be aware that the law of causality

is not suspended in pleasant situations. Our actions inevitably bear

fruit; renunciation is especially important when everything is going

well.

The teaching of the Nidānas is helpful because it highlights where

renunciation is most needed. We are shown how clinging (attachment to

an object) grows into grasping (strategizing how to get the object)

into becoming (putting that plan into effect). It’s what Pema Chödron

refers to as a chain reaction. Ultimately, we can stop the whole

thing by giving up clinging. But usually we’re way down the line deep

into becoming before we even realize what we’re doing.

Because the causal chain continues, all is not lost even if we’ve

lost our temper, or we’ve offended someone. It’s never too late to

start taking action that will have a beneficial effect Even if we’re

in the middle of ranting at someone, we could realize “Oh, I’m

ranting!” and slow down a little. The teaching of the Nidānas helps us

account for and work with the momentum of our habitual patterns.

The Web Without a Weaver

The Teaching of the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination can be

mistaken for a linear, one-to-one progression. It seems to teach that

a single cause produces a single result. This matches a sort of

simplistic thinking about causality that we often employ. We

desperately want to find the single cause responsible for an entire

situation. We look for heroes and scapegoats. On the break-up of a

relationship we obsess about that one thing that went wrong; we replay

conversations, wondering whether if we just said that one right thing

the whole relationship could have been saved.

This is a highly melodramatic view of the world, full of poignant

“what-ifs?” that’s embodied in a familiar proverb: "For want of a nail

the shoe is lost, for want of a shoe the horse is lost, for want of a

horse the rider is lost, for want of a rider the battle is lost, for

want of a battle the kingdom is lost. All for the loss of a horseshoe

nail." Oh, if only we had not lost the nail!

This melodramatic view is not without basis: small events may

really have inordinate impact on situations. Buddhism recognizes this

in the teaching that says a large result can come from a small

seed.2But the nail by itself does not lose the battle; it only achieves

its famous leverage because it is enmeshed in a web of causal

condition. The nail is significant because of the horseshoe, horse,

rider, battalion, and army.

Multiple previous causes give rise to each phenomenon; myriad

conditions are necessary to sustain that phenomenon. We may think

that “mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow” but the acorn only can grow

to a tree, and the tree can only be sustained if the conditions of

soil, moisture, light, and temperature all stay within the proper

bounds.

In fact, the Nidānas are not meant to be understood only as one-

to-one; they can also be understood multidimensionally. 3 As David

Kalupahana points out, Buddhism teaches that things do not arise from

one cause but from a harmony of causes.4 As we examine the causal web

that bears on any phenomenon, we find that we must include more and

more phenomena until, as Bertrand Russell says, “If the inference from

2 Gampopa, Jewel Ornament, 82.3 See Willemen, et al. p 27 for instances of the Nidānas in one

moment, one life, multiple lives.

4 Kalupahana, David, Causality: The Central Philosophy of Buddhism (Honolulu: The Universtity of Hawaii Press, 1975), 54-56.

cause to effect is to be indubitable, it seems that cause can hardly

stop short of the whole universe.” 5

How is this helpful?

The understanding that all phenomena arise on the basis of myriad

causes and are sustained by myriad conditions points out the highly

contingent nature of our situation. If we really take this to heart,

it can help in several ways. First, it can undercut pride and inspire

humility: given all of the casual factors that converged to create a

result, it is not possible that one could be either the sole author of

one’s successes or of one’s failures. And conversely, even if someone

else seems to be the hero or culprit, if one is involved in a

situation, then one must also have a share of blame or credit.

It can reduce resentment (someone else has all the power) and

corrosive regret (I have all the blame). If one understands that one

is enmeshed in a causal web, one can realize that ultimately, one’s

actions must affect all of humanity. No matter how humble one’s

position, one participates in the great tides of history. One need

never scorn a particular type of work: one contributes according to

one’s nature and one’s contribution will infallibly affect the entire

causal web for better or ill.

5 Kalupahana, 203.

It inspires gratitude: myriad conditions were necessary for us

to get where we are. Buddhism teaches that human birth is extremely

rare and precious: it’s more likely that a blind sea-turtle that only

rises every hundred years would manage to stick its head through a

yoke floating on a vast sea than it is that one should take birth as a

human.6

Prediction is Hard, Unless You’re the Weatherman

My sister Katharine told me she would like the weatherman’s job,

because he can be completely wrong about the weather and still not get

fired. The reason that the weatherman enjoys this enviable job

security is that weather is an enormously complex system with many

causal factors. It’s very hard to predict the behavior of such a

system. But as we’ve seen, all effects arise because of myriad causes:

everything is part of an enormously complex system, so it’s impossible

to predict even simple things completely accurately.

