Sunday, 9 September 2018

Sacred Stories

When we think about religious traditions, including the Quaker way, it is usual to focus on people’s beliefs. People who belong to a particular religious community are usually thought to believe the same things. In my children’s Religious Education lessons for example, they have been taught things like “Hindus believe in reincarnation”, “Jews believe they are God’s chosen people”, “Christians believe that God created the world in six days” etc.

The broad differences in belief among modern Quakers do not seem to conform to this pattern. For some, this is a welcome distinction between the Quaker way, which values individual freedom and diversity, and traditional religious traditions, which require conformity of belief. For others, the loss of shared Quaker beliefs is a source of disquiet, held responsible for growing incoherence and loss of spiritual depth.

But this understanding of religion as a set of shared beliefs is based on a mistake. There is no religious community in which everyone has identical beliefs. Every religious believer has their own ideas, opinions, values and interpretations, which will be different in some respects from everyone else’s. Even in fundamentalist sects that require strict conformity there are always some members who harbour secret reservations and alternative personal interpretations. For each individual, the meaning of any statement of belief, such as the existence of God or the possibility of enlightenment, will inevitably be different, according to their differing life experiences, temperament, education or cultural background. So what members of religious communities have in common is not whatever is going on inside their heads.

What religious communities do share is their collections of sacred stories. It is these stories that give a collective meaning to statements of religious belief. If someone tells us that they believe in God, we cannot know what they mean unless we know the stories that they are using to describe who and what God is. Are they referring to the God of the Bible, who spoke to Abraham and Moses, or the philosophers’ abstract God of pure Being, or of some other tradition altogether?

Religions don’t typically start from a set of beliefs. They grow from stories; about the creation of the world, the actions of ancestors and legendary heroes, the lives and sayings of prophets and teachers. Over time, these stories are passed on, elaborated, re-enacted in ritual, sometimes written down, institutionalised and fought over. As part of this process, statements of belief are sometimes codified as official doctrines or creeds, as Christianity in particular has tended to do. But this process of defining official statements of belief is far from universal, and is absent from many major traditions such as Hinduism, Taoism, Shinto etc.

Religious beliefs, which are usually considered the primary features of all religions, might be better understood as entirely secondary - derived from the original stories told in folklore, plays, pictures, poems and scriptures. Most of the belief statements in the Apostle’s Creed for instance, are simply a summary of the key ‘plot points’ of the Christian stories:

"I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.
I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
he ascended into heaven,
he is seated at the right hand of the Father,
and he will come to judge the living and the dead."

Sacred stories such as the life and sayings of Jesus, Muhammad or Buddha, can be understood and interpreted in many different ways by each individual, but they provide a community with a common vocabulary and a shared repertoire of images, symbols and characters. Every religious tradition has its own shared collection of sacred stories, which enables members with very different understandings and experiences to practise their faith together, communicate their experiences, and engage in dialogue, by referring to familiar ideas and images.

In a Catholic Mass, worshippers with very different theological ideas can take part together, say the same words and share the bread and wine as one community, because the Eucharist receives its meaning, not from their diverse opinions, but from the symbolism of the Biblical stories of the Last Supper, the Passover, and the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ.

Stories such as this give meaning to the community’s practices of worship and service, they justify and explain how and why the community functions as it does. They teach and remind community members of the disciplines and values that are important to the community, and they also provide resources for challenging established ways of doing things.

As well as the ‘official’ versions of stories recorded in sacred scriptures, most religious traditions also develop diverse collections of apocryphal stories. Local communities continually adapt, embellish and re-interpret their sacred stories, creating multiple alternative versions and diverse local traditions. Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, Christianity and Islam all have vast popular literatures and oral traditions about popular saints, mystics and miracle-workers. Poets and prophets frequently re-work and invent new stories, adapting familiar characters and situations to express their own insights, such as this story by the Sufi poet Rumi:

One night a man was crying,
Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
"So! I have heard you
calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?"
The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage.
"Why did you stop praising?"
"Because I've never heard anything back."
"This longing
you express is the return message.
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.
Give your life
to be one of them.”

Sacred stories in every culture are distinguished from ‘ordinary’ narratives by their claim to reveal the meaning of the world. What is most important about a sacred story is not how literally it records actual events, but how truthfully it discloses the meaning of reality. It may be regarded as a record of historical events, a parable or a poetic fiction, but its factual status is secondary to the meaning it reveals. A sacred story such as the creation of the world might be interpreted as a literal description, a poetic rendering of psychological processes, a metaphysical analysis of the human condition, an instructive children’s story, or in many other ways, which may all reveal something about the meaning of human life in the world. The truth of a sacred story is not ‘did it literally happen like that?’ but ‘does it tell us something true about the world?’

Believing in a sacred story is very different to belief in the truths of logic or evidence. Religious belief does not depend on logical argument or the collection of evidence. It means understanding our own experience in terms of particular sacred stories, ordering our lives according to them, allowing them to orient our priorities and values, following practices that embody them, sharing them with others and trusting in their consequences in our own lives.

A sacred story is not necessarily explicitly religious. It might be the story of a personal experience, a historical event, a parable or myth. What makes it ‘sacred’ is that it is taken to disclose, to make visible, some aspect of the meaning of the world that exists independently of our own wishes, opinions and choices. This points to a fundamental distinction in possible attitudes towards the world - do we receive meaning from the world, or impose our own meaning on it?

Modern western thought claims that there is no pre-existing meaning to the world. Both scientific thinking and the main schools of western philosophy are united in insisting that facts are utterly separate from values, that the world is value-neutral, without inherent meaningfulness. Ideas of meaning, purpose or value are purely human creations that we project onto the objective universe according to our subjective motives or superstitions. According to this world-view, it is up to us to create our own values through our choices. This might involve a rational project of following ethical arguments to their conclusions, or an existential choice among arbitrary life-goals. In either case, the only meaning we will ever find in the world is what we bring to it. Human stories about the world can invent meanings and values, but they can never reveal them, because there are no meanings inherent in the world to be revealed. Stories can be entertaining or superstitious, useful or harmful, but they cannot be sacred.

