Quakers and Jesus, Part 1
There's a game that I like to play called the Ungame. It looks like a board game but it is really just a way for people to ask and answer questions so that the participants get to know each other better. There are 3 levels of questions in the game - Light-hearted, Deep Understanding, and Christian. Light-hearted would be something like - what did you want to become as an adult when you were in high school? Deep understanding - what's the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to you? Christian would be something like, say something about the Holy Spirit. Invariably, even among Christians, the Christian cards are the hardest and strangely the most intimate. So as we speak here tonight, have some sympathy for us as this is not an easy task. The topic Jesus and Quakerism implies that you can separate Jesus from Christianity, that you can deplore the excesses of Christianity but still appreciate and admire Jesus in the same way you might admire Gandhi or Nelson Mandela. And certainly there's a wealth of material coming from people who try to reconstruct the historical Jesus. While I find that information interesting, I'm not particularly interested in information. I'm much more interested in the Jesus of faith. Growing up I went to church every week and said my prayers every night. I had a picture of Jesus in my room and a cross that shone in the dark. When I was 16, I gave up on Christianity after pondering the part in the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus says that if you lust after a woman in your heart, you have committed adultery. I wanted to lust. Later I went to a University where Christianity and religion were non-subjects. It came as a shock when, as a junior in a History of Western Civ class, I first heard the gospel. Nobody was evangelizing. We were simply studying Christianity as an historical phenomenon. For me there were three parts to the gospel that I first heard in that class. The first and perhaps most important part was the concept of grace. By grace I mean the idea that there is nothing we can do to make ourselves right with God, that God's favor comes to us as a free gift. The second part had to do with Jesus's death on the cross. It was explained to us that it was a sign of how much Jesus loved us that he was willing to take on the worst that life had to offer, the abandonment signaled in the "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me", to show that there was nowhere where we would be separated from God. And the third part was that grace is more than a concept, that grace is something that people experience. That part was illustrated by reading St. Augustine's Confessions, particularly the part where he wants to be a Christian but can't get there because he wants to hang onto his girlfriends and he knows that as a Christian he will have to give them up. If you know St. Augustine, I'm referring to the part where he hears a voice that says, "Take and read," at which point his Bible falls open to a passage that speaks to where he was at in his life. I filed all these ideas away thinking that I would come back to them when I had my life more together and then I could coolly assess the arguments for and against Christianity. So several years later I did start to do some serious study on Christianity but when I despaired of ever getting a sufficient mental grasp in order to make a cooly rational decision, through God's grace I was, after the model of St. Augustine, converted to Christianity. When I say converted after the model of St. Augustine, I mean two things: (1.) I didn't do it; it came to me as a gift; (2.) being a Christian wasn't an in-between thing for me; it was much more of a Yes or No even though I didn't fully understand what I was saying Yes to. The metaphor that comes to mind is going on a journey by plane. You either go or you don't. You can buy maps and itineraries, talk to people who have gone, but ultimately you still need to venture forth. Like Abraham leaving Chaldea. Strangely once I had faith I started to understand things about Christianity that had seemed opaque previously. I also started getting some benefit from reading the Bible which before had left me cold. Ralph Slotten, a member of this meeting now deceased used to say that Faith precedeth Understanding and it was true in my case. I also realized that going "Christian" was not something you could do by yourself so I went looking for a church. I ended up hanging out with Evangelicals because they were the group that seemed to be living out the idea that if the gospel means anything, it means everything. Sometime after that I had a second major epiphany. I went to hear the Catholic priest Andrew Greeley speak about the religious imagination. He said that if you want to change people religiously, you need to connect at the level of the imagination. To me that felt like the answer to a question that I had been carrying around but hadn't been able to articulate. I wanted to be a better Christian, to be transformed. I had gone about it the only ways I knew how which was to study more and to try harder and I had a sense that that wasn't working. So I gave up theology and started exploring different imaginative ways of transformation. I particularly got interested in something called focusing which is how I came to Friends. Focusing is a practice that involves sitting with a situation that has some meaning for you, intuitively feeling all that goes with that situation, and then receiving whatever images and/or shifts in feeling that might arise spontaneously, as if by grace, and that might give you a new and better way to be in the situation. You can get a sense of what I am talking about if you imagine running into an old friend and they ask you how you are, and you say fine, and then they say, no, really, how are you, and this is someone you trust and care about and you know they want to know and you both have time - what you do then in order to figure out how you are, that's pretty close to focusing, if you can then imagine taking the time to get it just right, and realizing that in sensing how you are and articulating it is also going to change how you are. It's a process that requires a lot of silent waiting in order to do this strange internal process that is sometimes called intuitive feeling or felt sensing. Somewhere I had come across writings from