Since one’s actions are never the sole casual factor in the

evolution of any situation, one can never predict with certainty what

the specific outcome of one’s actions will be. Even if one is “doing

all the right things” one can still experience bad results: a non-

smoker may contract cancer and a smoker may avoid the disease.

6 Bodhi, Samyutta Nikāya, 871-872 (S v.456-457).

Buddhism recognizes this: it teaches that the reality of karma is

so complex that only a Buddha can understand its workings. Moreover

it stresses that even though karma is inevitable and has a strict

result, we experience a bewildering variety of results because of its

enormous complexity. The Buddha taught that even if one performs good

actions, one will not necessarily attain a good rebirth in the next

life, nor will one necessarily attain a bad birth after a life filled

with bad actions.7 This is the result of the fruition of karma from

many previous lives. This teaching is meant to be cautionary, not

disheartening. The point is that we must trust the reality of the

general principle of causality without insisting on a simplistic model

for outcome: we must learn to stay “in the right direction”.

This approach requires a long view, one that is supported by

Buddhism’s assertion of rebirth. The long time scale is also evident

in the teaching of the Paths and Bhumis: the playing out of karma can

take an enormously long time.

How is this helpful?

When we can accept that it’s impossible to know the exact outcome

that will result from our actions, we can relax our expectations. We

can learn to develop patience, and stay with process rather than

7 Bodhi, Majhima Nikāya, (Mahākammavibhanga Sutta), 1058 – 1065 (M iii.207 – 215).

insist on immediate result. (Happily, staying with process often

leads to better immediate results.) When we feel angry or jealous

because people don’t get “what they deserve” we can expand our view

and realize that since the principle of causality is valid, every

situation must be appropriate: everyone is always getting “what they

deserve.” We can achieve a greater degree of equanimity and

contentment in the face of seeming injustice, and continue quietly

working in the right direction. This does not mean that we should

disengage from the world and accept injustice; it simply means that

outrage, while entertaining, is not helpful.

We can learn what actions inflame situations and learn to avoid

them. The virtues propounded by the foundational path are

renunciative (nonviolence, not lying, not stealing, etc.) As we

choose to undertake the positive actions embodied in the pāramitās, we

can release the expectation of any particular immediate result and

trust in the long-term positive effects.

Multiple Subjects

The casual web is unfathomable, but we experience the phenomena

that appear as results of causality to be quite specific, discrete and

endowed with vivid, inherent characteristics. We may agree that some

of these characteristics are “subjective.” For instance, I think rare

steak is delicious; my vegetarian friends find it repulsive. But we

feel that there are other characteristics that are “objective” and

quantifiable. These seem to be inherent to the object, and not

dependent on the perceiver.

But even such “objective” characteristics can be experienced

differently by different perceivers. When I look at a rose, I see it

as red red. But a honeybee sees the rose in a different spectrum of

colors. If there is a creature that perceives in the spectrum of X-

rays, it might see the rose as a cloudy, translucent object. Is one

of those views of the rose correct? If we took a vote, the insects

would probably win. (Depending on the rules for voter registration.)

Even “objective” characteristics are dependent on the perceiver.

The fact that different objects can be perceived differently is

elucidated in the Buddhist teachings that describe how water is

perceived as different substances by the denizens of the six realms. 8

How is this helpful?

When we realize that other people experience things differently

than we do, we are less likely to be irritated when they don’t do the

“right thing.” We can learn to communicate with those with whom we are

in conflict and try to understand how they perceive things. Based on

such communication, we may be able to resolve conflict with a solution

8 Mipham, Beacon of Certainty, trans. Petit, John Whitney, 347 (found online)

that meets everyone’s needs. At least we are less likely to make the

situation worse.

Learning to see things from the perspectives of others loosens

our tight boundaries. It cuts down on the self-centered “me plan” and

helps us open to the experience of sympathy and sympathetic joy. I’ve

personally found that when I’m attending a concert and I try to

experience the music from the perspective of the performer, I feel

much more involved in and moved by the music.

Understanding that others may see us differently than we

experience ourselves allows us to develop skillful means. For

instance, I don’t think of myself as large, but to a small child I may

appear huge and frightening. When I squat down to be on the child’s

level, I can make myself less threatening.