This world-view is in striking contrast to that of all religious traditions, and so far as we can tell, all human cultures in the history of the world apart from a handful of modern societies. For most human beings who have ever lived, the world is not a blank screen for the reception of our arbitrary wishes and fantasies. The universe is inherently meaningful. There is a purpose to human life, and perhaps even a unique purpose for each human being. We are not free to invent our own values, because there is a moral universe to which we have to learn to conform, or face the consequences. This does not necessarily imply a supernatural mechanism of rewards and punishments, as illustrated by this Buddhist sacred story about a Zen master:

A big, tough samurai once went to see a little monk. “Monk,” he said, in a voice accustomed to instant obedience, “teach me about heaven and hell!”
The monk looked up at this mighty warrior and replied with utter disdain, “Teach you about heaven and hell? I couldn’t teach you anything. You’re dirty. You smell. Your blade is rusty. You’re a disgrace, an embarrassment to the samurai class. Get out of my sight, I can’t stand you.”
The samurai was furious. He shook, got all red in the face, was speechless with rage. He pulled out his sword and raised it above him, preparing to slay the monk.
“That’s hell,” said the monk softly.
The samurai was overwhelmed. The compassion and surrender of this little man who had offered his life to give this teaching to show him hell! He slowly put down his sword, filled with gratitude, and suddenly peaceful.
“And that’s heaven,” said the monk softly.

If there is anything to this understanding of the central importance of sacred stories for religious traditions, what does this mean for Quakers? This question will be the subject of next month’s post.

Monday, 6 August 2018

Silence and Presence

This is an edited transcript of a recent interview I did for BBC Radio Sheffield on the Rony Robinson show, for a day of programming on the theme of "silence":

RR: Silence is something that Quakers practice - their worship involves silence. Have you already been silent today?

Yes, I try to make a practice every day of having a time of silent prayer or meditation at home. I just find it’s really important for me to keep my balance through the day.

When you’re in silence as a Quaker what are you listening for? or are you thinking about God or what’s going on?

I think the main thing is to be getting away from thinking. So much of the day we’re up in our heads. It’s a very refreshing, restful experience to be just breathing, sitting, feeling the air on your skin instead.

When you go to Quaker meeting is it just silence all the time? 

No, we sit and we are still, but the silence in Quaker worship, it’s not silence for its own sake. The idea of it is that we’re all seeking God, meaning, purpose, and where are we going to find that? We’re only going to find it if we listen for it, because it’s within. We’re not going to find that outside, by looking for teachers or writings or something that’s out there. We have to find it in our own experience. So the idea of silent worship is that we sit, we become still, we listen for what’s there, and that can mean very extended times of silence as we’re sitting and becoming aware, becoming present. But in Quaker worship it could also be that anyone who feels moved to, who feels that they’ve encountered something in the silence which is to be shared with other people, they can stand and speak. And then you’re listening to what’s come from that other person’s experience of the silence as well. And it’s completely open, anyone can speak on the same basis, we don’t have it restricted just to certain groups of people.

Are you allowed to know you’re going to speak before you speak?

We’re supposed to come prepared to be silent, or prepared to speak if we’re led to speak. The idea of Quaker worship is aiming to make a connection with the Spirit that’s within us, in our own experience. So if that Spirit leads us to speak then we have to be faithful to it and if it leads us to be silent then we’re silent.

So what actually happens? Isn't that hour intolerably long?

Well, we sit in a circle and it emphasises the equality of the meeting. The thing about meeting together is there’s something very supportive about it. If I was going to sit for an hour on my own at home, even though I’ve had a practice of silent prayer for many years, I would find that too much. But with a group, somehow it’s extremely different. There’s a sense in which the fact that others are there and they’re all seeking the same thing supports you. When your mind wanders, as of course your mind wanders all the time, it just comes back, and then you become still again, and then it wanders again, and then it comes back, but you don’t have that kind of anxious, frustrated feeling that you imagine you might do. And sometimes, you can have a whole hour go by in complete silence, it’s quite rare in a large meeting, and sometimes that’s absolutely wonderful.
It can be quite an extraordinary experience to sit with people, and sometimes there’s a sense that the silence just sort of deepens, and it becomes almost like a palpable presence, a very, very powerful experience.

The silence itself becomes a presence?

Yes, it has a very different quality.

Quakers don’t even have to believe in God these days do they?

For Quakers, religion is not about belief. I think this is the thing that’s often most confusing to people. They say ‘Well, what do Quakers believe?’ and I always say ‘Quakers believe that religion is not about belief.’ Religion is about what we experience and what we do. And we’re not going to find God or find meaning or purpose for our lives through beliefs or ideas, we’re going to find it through what we discover in our own experience.

Is God there, going to speak to you in that silence? Do you hear him in your silence?

Well, I don’t hear a kind of physical voice, but I definitely have experience of a presence, and that’s the presence I call God. And I understand that’s what people in different religions and in different times have also encountered and they’ve called that God, and that’s where that idea comes from. It comes from the experience and it’s only meaningful if it can speak to our experience.

What’s the quietest place you’ve ever been?

The deepest silence I’ve ever known is in a Quaker meeting which becomes, we call it gathered, ‘a gathered meeting’, that becomes really still and centred in that way. And where everyone is experiencing it together, and it’s something very, very special.

(With thanks to Rosie Carnall for transcription and editing.)

