Art thou in the Darkness?

Art thou in the Darkness? Mind it not, for if thou dost it will fill thee more, but stand still and act not, and wait in patience till Light arises out of Darkness to lead thee. Art thou wounded in conscience? Feed not there, but abide in the Light which leads to Grace and Truth, which teaches to deny, and puts off the weight, and removes the cause, and brings saving health to Light.

James Nayler, Quaker Faith & Practice 21.65

There are so many signs of the Darkness surrounding us today, just as there were surrounding James Nayler in middle of the 17th century. Nayler and his contemporaries faced extreme political instability, three successive civil wars followed not ten years later by the beginning of the English Restoration, religious unrest and persecution on a scale not seen before or since in England, news of the Great Plagues moving across Europe and Ireland (London was not stricken in fact until five years after Nayler’s death), and a justice system so fragmented and damaged by political, ecclesial and mob unrest as to be entirely unfit for purpose. I need not list our present woes, of which climate change is perhaps the greatest worry: it is necessary only to glance at any news website to get the sense of threat and horror that hangs over the world, and which is stoked daily by media hungry for the sales, viewers and hits afforded by this age of increasingly desperate anxiety.

Only last year I wrote, “We so often feel that we are indeed in darkness in these days of crisis after crisis, of instability in the world and injustice at home, so that we feel keeping still to be a grave dereliction of duty, so that we must exhaust ourselves in frantic doing lest we betray those in more need than ourselves.”

But we are more than fear and politics. If we fail to allow ourselves our own humanity then our efforts at self preservation, whether on the personal or the global scale, will be futile, for there will be nothing worth preserving. In the end, our resulting psychoses may themselves destroy us; perhaps, with ISIS on the one hand, and the Trumptonisation of the USA on the other, we are already beginning to feel the symptoms.

In issue 16 of Nautilus magazine, Daniel A Gross discusses the biological necessity of silence for the human organism, and records that “[in] 2011, the World Health Organization tried to quantify its health burden in Europe. It concluded that the 340 million residents of western Europe – roughly the same population as that of the United States – annually lost a million years of healthy life because of noise. It even argued that 3,000 heart disease deaths were, at their root, the result of excessive noise.” He concludes, “Freedom from noise and goal-directed tasks, it appears, unites the quiet without and within, allowing our conscious workspace to do its thing, to weave ourselves into the world, to discover where we fit in. That’s the power of silence.”

Caroline Graveson wrote, just before the Second World War,

There is, it sometimes seems, an excess of religious and social busyness these days, a round of committees and conferences and journeyings, of which the cost in ‘peaceable wisdom’ is not sufficiently counted. Sometimes we appear overmuch to count as merit our participation in these things…

To read good literature, gaze on natural beauty, to follow cultivated pursuits until our spirits are refreshed and expanded, will not unfit us for the up and doing of life, whether of personal or church affairs. Rather will it help us to separate the essential from the unessential, to know where we are really needed and get a sense of proportion. We shall find ourselves giving the effect of leisure even in the midst of a full and busy life. People do not pour their joys or sorrows into the ears of those with an eye on the clock.

As James Nayler pointed out, to fix our eyes, and the focus of our hearts, on the threat and horror which surrounds us, and on our own perceived failings in duty as we are confronted with its implicit, if rarely explicit, demands on us, rather than on “the Light which leads to Grace and Truth,” will only fill us with the darkness which we so rightly fear. Surely it is only as we trust ourselves and each other to “stand still and act not, and wait in patience till Light arises out of Darkness to lead [us]” that we shall truly perceive our leading, and whatever our hand finds to do will be done not in anxiety but in love.

Easter Day

It’s springtime here. The birds have been nesting for some time, from the portly, libidinous woodpigeons, and the sweetly faithful collared doves, down to the two tiny wrens who spend hours carrying little feathers and bits of moss into the heart of the old ivied cherry-plum tree, dotted with white flowers for a month now.