In Mahayāna Buddhism, the practice of “exchanging self and other”

or tonglen is a method for developing compassion.

The Way I See it

Still, we might argue, regardless of the multiplicity of possible

perceptions, on the single basis of my experience, things have unique

characteristics. I can’t actually see things as someone else sees

them, I see them…My Way. I can’t decide to see things from another

perspective. My experience of my sense perception is choiceless: if I

look at something that I perceive as red, I have to see it as red; I

can’t decide to see it as blue. If I stick a pin in my forearm, I have

to feel the sharp pinprick, I can’t decide to feel it as a feather.

How is this helpful?

It’s true that although one can imagine another’s perspective,

one cannot actually experience it. It’s also true that sense

perception is largely choiceless. You may choose to shift your focus,

but if your eyes are open, you cannot refuse to see. Since this is the

case, we might examine our experience and see where we have choice and

where we do not. As the popular Serenity Prayer of St. Francis of

Assis advises:“Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I

cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom

to know the difference”

In Buddhist terms, we must learn to accept the realm we’re in,

the karma that is currently coming to fruition. If it our experience

is truly choiceless, then resentment will be of no help. We can refer

to the teaching of the Nidānas and realize that feeling is choiceless,

the inexorable fruition of karma. But the next step, craving, is not

inexorable. We have a choice here, and an ability to change our

future karma.

This is an area where I have a good deal of experience: one of

my favorite kleśas is jealousy. I frequently feel that other people

have a better experience of life than I do. And not only is my

experience worse than theirs, it’s choiceless, and that’s not fair! It’s

clear that I should go back a few pages and contemplate causality to

realize that there’s nothing that’s “not fair.” A contemplation on the

likely result of dwelling on resentment would also be helpful. When

you next see me, please remind me of this.

Got Concept?

Let’s review where we’ve gotten to so far: we’ve accepted

causality, and seen that all phenomena arise from and are sustained by

a vast web of causes. As a result, we see that although causality is

inexorable and applies to all phenomena, it’s hard to predict the

outcome of any specific action. We’ve also seen that phenomena can be

perceived in myriad ways and that therefore even seemingly objective,

quantifiable characteristics are dependent on the nature of the

perceiver. This is a sophisticated and cosmopolitan view that

corresponds to the view of the Vaibhāṣika school as it is presented in

the Tibetan classification of the Four Tenet Systems. If we could just

hold this view, we could get a lot of benefit (as we’ve seen above.)

We’ve also seen that any individual’s sense perceptions are

unique and choiceless. But as we examine how those sense perceptions

work, we might notice that whenever we perceive a phenomenon, all

sorts of concepts about that phenomenon also arise to our attention.

We may even notice that our concepts distract us from perceiving the

phenomenon clearly.

We tend to mix up our concepts (labels, stories, opinions) with

the actual sense perception. These concepts tend to remain stable,

while the phenomena to which they refer are impermanent, changing all

the time. We mistake our past (the causal web) for the present (the

current result). There’s a dissonance between concept and direct

perception and this dissonance causes suffering.

The Buddhist Pramana tradition teaches extensively on the

dissonance between concept and perception. The mischief we create for

ourselves via concept is also the chief topic of many popular Buddhist

texts. In fact, concept seems like the chief villain of popular

Buddhism; when he enters the discourse, we all hiss at him.

How is this helpful?

When we become aware that we’re mixing concept and perception, we

can learn to separate the two. Then we can learn which labels are

helpful and which are not.

Realizing that a person is not the same as a label or their past

can help us reconcile. The first fruition of my psychotherapy was a

story that placed blame on my parents. The fruition of my maturation

was that I realized that even if the blame story was correct, there

was no way to reconcile with the people in that story. My parents had

changed and so had I. We have a different relationship now than we

had when I was a child and I can only work with that situation.

Separating my parents from my concepts of them allowed me to improve

my relationship with the people they are today.

Concepts and labels are useful. Without them we could not

communicate, nor could we use the principle of causality to predict

future events. We need concepts to understand the past and predict

the future. But we must realize that labels are provisional, not the

thing itself: we must learn to apply them lightly.

Taking Up a Collection

Sometimes we apply a singular label to a phenomenon that exists

as a collection of parts. Consider “my family.” That label implies

that my family is a single unit. But imagine planning the holiday

party and buying beverages. Does “my family” like beer or not? Turns

out some members of my family do and some members don’t; it’s not

helpful to think of “my family” as a single unit when planning the

bash. In order to work skillfully with “my family” I need to know

about the individuals that make it up.