Friday, 18 May 2018

Grief and Beauty

“Beauty will save the world”
(Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot)

In the practice of Meeting for Worship, we are challenged to ‘stand still in the Light’. In place of our habitual strategies of preoccupied busyness, we are confronted with what is. For many of us, that eventually means having to sit with our grief.

If we ‘stand still’ and allow this grief to reveal itself, we will feel the pain of our own losses and regrets, but also, perhaps, a deep grieving for the destruction of the beauty and diversity of life in the world. This grief, which is the natural response to our awareness of violence and ecological destruction, is usually unacknowledged and unspoken. When grief is denied it is driven underground, to become part of our society’s spiritual malaise; a widespread, uneasy sense of meaninglessness, sickness and despair.

Only those who are willing to acknowledge the reality of loss have the opportunity to grieve. It is common for people who awaken to the destructive frenzy of industrial civilisation to get stuck in one of the familiar moments of the grieving process; anger, depression or frantic bargaining - ‘if I just go to one more demonstration or meeting, somehow I can still avoid climate change, species extinction or war’. By contrast, the phase of grief that is often called 'acceptance' is not indifference or complacency, but finally allowing ourselves to feel the pain of loss. As anyone who has lost a close relative, friend or partner knows, loss is irreparable. The process of grieving means coming to accept our feelings of pain and loss, so that we can go on living with them.

Destruction is quick and easy compared to the laborious and fragile processes of growth and creation. In just a few decades industrial economies have devastated flourishing ecosystems that evolved through thousands of years. And yet, despite our civilisation’s unprecedented destructiveness, it cannot eliminate new life. When all that is left as evidence of our current society is a thin geological layer of compacted plastic and radioactive waste, the inexorable power of natural selection will have abundantly repopulated every possible ecological niche with an exuberant diversity of flourishing new species.

Compared to the brutal rapidity of bombing, fracking and pollution, the rebirth of beauty seems impossibly precarious and gradual. Every act of cruelty, violence and destruction is an irreparable loss, but nature is patient; the pressure of life is continuous and insistent. However much ugliness, waste and poison our self-destructive industrial growth produces, it can never outlive the enduring natural powers of regeneration and evolution. Industrial growth is inherently self-limiting, because it relies on accelerating exploitation of limited resources. But the power of creation is drawn from the endlessly renewed cycles of photosynthesis, birth and growth, the continual and irresistible cycling of carbon, water and energy. In our culture’s futile matricidal struggle to conquer nature, there can only ever be one winner.

This knowledge does nothing to diminish the pain of loss of the beauty and richness of the world as it is now, but it should remind us to stay open to the world's inherent capacities for rebirth. When we are tempted to despair, we can remain open to the continual possibility, the inevitability of new life. Hope acknowledges the reality and pain of loss, and is ready to welcome and celebrate new life wherever it appears. The creative powers of art, community, inquiry and spirituality are continual sources of potential for bringing new forms of beauty, caring, understanding and flourishing into the world. Let us sit with our grief and our hope. On the other side of every act of destruction is beauty.

Saturday, 28 April 2018

Experiment with Light

This is a short video of an interview with Rex Ambler that was recorded for the Experiment with Light network. Rex talks about how he developed the practice of Experiment with Light, what he has learned from it in his own life, and how it has influenced the Meetings that have used it, and the Quaker movement more widely.


Experiment with Light from Charlie Blackfield on Vimeo.

Tuesday, 27 February 2018

Evolutionary Quakers

The Quaker way has changed profoundly over the last five decades. The liberal Quakerism that was developed by figures such as John Wilhelm Rowntree and Rufus Jones at the turn of the 20th Century was an explicitly Christian church, sharing much in common with other liberal Protestant denominations. By the beginning of the 21st Century, it had become something quite different - pluralist and hyper-diverse in belief, with explicit Christian language relegated to heavily-edited and frequently bowdlerised quotations from a small number of historic Quaker texts.

The large-scale movement of liberal Quakers away from an exclusively Christian worldview to embrace a wide diversity of spiritual and secular approaches is an accomplished fact, which has unfolded steadily over the last half century. It is easy to overlook the extent of this change by pointing to continuities in practice and organisation. But the meaning and lived experience of Quaker practices is hugely different according to the stories and images through which they are understood and interpreted. Quaker worship that is conceived as a space to recharge our spiritual batteries, to reflect on our values and to look for something good in everyone (as just one possible interpretation) is a very different practice to the outwardly identical behaviour that is understood as an act of surrender and devotion to a personal God, who is known through the judgements and leadings of the inward voice of Christ.

The steady migration of liberal Quakers away from the Christian story is usually interpreted in one of two ways. It is most often portrayed as a kind of progress - the outgrowing of a restrictive or limiting inheritance, and a development into a larger, freer and more inclusive outlook. Alternatively, some Quakers have criticised the growing secularisation and pluralism of liberal Quakers as leading to a more superficial, individualised ‘supermarket of ideas’ rather than a shared and transformative religious faith.

Is it possible to understand the transformation of the Quaker tradition other than through the concepts of ‘progress’ and ‘decline’?

All change involves loss. In this case, the loss of a shared culture; a common set of stories, images and a language for sharing our spiritual experiences. This has large consequences, because the stories and images that we use to interpret the world have a profound influence on the way that we experience and act in it. As our individual stories and images diverge, inevitably our experiences tend to have less in common as well, which contributes to a lack of mutual comprehension and erosion of the community’s ability to nourish and challenge its members through shared understandings of core Quaker practices.

At the same time, the expansion of the stories and symbolism in use by the Quaker community has been a significant benefit to many people, perhaps especially those for whom the Christian story, language and symbolism is impossible to accept, but who have found life-giving images and ideas in other traditions. Over recent decades our culture has experienced the explosion of monolithic narratives and the erosion of institutional claims to exclusive truth or virtue, helped along by continuing exposure of abuses of power by Church institutions of all kinds. As a result, the language and imagery of the Christian story has become toxic for large numbers of people. Many of those for whom Christian language has no resonance or positive associations at all have found the Quaker way to offer a path of spiritual nourishment, challenge and transformation, which would have been closed to them if it were still an exclusively Christian movement. In this context, it is futile to argue that the language of the Bible has an exclusive claim to validity and should be the sole authoritative resource for all Quakers.