It seems to me no accident that Easter is celebrated in springtime. However you understand the story of the resurrection, it is a new beginning. Nothing will be the same, now.

It’s like this every spring: the seasons will not turn back, and though there may be unseasonal frosts, and days of wind and hail that strip the flowers, and chill the young birds in their nests, this year is under way, this year that has never been before. Life emerges, new life from the seed of the old, cells fizzing with pattern and change…

Luke records two angels at the empty tomb saying to Mary Magdalen and her companions, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” It is not winter any longer: love has spoken across what is, and its word is life.

Holy Saturday

In many churches today is known as Holy Saturday, the day when Jesus, having died on the cross on Good Friday, lay quiet in the cold rock tomb until the extraordinary events of Sunday morning.

The Benedictine nuns from Holy Trinity Monastery wrote a couple of years ago on their blog, iBenedictines,

There is a quietness and stillness about Holy Saturday – a day out of time – that belies the intense activity of Christ. We do not know what happened in the tomb, but the ancient belief in the harrowing of hell, when Christ descended into the underworld to set free all the righteous who had died before his coming, reminds us that God is at work even when he seems most distant, most unapproachable.

Today we have no sacraments to affirm the bonds between this world and the next, no colour or warmth to assuage our grief, no activity to distract us or give a false sense of security. We are simply waiting, all emotion spent. Most of us live our lives in perpetual Holy Saturday mode, our faith a bit wobbly, our hope a bit frail, but clinging to the cross and Resurrection with an obstinacy wiser than we know. Holy Saturday proclaims to anyone who will listen that when we cannot, God can and does. That is our faith, already tinged with Easter joy and gladness.

As Quakers we normally have no sacraments, no activity to distract us or give a false sense of security. We are all about simply waiting. Perhaps there is something in Quakerism that lives consciously, even deliberately, in perpetual Holy Saturday mode. Our prayer and our worship, are intentionally, rootedly apophatic, despite their occasional intersection with the spoken word in ministry.

Bishop Andy John, writing yesterday in New Daylight, said of Luke’s account of Jesus’ words on the cross with the criminal crucified next to him (Luke 23.39ff)

Luke invites us to see something extraordinary about the boundless love of Jesus. There is no one beyond its reach, none too broken to fix, none too wretched to redeem, none too far gone that they cannot be found and saved. So, we are meant to see the height and depth and breadth of this grace and to marvel at it once more – but not from a distance. Instead we are invited to identify with the dying man, because we too are in need of the very grace he received and the gentle words of assurance that Jesus will bring us home.

…From the lips of Jesus himself, we are told that those who have found in him their hope and joy stand on a promise that will not fail and ground which will not move.

In the words of the Jesus Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” The nembutsu, the central practice of Pure Land Buddhism, is often translated, “I am seeking a refuge in your infinite mercy, Amitabha Buddha, as I trust in you.”

Mercy seems to be a fundamental property of love, and love entails letting in all the love of God, all that God loves; the broken, the terrified, the pain and the uncanny bitter grieving of that which is, and is loved. And that includes each of us, as seen from the inside. Mercy is not an external, condescending thing: it is the open heart of love, quite simply that.

Reading Quaker Faith & Practice Chapter 11

When early Friends affirmed the priesthood of all believers it was seen as an abolition of the clergy; in fact it is an abolition of the laity. All members are part of the clergy and have the clergy’s responsibility for the maintenance of the meeting as a community. This means contributing, in whatever ways are most suitable, to the maintenance of an atmosphere in which spiritual growth and exploration are possible for all. It means contributing to the meeting, in whatever ways are right for the individual, by giving time and energy to events and necessary tasks, and also being willing to serve on various regional or yearly meeting committees and other groups. There is a special expectation that Friends attending meetings for church affairs will benefit from working together under Quaker discipline on the decisions that need to be made. Membership also entails a financial commitment appropriate to a member’s means, for without money neither the local meeting nor the wider structure can function.