Friends that seemed to suggest that they were doing something similar, not just the silent waiting but the intuitive feeling as well. Focusing was a way of "attending" in my body in a funny kind of way that I never would have conceived of on my own. A part of the focusing process involves a shift, a change that you know is real because you feel it and is confirmed by what I can only describe as a sense of grace. It comes as a surprise and as a gift and with a sense that I didn't make this up. When I learned focusing, it felt like being born again into a whole new realm of possibilities. I wasn't familiar with it at the time but have since discovered something in an 18th century Quaker writer that describes a Quaker experience of being born again that seems to be pointing to the same thing I experienced: the soul of man hath not only a faculty of cogitation, by which it ordinarily thinks, unites, divides, compares, or forms ideas, but also a latent power of internal sensation, or of perceiving spiritual objects by an inward and spiritual sense . . .which, till the beams of Divine light shine upon it, it must be as totally unacquainted with, as the child in its mother's womb is with its faculties of sight and hearing Words are inadequate to the expression of this internal sense felt in the soul under divine influence. It cannot be ideally conveyed to the understanding of the inexperienced; for it is not an image, but a sensation, impossible to be conceived but by its own impression. Part2 I want to start with a quote from an early Friend: Now whereas many are offended at us because we do not more preach doctrinal points, or the history of Christ, as touching his death, resurrection, ascension, &c., but our declaration and testimony is chiefly concerning a principle, to direct and guide men's minds thereto . . . I think that statement is still true about Friends. We don't talk about Jesus very much and many Friends in our branch would not identify themselves as Christian. In fact we have a lot of people who would call themselves refugees from places where there was too much Jesus talk. What we do talk about still is this principle although Friends don't use that term any more. Now they talk about the inner light or the light within or that of God in all people. I mentioned that I was attracted to Quakers through something called focusing. Some Quakers now use focusing to teach people about this inner light. It's not accidental that there would be a connection as the guy who came up with focusing spent some time as a young man with Quakers. He teaches his focusing almost entirely in secular language except for a passing reference to grace. I learned focusing from a couple of Jesuits who teach focusing in overtly religious language. Quakers use language peculiar to Friends. I mention this to try to explain Quaker universalism. For Quakers what matters is a particular kind of experience, not necessarily the terms in which it is described. That explains how Friends could have found kindred spirits in non-Christian religions and yet be highly critical of other Christians. To quote what was an amazingly radical statement in the 17th century: Then by this, a man may be saved, though he should not know the literal name Jesus or the literal name Christ, etc.? Answ. The names are but the signification of the thing spoken of, for it is the life, the power (the being transformed by that) that saves, not the knowledge of a name." The Quaker principle is an experience of grace, a self-confirming bodily experience. You know it's true in the same way that if you tell someone things are fine, and they aren't, you know it. You know it's grace because it comes with a sense of surprise, a sense of discovery, a sense of newness, a sense of life, and a sense of gift. The paradigm for salvation in the Bible is the experience of the Israelites fleeing Egypt and faced with the uncrossable Red Sea and the Egyptians closing in on them. And then the sea parted - they were saved, and saved through God's gracious action. The Quakers have a lovely phrase for this - way opens. Well, an experience of grace is like this; one is stuck, not knowing how to proceed, and way opens. It can seem like an in-break of the kingdom of God. It may not be a final, absolute in-break but it throws light on the idea that the kingdom of God is upon us even though the final fulfillment has not arrived. It's both here and yet not complete. Grace in my understanding is what Jesus was about. He embodied grace, he understood God to be gracious; his mission was to extend God's grace to the whole world. You can see grace at work in the healing stories and the parables, even in the Sermon on the Mount. What a surprise it must have been to hear, Blessed are they who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed are the poor in spirit. But it's not always easy to accept grace. Grace changes us. There's something in us that doesn't want to let go of control. When I was a kid, probably like a lot of other kids, I was afraid that if I followed Jesus, I could end up as a missionary in some God-forsaken part of the world, maybe even end up a martyr. I suppose that there might be people who thrill at that prospect, but I wasn't one of them. I don't pretend to understand the resurrection but it does make sense to me to say that God raised Jesus from the dead, if by raising you understand moral height. Jesus made a definitive breakthru in our relationship to grace - he trusted it all the way to the cross. And Friends, in following Jesus, have trusted in God's grace in the face of prison and execution. That kind of sacrifice makes sense if you add to the experience of grace a sense of covenant. Covenant is something I learned about from Friends. To explain what I mean, I need you to do a thought experiment: We're all sitting in this room. Suppose a woman walks through the door, and she's crying. We would all be affected by the woman. And what's important for my thought experiment is that we would be affected before we had a chance to choose. In some way this person makes a claim on us whether we like it or not. And that claim occurs at the level of feeling, again prior to choosing. At the level of feeling we aren't autonomous individuals but we are connected to other people, whether we like it or not. We may then separate ourselves but that comes later, is a reaction to the primordial