Perhaps an alternative understanding of this transformation of the Quaker way, which avoids interpreting it as simply ‘progress’ or ‘decline’ might see it as an example of cultural evolution. In exactly the same way that other cultural forms, such as language or music, change and diversify over time, religious traditions are constantly being transformed, generating new meanings and frequently branching into different sects or denominations.

It is unfortunately common to misunderstand the concept of evolution as a kind of progress. In biology, evolution does not progress towards any goal, and does not aim at any overall improvement or superiority of one species over another. Natural selection simply works towards the best possible adaptation of organisms to their current environment (which includes the other organisms that inhabit it). It does not inevitably tend towards producing anything higher or better; instead, there is a constant and aimless drifting of genetic information, as species are gradually transformed in response to the random pressures of their environment.

By a very similar process, cultural forms are also subject to evolutionary pressures and are transformed in similar ways. All contemporary languages have evolved from a much smaller number of historical ancestors. They are all being transformed through random processes, such as drifts in the meanings and pronunciation of words, as well as the creation of new languages among isolated groups of language users (by the same process that creates new species of organisms).

Just as it would be ridiculous to claim that English is ‘superior’ to German, or that Afrikaans is ‘more advanced’ than Dutch, just because they have evolved from common ancestor-languages, it is equally false to see any kind of evolutionary change as evidence of progress. The misleading expression ‘more evolved’, which is often used to suggest superiority, is actually quite meaningless.

With this caveat, it might be possible to see the changes in the Quaker way as a normal example of cultural evolution, by which a religious tradition is continuously adapting to the evolutionary pressures of its social environment, including the needs and motivations of the people who make up the Quaker community at a given time. Contemporary liberal Quakerism has changed and diversified in modern times, in response to the growing secularism and pluralism of its cultural environment. At the same time, it has diverged from other branches of the Quaker family, with which it shares a fairly recent common ancestry, as well other branches of the Christian church, from which it started to diverge in the mid-17th Century.

This evolutionary change towards a pluralist and post-Christian movement is not straightforwardly better or worse. It has certainly been a useful adaptation for enabling many people to find a home in a spiritually welcoming community, while at the same time producing a loss of shared religious experience and language. But the only real test for any cultural form or species subject to natural selection is how well it fits its environment, which determines its ability to survive and reproduce itself.

In the biological world, the preferences and satisfaction of individual organisms are irrelevant to the survival of the species. In cultural evolution, the needs of human beings are part of the environment that shapes the survival and transmission of cultural forms such as religious traditions. In this sense, the environment of the Quaker way includes all of the current social, cultural and economic factors that affect it, and the preferences and assumptions that the culture tends to produce in current and potential Friends. But the ‘environment’ also includes the enduring and deep-seated needs of the human beings that the tradition needs to retain and attract in order to reproduce itself.

If, as seems undeniable, the current form of the Quaker way is on a gradual but steady path towards extinction through failure to renew its numbers, perhaps this is evidence of a lack of ‘fit’ with the underlying reality of human beings’ need and desire for profound experiences of spiritual reality. In this case, perhaps the path towards renewal is not by returning to the cultural forms that were well-adapted to the society and culture of a previous Christian culture. Neither is it necessarily to be even more conformed to contemporary culture, if that means failing to meet the deep and compelling spiritual needs that are ignored or denied by a purely secular society. Instead, the renewal of the Quaker way may depend on a new ‘mutation’ in its language, imagery and concepts, that enables it to answer the deepest human needs in a way that fits their experience and the reality of our society, now and in the future.

Saturday, 13 January 2018

Wrestling with the Angel

“Isn’t it the greatest possible disaster, when you are wrestling with God, not to be beaten?”
(Simone Weil)

In the mysterious Biblical story, Jacob is alone one night during a journey, when ‘a man’ appears and wrestles with him until dawn. When Jacob refuses to let him go, the stranger dislocates Jacob’s hip, but also gives him a blessing and a new name; ‘Israel’, which means ‘struggles with God’ (Genesis 32:22-32).

This story is an image of the struggle with God that is central to the Quaker way, although it is often absent from modern descriptions of Quaker experience. Early Quakers recorded that their initial encounter with the Inward Guide was often conflictual - the Light revealed aspects of themselves that they would rather not see, and urged them in directions they would rather avoid. As the leadings of the Inward Guide were resisted, the struggle would intensify, sometimes leading to severe physical illness or emotional crisis. Perhaps this kind of experience is so often glossed over today because modern Friends are understandably suspicious of anything that suggests coercion or threat in religion. The Biblical stories that portray God as threatening and punishing are usually rejected as outdated and unhelpful. But there is nevertheless an important reality of ‘struggling with God’ that takes place in our own experience, for many of us who have encountered the reality of the Inward Guide, but who have resisted what it has tried to show us and how it has tried to lead us.

This resistance can take many forms. We usually want to defend a favourable view of ourselves, and to ignore any inklings of our self-interested motives, resentments or narcissism. We are often reluctant to embrace nudges of the Spirit that suggest we might be led to disturb our habitual comforts in some way, by reaching out to unfamiliar people, or making some change in our daily life that involves risk or inconvenience. This kind of spiritual sluggishness or inertia is common to almost all of us, and perhaps acts as a necessary ballast to avoid being swept away by temporary enthusiasms. Unfortunately, it is all too easy to stay stuck in the defensive posture that insists on digging in, refusing to hear what the Spirit has to say to us, or to follow where it leads. All too often, the result is a life that goes nowhere, that continually circles around its collection of small concerns, and never breaks out of the track of narrow, habitual self-interest. It is perfectly possible to pass a whole lifetime in this way, in which the call of the Inward Guide is smothered so insistently that life withers away, and one becomes haunted by vague regrets and anxieties, crowded around by the insistent threat of meaninglessness.