Membership does not require great moral or spiritual achievement, but it does require a sincerity of purpose and a commitment to Quaker values and practices. Membership is a spiritual discipline, a commitment to the well-being of one’s spiritual home and not simply appearance on a membership roll. The simple process of becoming a member is part of the spiritual journey: part of the seeking that is so integral to our religious heritage. The process of becoming a member is not only about seeking but also about finding.

The process is an important part of the life of the area meeting, too; accepting a new member means not only welcoming the ‘hidden seed of God’ but also affirming what it is as a community that we value and cherish. Quakers once called themselves ‘Friends in the Truth’ and it is the finding of this truth that we affirm when we accept others who value it into membership.

From QFP 11.01

I’ve read this often enough before, but for some reason the words “abolition of the laity” just leapt out at me when I began reading this chapter as part of the project. Of course! This is the key to understanding Quaker worship, and more than that, the key to understanding how corporate eldership and oversight can work. If there is no laity, then we are all priests, and are all responsible for each others’ growth, healing and care. This is love in practice, and if we do carry the pastoral and formative responsibility, each for the other, then our community is indeed a Society of Friends.

Working this out, of course, is less easy. I am only gradually learning what it means not to depend upon appointed elders and overseers, as we did in our previous area meeting, but to share these responsibilities as a community. I am coming to realise that in a sense, especially as regards eldership, we are all learning, and will continue to learn, as long as the system is in place. There can be no destination, no time when arrangements are settled, and Friends can sit back and let things be dealt with. Each of us must watch for the others, as we are watched for ourselves. Only the Light can illuminate things for each of us, and this is a tremendous risk to take. We are called to walk out every week, every day on the waters of change and uncertainty, with only our sense of being called to sustain us.

How are we to be faithful to such a call? Jennifer Kavanagh once wrote, “Faith is not about certainty, but about trust…” Somehow once again it comes down to the experimental (in both the modern, and the 17th century “experiential” senses of the word) nature of our faith – as Charles F Carter put it:

True faith is not assurance, but the readiness to go forward experimentally, without assurance. It is a sensitivity to things not yet known. Quakerism should not claim to be a religion of certainty, but a religion of uncertainty; it is this which gives us our special affinity to the world of science. For what we apprehend of truth is limited and partial, and experience may set it all in a new light; if we too easily satisfy our urge for security by claiming that we have found certainty, we shall no longer be sensitive to new experiences of truth. For who seeks that which he believes that he has found? Who explores a territory which he claims already to know?

Reading Quaker Faith & Practice Chapter 10

We recognise a variety of ministries. In our worship these include those who speak under the guidance of the Spirit, and those who receive and uphold the work of the Spirit in silence and prayer. We also recognise as ministry service on our many committees, hospitality and childcare, the care of finance and premises, and many other tasks. We value those whose ministry is not in an appointed task but is in teaching, counselling, listening, prayer, enabling the service of others, or other service in the meeting or the world.

The purpose of all our ministry is to lead us and other people into closer communion with God and to enable us to carry out those tasks which the Spirit lays upon us.

London Yearly Meeting, 1986 – Quaker Faith & Practice 10.05

Coming a year ago into an area meeting where eldership and oversight are handled corporately, from one where the traditional roles are maintained, my eyes have been opened in many ways, not least to the differing ministries within a local meeting. We’re not all the same, nor should we expect others, or ourselves, to be the same. As the apostle Paul wrote of the 1st century church, “There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit distributes them.” (1 Corinthians 12.4) Strangely perhaps, this fact seems clearer, more sharply defined, when Friends are acting in cooperation as they are led, than when they are working within roles defined by tradition, or by the vision of a nominations committee.