In the same way, we can notice that almost all of the phenomena

with which we interact are also collections of parts. When we become

familiar with the components we can understand better how the entire

phenomenon works.

How is this helpful?

If we see a person as an individual and not simply as a group

member we can work with that person much more skillfully. We can

avoid “isms”: racism, sexism, agism, etc, because we can distinguish

the implied characteristics that come with any label (white, middle-

aged male) from the actual observable characteristics of the

individual (the person writing this paper).

This applies to inanimate objects as well as sentient beings.

When we see all the component parts of an object, we understand how to

use and maintain that object much more precisely.

The Periodic Chart of the Emotions: Enter the Abhidharma

We’ve seen that it’s important to know about the parts of

something to work with it well. The sciences of chemistry and physics

employ the analysis of components effectively. Through chemistry, we

know that we can break things down into atoms and recombine them into

different substances.

The Dzogchen Pönlop Rinpoche has called Buddhism “a science of

mind.” The abhidharma tradition is analogous to the science of

chemistry; it represents an extensive examination of the components of

experience. The abhidharma tradition identified dozens of mental

factors and created a kind of periodic table of the emotions. Just as

chemists study the combination of atoms to create complex molecules,

the abhidharma examined how simple mental factors could combine into

complex and colorful emotions.

How is this useful?

When we do not see precisely – when we blur the components of

things together – we can remain willfully ignorant about our actions

and mental states. The precision of abhidharma analysis helps us

dispel this ignorance. I had an experience that illustrates this: I

was attending a class in which I had to interact everyday with a

person with whom I was angry. Whenever I entered the classroom, I had

a big chip on my shoulder. I had a really juicy story line worked out

that said that I was totally justified to be carrying that chip (not

looking from other person’s perspective), and there was something

quite satisfying about the intensity of my emotion (not looking at

likely results). One day in the grip of that intense emotion I

recalled my abhidharma studies and realized “This is resentment.

Resentment is nonvirtuous.” I knew that there was no justification for

holding on to resentment. Even a little bit of resentment is toxic,

like a small amount of benzine in your drinking water.

Working with fine discrimination helps us locate what is

beneficial and what is harmful in our relationship with ourselves and

with others. We can work more precisely with situations and therefore

more deftly and with less effort.

When we observe the components of phenomena, we notice that those

components change constantly. We are more likely to notice the

impermanence of phenomena by observing these subtle, constant changes.

And we are more likely to notice that the labels we apply are much

less changeable than the phenomena themselves.

Working with components rather than “solid” entities can help us

overcome laziness and despair. The chain of causality taught us that

all situations change over time: none is a dead end; the analysis of

the components of phenomena teaches us that there are no monolithic

situations: even the worst situation must have some “soft spot” that

is open to communication and change.

Causality and Collections

We’ve seen that there’s a web of causality that provides the

basis for the arising of any phenomenon. When we realize that most

objects have multiple parts, the situation becomes even more

complicated. All the different parts have different causes,

different life histories.

How can we best to examine causality in such a complicated

situation? In any scientific experiment, we try to simplify and

eliminate variables. If we could find a simple object, we might be

able to analyze more easily the workings of causality. Is there any

phenomenon that is simple and not made up of parts? The abhidharma

tradition says that there are such simple elements. It asserts that

partless particles and moments of mind are the simple, fundamental

building blocks of reality.

I said I wouldn’t Do This, But…The Context of Nāgārjuna

And this is where we find Nāgārjuna and his Analysis of Cause.

Nāgārjuna was a Sarvāstivādin monk. He would have been familiar with

the fundamental Buddhist teachings on causality as well as the

abhidharma assertion of truly existing partless particles. And he saw

a conflict between the two.

And here comes a big wrench in the course of this paper. Up until

now, we’ve been proceeding in accordance with a realist view that is

in harmony with the commonsense principles with which we engage our

everyday world. But Nāgārjuna asks whether some of those commonsense

principles are actually in conflict with one another. Up to this point

in the paper, we’ve been looking at how things are; Nāgārjuna asks us

to look at the way things are not.