For some of us, the rejection of the Light is more deliberate. The dark impulses of addiction and compulsion, even when we recognise them and know them to be destructive, can draw us towards choices that are deliberately damaging - self harming through over-eating, alcohol, drugs or dangerous behaviour. The deliberate impulse to self-destruction will be familiar to everyone who has struggled with addiction or despair. It is the urge to escape the agonising tensions, regrets, humiliations of life, by extinguishing feeling and responsibility. We can choose to fight against the Light, tearing at ourselves and wounding those around us in our furious rejection of inward life.

The experiences of early Quakers, like the story of Jacob, suggest that the struggle with God does not have to end like this. For some of us, the greatest blessing we ever receive might be a painful dislocation, when our life is interrupted by a suffering, failure or humiliation that knocks us out of our habitual self-justification and distractions. We might find that none of our goals are any longer worthwhile, that our cherished opinions or attitudes were meaningless posturing, and that we no longer know what to do or who to be. We have been brought to the point of surrender to the inward springs of life that were struggling to be born within us. Now we can receive a new name, a new identity and purpose for our life, because we have ‘struggled with God’ and thankfully, blessedly, we have been defeated.

How have you 'struggled with God'? and have you received a gift or blessing?

Tuesday, 19 December 2017

The Way of a Ship in the Sea

The Quaker movement grew out of the chaos and confusion of the English civil war. During the 1640s, a rigidly ordered and tightly controlled society broke down under the pressure of war. The strict system of censorship and religious conformity collapsed and society splintered into a multitude of competing sects and opinions on political and religious questions.

Some of these dissidents from the established Church broke away to form groups of ‘Seekers’ who met in each others’ homes in expectant, silent gatherings, waiting for a new revelation of God’s purposes for them and their society. These were people living in a ‘world turned upside down’ by war, social and religious confusion, and political revolution. All stable and unquestioned beliefs and assumptions, from the authority of the King and Church to the roles of women and common people, had been thrown up in the air, and were landing in every possible direction.

Early Quaker leaders such as George Fox had been deeply shaken by this experience of moral and spiritual chaos. What they discovered, and what transformed the scattered groups of Seekers into the first Quaker communities, was that there was no set of beliefs, adopted on the basis of external authority, that could provide authentic meaning, purpose and direction. They discovered for themselves a source of inward guidance that they identified as the same inner Spirit of Truth that had been in Christ and the Biblical prophets. These original Quakers found that their Teacher was within, and could be encountered directly through the practice of gathered, attentive stillness that became the basis of Quaker worship.

While the western religious tradition for over a thousand years had focused on correct belief as the path to right relationship with God, these early Quaker communities discovered that beliefs were not the answer - not even a belief in the ‘Inward Teacher’. Instead, it was only the direct experience of this Inward Guide that could help them, and the way to this experience of divine encounter was not by new beliefs or opinions but a new practice, a way of worship they called ‘waiting in the Light’.

In our own times, many people are responding to the disorientating experience of radical insecurity and the absence of shared cultural stories by looking to external sources of authority. The renewed appeal of authoritarian political leaders, fundamentalist religion and dogmatic ideology grows out of legitimate unmet needs for belonging, meaning and purpose.

The Quaker way offers an alternative path of collective practices for encountering an inward source of guidance and meaning. This way of Quaker practice does not provide ‘answers’ to life’s problems and dilemmas in the form of statements of belief or reliance on authority. Sustained participation in Quaker practices of worship, discernment and testimony gradually shapes our experience so that we become able to perceive aspects of ourselves and the world that were formerly hidden from us. Instead of spurious formulas for evading the human condition of insecurity and uncertainty, the Quaker way offers a gradual process of letting go of masks, a growing recognition of of the reality of oneself and others.

Some Friends, through the maturity of long experience, have been able to let go of any need to defend an illusory identity, to pretend, to please or impress anyone. Through their years of practice, they have become familiar with their own darkness and with the seeds of life and human sympathy within themselves, and deeply perceptive of the presence and activity of those seeds in others.

This is not a learned conformity to a pattern of predictable ‘Quakerliness’. It is the cultivation of habits, choices and capacities that enables each of us to grow into an inner maturity, and to realise our own path in life, as a unique personality that does not need to model itself according to any outward convention.

From the earliest days of the Quaker movement, Friends aimed to avoid setting up outward standards of conformity. They wanted to encourage the freedom of future generations to discover the reality of the Inward Guide for themselves, through their own experience of Quaker practice. They wrote of their intention “that no footsteps may be left for those that shall come after, or to walk by example, but that all may be directed and left to the truth, in it to live and walk, and by it to be guided… that our path may be as the way of a ship in the sea, which no deceit can follow or imitate.” (Friends met together at Durham, 1659)

Have you experienced the presence of the 'Inward Guide' in your life? What practices help you to become more perceptive and response to the inward 'promptings of love and truth'?

Wednesday, 29 November 2017

Faith in Politics?

This year's Swarthmore Lecturer was Catherine West - a Labour MP and a former leader of Islington Council. With Islington councillor Andy Hull, she has written ‘Faith in Politics?’ as “a call to action, to encourage us as Quakers to own the challenge of inequality, offering civic leadership in all our communities.”