situation. [As separate individuals, we might begin to analyze her, "Oh, her dog died recently. That must be what's going on." Or we might compare ourselves and think, "I'm glad I don't cry in meeting." Or we might do a quick cost/benefit analysis. "I've only got x amount of time to do good and I'm maxed out. I just can't deal with this right now." Or we might choose to ignore her. "We've spent a lot of time planning this Quaker Quest and we can deal with it later." These are all legitimate responses. And they all restore order to our inner world which has gotten disrupted momentarily. The sovereign self is in command again. But I want to say that the light operates at the level of feeling, at the level of the primordial chaos and connection prior to rationalization, where we aren't in control, where we're connected to other people and from which something new can come, something that feels like grace. Covenant is an affirmation of this inarticulate bond we have with one another, and through that, with what is sacred. There's a Quaker term that is connected to covenant. Quakers say that there is that of God in all people. In the thought experiment, that of God would have been the woman's tears. That of God is our neediness, our vulnerability, our frailty, our suffering. The ultimate examples of that in the Bible are the baby Jesus and Jesus crucified. Jesus talks about that of God in Matthew, chapter 25. For when I was hungry, you gave me food; when thirsty, you gave me drink; when I was a stranger you took me into your home, when naked you clothed me; when I was ill you came to my help, when in prison you visited me." Then the righteous will reply, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and fed you, or thirsty and gave you drink, a stranger and took you home, or naked and clothed you? When did we see you ill or in prison, and come to visit you?" And the king will answer, "I tell you this: anything you did for one of my brothers here, however humble, you did for me." I think it is that of God that elicits and enables us to love one another. You can't love someone who's got everything under control. And you will miss love if you don't allow people to affect you. But it's also why we say that the greatest gift we can give to another person is our vulnerability, our suffering, as again that is what enables them to love us; although it does mean we need to let go of control, to be vulnerable. And I think it's why we worship together, we need each other's faces. Steve Davidson liked to quote early Friends, that if all of the world's Bibles disappeared, Friends could recreate it from their experience with the light. You can sort of see how you might come up with stories like the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son with this understanding of the light and covenant. One of my favorite passages in the Bible is in the gospel of John, when Jesus talks to Peter on the beach after his crucifixion. Right after the part where Jesus asks Peter, "Do you love me?" three times, there are the lines, "And further, I tell you this in very truth: when you were young you fastened your belt about you and walked where you chose; but when you are old you will stretch out your arms, and a stranger will bind you fast, and carry you where you have no wish to go." There is a wonderful (might one say grace-filled) irony in this passage around the idea of freedom. When Peter was young and thought himself the master of his own life, he denied Jesus. When Peter is old and carried away to be crucified, when he appears to be least in control of his life, he is most free to be himself. The first meeting I attended regularly was in York. The people there were still under the influence of a charismatic Quaker minister who had vanished the week before I showed up. These Friends were overtly Christian, which to be frank was a major reason I continued to attend at that time. They were also in the process of leaving our branch of Friends because they felt our Friends were not Christian. They were in the process of forming an intentional community with other disaffected Christian Friends. I often joined them in their gatherings and at the time felt I needed to decide whether to join them, stick with our branch of Friends, or do something else. While still not sure quite what to do, I and those who remained in York signed on to a Statement of Faith largely written by a retired Lutheran seminary professor. We were invited by Steve Davidson of Carlisle to talk about it at this meeting. In the gathering for worship immediately preceding our presentation at Carlisle, someone, I think it was Steve, got up and gave a message, quoting the German poet Schiller. He said, "My faith is to believe in nothing." At first I took that statement as an act of inhospitality, a rebuke of our Statement of Faith. But as I sat there in meeting for worship, I came to see it as a more profound statement than ours, a Quaker version of the way of the cross, a trust in nothing that you can control, predict, or define; a trust in grace alone. I also came to see it as a concise statement of what Friends do in worship. We forego all of our preconceptions and start from scratch. (The word principle translates the Greek word arche, which most people know from the gospel of John, "In the beginning." It is out of anarchy that we find our arche, and not one time but over and over.) Our Statement of Faith went no further, but "My faith is to believe in nothing" has been a kind of mantra that has stayed with me. You see something similar in a quote from Isaac Penington: "If any knowledge concerning the things of God be held out of the freshness of the Spirit, it presently proves dead and unprofitable." I'd like to close by returning to grace with another quote from Penington: "Indeed, all our religion lies in receiving a gift, without which we are nothing, and can do nothing, and in which nothing is too hard for us."
0 Comments
|
AuthorI am Andy Hoover. I was first exposed to what would later become focusing as a college freshman in 1972. I can't say that I understood then what it was about. About a decade later, when I came across the Focusing book, I was researching "right-brain" practices as the key to religious experience. Focusing was a perfect fit. I became a Quaker because I came across Quaker writings that sounded a lot like Focusing. Archives
May 2019
Categories |