There are many ministries, though, as this section from QFP explains, not only the ones that belong to the office of clerk, elder, overseer, treasurer or whoever. Sometimes the Spirit’s leading seems to be reflected in the very character of a Friend called to a particular ministry: the love that underlies pastoral care, the courage of one who speaks truth to power, the stillness and vulnerability behind the call to prayer. What’s needed, it seems, is the sensitivity to recognise these things in the lives of Friends around us, and the humility to accept their recognition of them in ourselves!

I’ve written at some length about ministry in the sense of words, vocal or written, elsewhere in this blog. It’s interesting, as I mentioned there,  that I found it a surprise when a Friend pointed out this blog as a ministry of my own. I hadn’t thought of it like that before, but obviously she was right. Our ministries may be many diverse things. The role of warden or resident Friend, doorkeeper, librarian. Someone who listens. A giver of lifts to frail Friends. The one who rarely if ever stands to give ministry, or gets involved in committees, but in whose silence the whole meeting is held, and by whose prayer it is helped to keep faithful to what the Light uncovers…

I remember reading this passage when I was very first considering becoming a Quaker, and thinking that if this were lived out in practice, what a very good place a Quaker meeting would be. And it is, by and large. Friends do seem to live these things out, often in the quietest and least obvious of ways, despite, or at times because of, the occasional difficulties that may arise. Perhaps I’m not often enough, or sufficiently, grateful that this is so.

A life of continuing devotion

“Quaker prayer arises from a life of continuing devotion. We learn by experience.” (David Johnson, A Quaker Prayer Life)

“…when God doth work who shall let [i.e. hinder] it? And this I knew experimentally.” (George Fox, 1647)

It is sometimes said that Quakerism is an experimental faith, and this is nowhere more true than in prayer. Quakers (unprogrammed ones, at least) have no written prayers, and even in spoken ministry, direct prayer seems rarely to be heard. What we learn in prayer, whether in the silence of meeting for worship, or in our own personal practice, we learn by experience.

It seems to me that this word “experimental”, both in its modern sense of “using a new way of doing or thinking about something” (Merriam Webster) and in George Fox’s sense of “experiential”, implies much about Quaker prayer – as about mystical prayer in general, perhaps. Mystical prayer can take place only in the present, and so is to that extent always “a new way of doing”; and it can only be real in the actual experience of the one praying. Such experience seems rarely if ever to come at first attempt. It really does seem to be “a life of continuing devotion” that opens the heart to the tides of the Spirit, and season by season changes it to receive the gift of new life as its own…

[For a few thoughts on how the word “prayer” might be defined in a Quaker context, read this earlier post.]

Giving up our little lives

There is a dim sense in us that we must always be seeking completeness; it is, after all, the spiritual (or at least, psychological) drive behind consumerism. “Get this product, subscribe to this service, and your life will be complete!” But incompleteness is the natural, inevitable state of the human being: we are small, and partial, and temporary, yet there is something deep in every one of us, however hidden from the conscious mind, that knows the infinite fullness of God as real and touchable.

It is only in the unthinkable – literally, beyond the possibility of thought – release of dying into God that that the empty heart can be loved and filled. And yet the little human thing fears to die. All it has known is its little, bounded self, and it cannot know unknowing.

Dorothy Havergal Shaw once wrote, “Even if it were possible to be a member of every church at once, there would still be incompleteness; the infinite fullness of God will always exceed our powers of understanding and obedience, even our powers to receive vision and joy.”

The paradoxical thing is that we can only touch God by laying things down: the tug of the senses, the continual reaching of the thinking mind. (Oh, these things are good in their place – only they will not bring us close to what is real.) If only we will consent to die to all we know, all we want, all we are, then our life, hidden now with Christ in God (Colossians 3.3) will find itself alive in peace, held adrift in the Ground of Being itself.

From this still place, all truth springs: all true words, and all true actions. Any attempt to avoid this self-emptying will only lead to foolishness; to give up our little lives into this death, by our practice, through our silence, is the light of life itself.