The book is largely a description of the policies she introduced to reduce social and economic inequality in Islington. It also includes examples of some community-led initiatives to address economic inequality, such as the Quaker project ‘Abolish Empty Office Buildings’ in Bristol and the Quaker Living Wage Campaign. Catherine also gives some recommendations for national government policies to reduce inequality in the areas of work, housing, debt, child services and public safety. Many of these recommendations involve returning more powers to local authorities, such as enabling Councils to borrow money for housebuilding.

One of the key initiatives adopted by Islington Council under Catherine’s leadership was the appointment of the UK’s first Fairness Commission, which consulted widely with the local community to shape Islington’s strategy for reducing inequality. This approach has since inspired many other fairness commissions across the UK. The commission’s first recommendation was to tackle income inequality by encouraging local employers to pay the ‘real’ Living Wage. This is a minimum rate of pay calculated by the Living Wage Foundation, based on the actual cost of living (currently £8.75 per hour or £10.20 in London), which is significantly higher than the statutory so-called ‘National Living Wage’. Islington Council was able to use its considerable financial and political influence to make striking advances towards this goal, including requiring Council contractors and grant recipients to pay all of their staff the Living Wage.

Catherine describes her controversial decision to fund a pay increase for Council cleaners by cutting the salary of the Council chief executive role by £50,000 (to a mere £160,000), as an example of the need to “level down” top rates of pay as well as “levelling up” the lowest. She also cites several Quaker organisations as particularly good examples of more equal pay differentials (the ratio of lowest to highest paid employees within an organisation). Friends House has a pay differential of 1:4 and Woodbrooke’s is 1:3, compared to the Co-operative Group at 1:47.

Catherine’s commitment and dedication to improving the lives of people in disadvantaged communities is very evident throughout this book. For anyone who is tempted to dismiss all politicians as self-interested or indifferent to ordinary people, this is a welcome reminder that all MPs are very far from the same.

While the book is rich in the concrete detail of practical initiatives for reducing inequality, it has much less to offer readers who are looking for reflection on alternative economic models or the spiritual roots of Quaker testimony. Given that many Friends are exploring more radical economic ideas such as a Citizen’s Income, land taxation or a steady-state economy, some may be disappointed by Catherine’s relatively mainstream economic thinking.

In fairness, it is not Catherine’s intention to offer a radical critique of capitalism or economic growth. She is an unashamedly pragmatic politician, who aims at achievable goals through gradual improvements and the art of compromise. She offers a tongue-in-cheek illustration of her approach in the form of a chant, “What do we want? Gradual change! When do we want it? In due course!”

For me, a more significant absence is the relative lack of reflection on the nature of our testimony to equality, especially given the book’s subtitle ("A testimony to equality"). Catherine describes her motivation to advance the cause of equality as “both a political imperative and a spiritual vocation” and cites the “Quaker belief” in “that of God in everyone” as meaning that “every life is equal and holy”. Beyond this, there is very little discussion of the spiritual significance of economic inequality for Quakers, and how we might be led as a community to respond to it.

It may seem self-evident that Quakers will consider economic inequality a bad thing, and be motivated to oppose it based on our testimony to equality. Throughout most of our history, however, it has been far from obvious to most Quakers that economic inequality is a problem in itself. Most of the Quaker practices that are usually lumped together under the “testimony of equality”, such as the rejection of flattering forms of speech, refusal to doff hats to social “superiors”, opposition to slavery, prison reform and support for refugees, have had little to do with economic inequality. They were primarily challenges to laws and conventions that gave some social groups greater status and significance than others.

Recognition of the harmful consequences of economic inequality is a relatively recent development among Quakers, who have in the past concentrated far more on the philanthropic relief of poverty than challenging excessive concentrations of wealth. The “testimony of equality” does not provide a reason for this new sensitivity, because all of the testimonies are just handy labels for a collection of diverse Quakers practices, rather than fundamental grounds for action. Instead, the basis of all Quaker testimony is the practice of discernment within Quaker communities. It is practices such as Quaker worship, Meetings for Worship for Business, Meetings for Clearness or Experiment with Light that enable us to discern the inward “promptings of love and truth” that provide the springs of motivation for action in the world. These leadings to action are specific to our particular gifts and contexts rather than generalised principles. It is through individual Friends and Meetings becoming sensitised to the leadings of the Inward Guide in our own particular circumstances that Quaker testimony develops into new areas of concern and action.

There seems to be a growing awareness among Friends today of a leading to work for greater equality of economic conditions in our society. These attempts at social change will only be effective if we become able to tell a different story about the purpose and possibility of human community. Even among progressive politicians, discussions of society and the economy too often accept the dominant culture’s story of human beings as isolated individuals competing for scarce resources. A transformative politics needs to speak to the heart and imagination, to hold out the possibility of human community based on encounter and relationship, which enriches the whole of society by enabling every person’s gifts and leadings to flourish. Economic equality is crucial to the realisation of this kind of society, as Catherine suggests, when she argues persuasively that “more equal societies are not just more productive; they are happier, have lower levels of depression and suicide, show fewer signs of status competition, and exhibit more peaceful psychology. A world that is more equal economically would be a world that is spiritually better balanced as well.”

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

Beliefs and Action

Many of us take for granted a picture of the relationship between our ideas and our behaviour, which looks something like this:

BELIEFS ⇒ ACTION

According to this image, beliefs are primary. We first have to decide ‘what we believe’, often in the form of statements, perhaps such as ‘There is that of God in everyone’. Our task is then to ‘put these beliefs into practice’, and our integrity is to be judged by the degree to which our actions conform to our stated beliefs.

This image is so familiar that it is easy to lose sight of the fact that it is just one way of making sense of our experience. It is useful for some purposes, but is not the only way to understand what is going on. It foregrounds the role of explicit belief statements, but it also obscures some things that are especially important for the Quaker way.