Causality and Partless Particles

Nāgārjuna’s Mulamadhyamakakārikas begins with the following famous

verse, which can be understood as the probandum of his Analysis of

Cause:

Neither from itself nor from another

Nor from both,

Nor without a cause,

Does anything whatever, anywhere arise.9

Let’s examine this reasoning using a partless particle as an

example of something that arises. We want to know from whence it

arises; in other words, what is its cause? We can understand

“arising” as a change in state: if the partless particle changes, its

former state ceases and a new state arises.

Perhaps we believe that the particle doesn’t ever change. (This

was the view of some of Nāgārjuna’s contemporaries.) We could theorize

that phenomena change due to shifting combinations of permanent

particles. There’s a problem with this hypothesis: because our

particle has only one part, if it doesn’t change, it must remain

absolutely identical with its previous state. If it always remains

impervious to change, how can anything interact with it? In order to

be perceptible, for instance, the particle must be able to interact

with a sense faculty; in order to be part of an aggregation, it must

adhere to other particles.

If it is neither perceptible nor capable of aggregating with

other particles to create larger phenomena the particle then it may be

permanent but it is permanently ineffectual. Therefore our particle

9 Garfield, Jay L, The Fundamental Wisdom of the Middle Way: Nāgārjuna’s Mūlamadhyamakakārikā, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995) 3.

cannot abide without ever changing; we have refuted the case of

“arising from itself”.

If the particle is not permanent, then when it changes, it must

change into something completely other (since it only has one part,

when that part changes, everything changes). When the particle

changes, the new state must have arisen from something completely

other. It can’t be just a little bit other; it’s only got one part.

How could this transformation take place? There couldn’t be a gradual

change from one state to the other because there’s only one part. So

the initial state (cause) must cease before the new state (result)

arises. In which case, there’s no cause present around to act upon

the result. Therefore the result cannot be completely different than

the cause; we have refuted the case of “arising from other.”

What about the possibility of arising both from itself and

another? This is not possible because it only has one part, so either

the previous state is the same as the previous cause (arising from

self) or it’s different (arising from another). These two states are

mutually exclusive: if it arose from itself, it didn’t change, and if

it arose from another, then it did change. Because the particle only

has one part, it can’t both have changed and not changed. The result

can’t be both identical to the cause and also something completely

different than the cause; we’ve refuted the case “arising from both

self and other”

Okay, then it must be neither! This is an interesting position.

It says that the particle is not the same as its previous instant, nor

is it different. Since those are the only two possible state, the

previous moment of the particle must be non-existent! The particle

literally came from nowhere; there is no causality. But as we noted at

the beginning, we see the principle of causality demonstrated over and

over again in our daily life. Our experience will not support that

everything arises randomly and with no relation to a cause. Therefore

a result does not arise causelessly; result is not completely

unrelated to the cause; we’ve refuted the case “arising causelessly.”

We’ve refuted all four cases. To restate our findings:

The result is not the same as the cause; the result is not

different than the cause; the result is not both the same and

different than the cause; the result is not completely unrelated to

the cause.

The Analysis of Cause demonstrates that causality cannot work if

our partless particle has an identity that is the same or different

than the identity of its cause. Since those are the only two

possibilities for such a particle, and since we’ve accepted that

causality does, somehow, work, the Analysis of Cause leads us to the

conclusion that our understanding of identities that are the “same” or

“different” must be faulty. Things are “same” and “different” based

on observable characteristics. The Analysis of Cause suggests that

these characteristics are not inherent, but rather dependent. As a

result, there are no entities that exist independently. The question

that began this paper was founded on an incorrect understanding:

Nāgārjuna does not refute causality. He accepts causality and refutes

the existence of independent entities with inherent characteristics.

How is this helpful?

We’ve already seen that phenomena are not independent (they arise

within a web of causality) they are not permanent (they change due to

conditions) not singular (they have parts). We’ve seen this via a

“top-down”, commonsense approach, a via positiva. This approach

corresponds to the foundational teachings of the five skandhas and the

analysis of the chariot found in The Questions of King Milinda. It is a very

useful approach because it constantly refers to our experiences and

therefore grounds us and helps keep us calm as it undercuts the Self.

But there’s danger: as I work with a “top-down” approach I can keep

defending my beloved Self on narrower and narrower grounds.

Nāgārjuna attacks from below, using a via negativa to remove the

building blocks of the entire structure. If not even the smallest

unit, the partless particle, could be permanent, independent and

singular, then how could any Self be permanent, independent and

singular? For that matter, how could any phenomenon at all be

permanent, independent and singular. It’s like saying, “A soap bubble

is not permanent, but a whole mass of them certainly must be.” As the

Buddha taught, form is as void and insubstantial as a lump of foam.10

Go With the Flow: The E-word and Mutually Dependent Origination

The Analysis of Cause demonstrates that causality cannot take

place in discrete steps, nor can it take place between two or more

independent entities. Therefore, since we accept causality on the

basis of our experience, we must accept that causality describes a

seamless flow of change within a vast interrelated, permeable field in

constant flux.

If things can’t arise as independent entities, we can say that

they are empty of having an inherent identity. If they do not have an

inherent identity, and yet they are not identical with every thing

else, we conclude that their perceptible characteristics must depend

on their context. Therefore emptiness of inherent identity is

synonymous with dependence. This emptiness of self-identity is the

cornerstone of Madhyamaka philosophy and it is identified with

10 Bodhi, Samyutta Nikaya, 951-953 (S iii.140-143)

dependent arising: “Whatever is dependently co-arisen, that is

explained to be emptiness.”11

How is this helpful?

We’ve seen that the building block of phenomena, the partless

particle, is dependent on its context for identity. That context is

constantly in flux, so the building block must have no inherent

stability. This leads us to an understanding of subtle impermanence:

if the building block has no stability, how could any structure built

upon such blocks be stable?

Understanding subtle impermanence removes the insult from the

impermanence that we see all around us. It’s not that things break

because something bad happens to them. It’s the nature of objects to

disaggregate. It’s a wonder that they stay together for so long.

Subtle impermanence explains the basis for change. It’s like

adding oil to the machinery of our understanding.

Not Existent, Not Non-existent: King Milinda Meets the King of

Reasons

The Analysis of Cause has demonstrated that no phenomena have

independent existence. We can easily read this to mean that phenomena

must therefore be non-existent. The second reasoning in our pair, the

Analysis of Mere Appearance (AKA the King of Reasonings) clarifies

11 Garfield, 69. (MMK xxiv.18)

this misunderstanding. Nāgārjuna states it as a question: “How can

those existing by themselves [i.e. truly existent things] be mutually

dependent? How can those which exist not by themselves [i.e. truly

non- existent things] be mutually dependent?”12We’ve accepted dependent

origination, so we can paraphrase the question as a statement: “All

phenomena are not truly existent because the arise dependently. All

phenomena are not truly non-existent because they arise dependently.”

In other words, because any phenomenon arises as an aspect of a web of

interrelationships, it is not reasonable to say that it exists as

independent thing with inherent characteristics. And because any

phenomenon arises vividly as an aspect of that web of

interrelationships, it’s not reasonable to say that it is entirely

non-existent.

Logic akin to the King of Reasons (a cousin, perhaps?) appears in

The Questions of King Milinda. When King Milinda asks his name, Nāgasena

replies, “I am known as Nāgasena, [but] this ‘Nāgasena’ is only a

designation, a label, a concept…because there is no person as such to

be found.” 13King Milinda is skilled at debate; he responds to

Nāgasena’s statement by pointing out an absurd consequence (he “hurls

a prāsaṅga”). He searches for Nāgasena in the five skandhas, and when

12 Nagarjuna, Precious Garland, 29.13 Mendis, NKG, trans, The Questions of King Milinda: An Abridgement of the Milindapañha. Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society, 1993.

he does not find him there he declares, “There is no Nāgasena.” If

there is no Nāgasena, why should the king give him alms and listen to

him? Nāgasena responds with his own prāsaṅga. He analyzes the king’s

chariot and points out that there is not a chariot present in the

collection of parts, nor a chariot existent apart from the collection

of parts. The king agrees. Nonetheless, Nāgasena points out, King

Milinda did not walk to see him. He rode in a chariot. The chariot

is clearly not inherently existent, because it arises on the basis of

its parts. But it’s not accurate to say that the chariot is non-

existent because it still functions as an entity.

How is this Helpful?

If we misunderstand the Analysis of Cause we might convince

ourselves that everything is non-existent and fall into a deep,

ignorant laziness. If everything is non-existent, why bother doing

anything? Since suffering is non-existent, why should we help

ourselves or anyone else? Mesmerized by the concept of non-existence,

we actually dismiss our own experience. This nihilistic view is very

aggressive in its denial, and results in an inability to help oneself

or anyone else.

Buddhism considers the poison of nihilism more toxic than the

poison of eternalism because it prevents us from pursuing the Path.