The early Quakers insisted that they were not offering just another set of beliefs, like all the other competing religious sects of their day. Instead, they were pointing to the possibility of a new experience of divine guidance and transformation. The way to that experience was not a different belief but a different practice, of ‘waiting in the Light’ or ‘returning within’. This was a deliberate process of silent, attentive waiting on the divine voice within; becoming sensitive to the leadings of the Inward Guide and acting on them, as individuals and as a Quaker community.

Our usual picture above of ‘putting beliefs into action’ does not serve us very well for making sense of Quaker practice. This is one reason why Friends struggle with the question ‘what do Quakers believe?’ which starts from the assumption that the Quaker way is defined by a set of beliefs rather than shared practices. In response, Friends often substitute ‘Quaker values’ for beliefs, but this usually involves keeping the same basic picture, according to which we first choose our values and then have to find ways to ‘live them out’.

VALUES ⇒ ACTION

Without an alternative to this simple, binary picture, we keep turning the Quaker way into just another set of arbitrary beliefs or values, words or ideas in our heads that we have to try somehow to live up to by acting them out in the world. But there are many other possibilities for picturing how our ideas relate to our actions. Just one example might be to imagine a circular process something like this:



Quaker practices include Meeting for Worship, Business Meetings, Experiment with Light, Meetings for Clearness, Worship sharing etc. These are not just forms of behaviour. Practices are an intimate combination of actions, ideas, stories and values. They embody shared expectations: for example that spoken ministry will be short, reflective, and generally avoid violent expressions of feeling. Quaker practices also refer to particular stories and traditions. Spoken ministry in a Meeting for Worship or Business will often refer to incidents from Quaker history or a particular Meeting community. These shared stories are part of the texture of Quaker practices, which contribute to their distinctive character.

Quaker practices give rise to very specific kinds of experience, including distinctive ones such as ‘quaking’ or the feeling of being ‘led’ to speak or act in a certain way. These experiences are significantly different from what happens in apparently similar practices such as Buddhist meditation. Quaker practices also shape our experience of being a particular kind of person. They help to form the things we value, what we enjoy or avoid, the kind of speech and behaviour that we cultivate. Practices such as Meeting for Worship for Business involve the regular self-discipline of letting go of fixed intentions and listening for the insights of those who differ from us. Through regular experience of disciplines such as this we are formed as people with distinctive capacities. This is one of the principal goals of Quaker practices, to help us to become changed men and women, to ‘feel the evil weakening in us and the good raised up’.

These kinds of experience, and the kind of people we become, inevitably shape the quality of our Quaker community. Quaker practices are not just individual exercises: it is central to the Quaker way that it is practised in, and builds up, a faithful community. The quality of our community relationships is crucial for the vitality of our collective Quaker practices. Where a Quaker meeting does not have strong relationships of trust and affection between its members, or where there is little practical agreement about how to worship or discern together, the quality of Quaker practice will be significantly weakened. A community in which people share their lives and experience, and where there is a high level of agreement about how to practise the Quaker way together, will enjoy a virtuous circle of deepening experience, community and practice.

This picture of practice, experience and community might also be helpful for understanding Quaker testimony as a practice rather than a list of values or principles ‘in our heads’. Quaker testimonies such as opposing war, solidarity with refugees or simplifying lifestyle are forms of purposeful, meaningful action, that form us as individuals and as a community. They are continually re-shaped by new discernment and understood in a range of different ways. Testimonies are not just acts of individual conscience, but practised as part of a community tradition, in conversation with its collective discernment.

I have presented this circular model of Quaker practice, experience and community not as ‘the truth’, but simply to illustrate one alternative to the prevailing model of ‘belief and action’, which too often tends to push people into opposing identities on the basis of differing statements of belief. All three parts of this alternative model include values, expectations, goals, ideas and stories, but it does not require us to decide or agree on theological positions. Perhaps I am drawn to this approach because explicit statements of belief play a very small role in my own life. I have always struggled to understand the meaning or purpose of abstract convictions about the nature of God or the precise mechanisms of salvation. For me, religion is not a matter of ‘beliefs’; it is concerned with what I trust in and what I do.

How do you understand Quaker practice, experience and belief?

Sunday, 10 September 2017

The Kingdom

If, like me, you happened to read the New Testament for the first time as an adult, without having any church background through which to interpret it, you might also have been struck by a surprising observation. In the four accounts of Jesus’ life and teaching collectively called the Gospels, he is described as preaching a very specific message to the people of Judea. This message is not a promise of life after death and a threat of eternal punishment. Instead, Jesus is constantly repeating the ‘good news’ that ‘the kingdom of God is near’.

The sayings, stories and miraculous healings attributed to Jesus were all ways of describing what this ‘kingdom of God’ (or in John’s Gospel ‘kingdom of heaven’) means. The kingdom is the place where those who are poor and the excluded are welcomed and respected, where there is no more exploitation or violence, where justice reigns and forgiveness flourishes. Those who are able to welcome the kingdom are not the rich and powerful, who are deeply invested in the status quo, but those who are dispossessed and excluded. It is ‘good news to the poor’ and bad news for those who want the world to stay just as it is:
"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God… But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort"
(Luke 6: 20, 24)
Jesus did not invent this vision; it is a powerful current in his own religious heritage. The Hebrew Torah is full of magnificent images of God’s reign of peace and justice. But what the Jewish prophet Jesus taught, and what got him executed, is that God’s kingdom is not far off - in an unworldly afterlife, or in the distant future. It is close - ‘the kingdom of God is near’. The stories and images he used to describe this kingdom constantly emphasise that it is not brought about by armies or dictated from the centres of power. The kingdom grows up among ordinary, disregarded people, in hidden ways in the midst of ordinary life, like yeast in bread, a woman sweeping the house for a lost coin, or seeds growing in a field.