Therefore, Nāgārjuna warned that a misunderstanding of emptiness could

be very dangerous, like mishandling a poisonous snake.14The second part

of the King of Reasons (“All phenomena are not non-existent because

they dependently arise”) can help us steer clear of the shoals of

nihilism.

Perceiving Differences

If phenomena have no inherent characteristics, how can they be

perceptible? Let’s return to those inveterate investigators of

experience, the teachers of abhidharma, and steal a leaf from their

book. They tell us that we perceive characteristics via the mental

factor of discrimination, and that there are two types of

discrimination: conceptual and non-conceptual.

I propose that conceptual discrimination is synonymous with

“imputation.” It is fairly easy to understand imputation: I’m “big”

compared to an infant and “small” compared with the Empire State

Building. Clearly, I’m not inherently big or small, it simply depends

on what you compare me to. Big and small are imputations, not

inherent characteristic. It’s easy to conclude that such imputations

are mistaken. (And easy to fall into the pitfall of thinking that

something besides these conceptual imputations is inherent to the

object)

14 Garfield, 68 (MMK XXIV.11)

We make conceptual imputations all the time, and we’ve seen above

that conceptuality can be the basis of much of our suffering. However,

I do not believe that the perception of things as distinct from one

another is necessarily conceptual. We’ve accepted causality based on

experience. Let’s appeal to experience to and examine whether

discrimination can also be non-conceptual.

We noted above that sense perceptions are choiceless: when I open

my eyes, I cannot refuse to see. (The abhidharma recognizes this by

asserting that discrimination is an omnipresent mental factor: it

accompanies all conceptual and non-conceptual consciousnesses.) I

propose that perception depends upon perceptible distinctions. Let’s

take the example of my visual perception of a red fire extinguisher

silhouetted against a white wall. Clearly, there are many conceptual

imputations mixed with my perception: the labels “red” and “fire

extinguisher,” for example. But all of these imputations are referring

to a non-conceptual experience: the contrasting elements of the raw

sensory perception. The imputations may be mistaken; they’re laid on

top of the perception. But the contrast is not laid on top of the

perception. Rather the sense perception is dependent upon contrast.

And the contrast is only meaningful dependent on the perception. The

two are inseparable: as the Prajñāpāramitā Sutra says “Emptiness is no

other than form, form is no other than emptiness.”

Why is this helpful?

The view of non-conceptual dependence amplifies our understanding

of “not non-existent” It ties ultimate truth of emptiness to the

appearances of relative truth. Although the appearances are said to

be like an illusion, that doesn’t mean they’re a mistake, or that

anyone is being fooled.

The view of non-conceptual dependence is particularly resonant

for me. I remember the first time I experienced it in analytic

meditation. Prior to this, I’d been working diligently at resting in

non-implicative negation. That practice was grimly serious, imbued

with a sense of things being torn away from me. When I experienced the

view of non-conceptual dependence, suddenly phenomena seemed to pop

back up again, vivid and distinct, and also somewhat holographically;

definitely there, but not quite real. The experience was quite warm

and even humorous.

The humor that accompanied the recognition of non-conceptual

dependence seems to me to be one of the great strengths of this view.

The illusion-like nature of appearances seemed really entertaining,

like well-performed sleight-of-hand. Such humor is very valuable; we

need good spirits to continue on the Path.

Conclusion: Rapprochement of Tiny Vajra and the King

Now we can return to our initial question and ask, “Are Tiny

Vajra and the King in conflict?” Certainly not! They’re the best of

friends! Tiny Vajra eliminates our clinging to truly existent

phenomena. She says, “Because we accept causality, phenomena can not

be independent entities with inherent characteristics. Causality only

works when things are interdependent and without fixed boundary. Go

with the flow!” The King confirms this and amplifies it: “Because

phenomena arise dependently they are neither truly existent, nor truly

non-existent. If they were truly existent they would be independent

and with fixed boundaries, and therefore could not arise dependently.

If they were truly non-existent, they wouldn’t appear at all! An

illusion is not just a mistake! Emptiness is not just a big old

nothing!”15

Implications for the Path

Since no individual has firm boundaries, since we are all in a

web of interdependence, then it is literally true that I am not

separate from any other sentient being. Compassion is truly self-

interest. When I help someone, I am also helped, just as my hand

feeds my mouth and receives the nourishment as well.

15 I stole that last line from Ari Goldfield, translating for Khenpo Tsultrim Gyamtso Rinpoche.

When a permanent, singular independent Self is refuted (from top

down and from bottom up!) there is no longer any territory to defend,

no basis for the arising of the three poisons of passion, aggression

and delusion.

“Three-fold purity” becomes understandable. For instance, there

truly is no giver, no receiver, no gift, and yet all three manifest in

dependence on one another. It’s not the case that nothing is

happening. It is the case that no solid “thing” is happening.

The understanding that emptiness is synonymous with dependent

origination is the gateway to the Mahayāna.

“Here Come the Excuses” or “Why This Paper Failed”.

Although I started with a good aspiration, I believe that this

paper failed in several significant ways:

First, and probably most significantly, in trying to restate the

ascending levels of analysis argument in everyday language, I began to

rely more and more on my own thinking. Although I began this paper

with an appeal to the lineage, in the end, I feel that I didn’t ground

my argument in the lineage sufficiently. I made the argument that all

phenomena must be interdependent, and then, ironically, tried to write

the paper from an independent point of view

I also failed to take into account the vastness of the material.

My reach far exceeded my grasp. I could have written a much better

paper by limiting the scope. I’m afraid that by addressing so many

subjects I created a paper that is wide and shallow. As a result, it

tended to evaporate as I wrote.

I also realized that I had made a false assumption in planning

the paper: I thought that I could take the “realist” approach all the

way through Nāgārjuna’s refutation. In the course of writing the

paper, I realized that realism only gets us as far as the stage of

abhidharma analysis. I spent a long time trying to figure out how to

make a “pivot” from investigating how things exist to how they do not

exist.

How I Succeeded (In Spite of My Failure)/(Because of My Failure)

As I wrestled with the transition from explaining how things are

to explaining how they are not, I got a clearer understanding of the

distinction between relative and ultimate teachings. I also

understood better the uses of via negativa and via positiva. I had an

insight into why so many popular Buddhist books stick primarily to

relative teachings: the relative teachings are easy to explain in

commonsense terms, and easy to digest. The via negativa is irritating,

hard to digest, and very hard to write about.

I got a view of the vastness of the material and also its

interrelatedness. I understood more clearly the place of Western

scholarship, and began to become familiar with the analyses of Western

philosophers (I mostly rejected that material.) I became interested

in understanding the roots of Madhyamaka in the Nikāya material, and

in understanding better how the abhidharma might work as a guide to a

path of meditation.

I lost my mind. Really. There were several times when I felt my

mental gears slip as the Madhyamaka jarred me out of my intellectual

cocoon and delivered me to a groundless state. I developed more

tolerance for that groundless state and considerably less anxiety

abiding there.

Writing the paper provided a great review of the material and a

welcome opportunity to contemplate it. The “How Is It Helpful?”

contemplations that I wrote for each stage of analysis were, actually,

quite helpful. Several times in the course of writing the paper I had

recourse to the contemplations and found relief. I found it difficult

to write “How Is It Helpful” for the Madhyamaka analysis, though, and

that emphasizes the difference between relative and ultimate

teachings.

As I developed the material, I realized that it was not going to

take the form of a standard academic paper. In particular, I realized

that I would not have very many citations. I panicked briefly: “What

if I fail?” But then I thought: “Exactly how does one fail at the

Dharma? If I had the choice between receiving an A on this paper or

gaining better understanding of the Dharma, which would I take?” I

must admit, sheepishly, that it was something of a toss-up. In the

end, I decided that my initial aspiration was worthy. The paper was

not turning out as neatly as I hoped, but I wanted to learn how to

relate the Madhyamaka logic to my own experience and how to explain it

to others in non-academic language. I decided to keep following that

aspiration, even if it meant that my paper might be something of a

mess.

Ultimately, I think that my willingness to allow the paper to

“fail” was my greatest success. In doing that, I broke with old

habitual patterns of academic self-confirmation and allied myself

instead with the aspiration to cultivate bodhicitta. By accepting the

possibility of short-term failure, I strengthened my aspiration to

gain fluency in the logic of Madhyamaka for the long-term benefit of

all beings. May it be so!

I’m writing this at a desk in the Naropa library. The shadow of a pine

branch has fallen on the wall before me. It’s slightly out of focus and

diffuse. I watch as it dances and shimmers. What’s the cause of this

perception? Is it my brain? My mind? My eye? The light bouncing off the

wall? The sun? The wind? The pine branch?

Yes.

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