The vision of God’s kingdom of peace and justice on earth has had a profound impact on religious history. It has inspired passionate Christian movements as diverse as the Franciscans,  Anabaptists and Dukhoubors. But, paradoxically, its most world-changing impact has been in secularised form, as the emotional centre of the political ideologies that have aimed to bring about a perfect society, by force if necessary.

From the French Revolution to Soviet and Chinese Communism, this dream of a world of peace, freedom, equality and justice has continually resurfaced in the modern imagination. Crucially, though, for all of these ideologies the goal of peace and justice was always somewhere off in the future. To reach such a perfect destination, so far removed from the present squalid reality of inequality and oppression, it seemed legitimate to use any means for bringing it about. Since the promised goal was always somewhere over the horizon, the revolutionaries and dictators could not be expected to act as if it had already arrived. Instead, they had to be prepared to sacrifice their scruples, and to commit whatever violence or deception was necessary to realise their historical destiny. In this, they unwittingly repeated the logic of State-allied churches throughout history that still find it necessary to commit and condone violence and persecution, compelled by the unfortunate distance between the promise of the kingdom and the realities of power in the imperfect present.

Unlike the communist revolutionaries and patriotic bishops, Jesus taught that the reign of peace was not far off, on the far side of the messy crimes of history. It is present now, wherever people who have been humiliated recover their dignity, where walls are dismantled and resources shared, where people who have been enemies learn to listen to each other. This kingdom is here every day, signs of it are all around us. Even in this society, with its inequality, racism, and callous indifference to migrants and the distant poor, there are people who welcome strangers into their homes, who defend the neighbours they are told to hate, and who choose forgiveness over revenge. The good news is that this is happening all around us:

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Taking What Is Good

In his book ‘A Path With Heart’, the Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield describes a "famous old Burmese master” with whom he once studied meditation in a forest monastery:

“He was a grouchy old slob who threw rocks at the dogs, smoked Burmese cigars, and spent the morning reading the paper and talking with the loveliest of the young nuns.

“He was a great meditation teacher but otherwise a poor role model. I realised I could take what was beneficial and not buy the whole package… Then I became rather fond of him. I think of him now with affection and gratitude. I wouldn’t want to be like him, but I’m grateful for the many wonderful things he taught me.”

Kornfield calls this attitude “taking what is good”. It is a striking alternative to the more common tendency to reject outright any person, community or tradition that has disappointed or hurt us.

For several decades now, mainstream British culture has been secular and post-Christian, which often means a scornful rejection of Christian traditions, language, institutions and practices. Even among Quakers, it is common to hear wholesale condemnations such as “the Bible is misogynist”. What would it mean for people who are not Christians to try the Buddhist approach of “taking what is good” from Christianity, without feeling obliged either to “buy the whole package” or to reject it wholesale.

There is certainly much to criticise in the history of Christianity. Official churches have often allied themselves with State power to justify war, inequality, colonialism and the repression of women, children and minorities. Much Christian teaching and practice has been authoritarian, dogmatic and neurotically obsessed with sexuality. Arguably, some aspects of Christian belief have encouraged the human domination of nature and a generalised devaluation of the physical world. The Bible itself, in common with almost any broad collection of pre-modern literature, contains many disturbing passages, and even some that are morally abhorrent.

Taking what is good from Christianity does not mean turning a blind eye to any of these failings, and does not imply belief in traditional Christian creeds or doctrines. But it might open us to the possibility of appreciating the best of what the Christian tradition has to offer in art, literature, spiritual wisdom, and above all in the lives of countless people who continue to be guided by the teaching and example of Jesus.

It is not necessary to accept any particular religious doctrine in order to respond to the uncompromising message of the Sermon on the Mount, or the paradoxical wisdom of Jesus’ parables. The Gospels contain an explicit and ever-relevant rejection of religious hierarchy, hypocrisy and exploitation of the poor and powerless. At the heart of Jesus’ message is his vision of the nearness of the ‘upside-down Kingdom’ - a world that is made new by forgiveness, reconciliation and justice.

To appreciate these stories and images we don’t need to stay stuck in the sterile alternatives of 'belief or unbelief'. We can be challenged, questioned and changed by the power of images and stories, without succumbing to the naive literalism that treats the Bible as an imperfect species of modern journalism. Instead of dismissing Biblical stories as factually inaccurate, we might recognise them as richly symbolic compilations of memory, experience, theological speculation and artistic creation.

The Quaker way originated in a radical critique and rebellion against State Christianity. But it was a critique rooted within the Christian story, which understood the powerful transformative experience of early Friends through the language and vivid imagery of the Bible. If we are willing to take what is good from this Christian tradition, we will also be able to appreciate the experience of many generations of Quakers, including the vast majority of Friends throughout the world today, whose lives and imaginations are formed by the Christian story. If instead, we choose to reject and condemn the entire Christian tradition, and the whole Christian community throughout the world, we will isolate ourselves from their insights and from most of the riches of the Quaker tradition.

"Taking what is good" implies more than a passive tolerance, but actively seeking out what Christianity has to teach; to inspire and to challenge us. With this positive openness, some people who would never describe themselves as Christians might even one day discover an unexpected affection and gratitude for what the Christian tradition has given them.

What do you value in the Christian tradition? Have you been able to take something good from it without being a Christian?

Saturday, 10 June 2017

Truth and Lies

Truthfulness is a central virtue in traditional Quaker practice. Early Friends went to great lengths to uphold a collective testimony to plain and truthful speech at all times and on all occasions. Truthfulness, honesty and integrity were testimonies to the renewed lives of convinced Friends, who felt themselves to be freed from the self-serving motives that required dishonesty and deception. Through their experience of inward liberation, they became able to commit themselves to a fearless singleness of purpose, rejecting any desire for concealment or equivocation.

Our current Quaker discipline also contains an assumption that Friends are committed to truthfulness, with a high standard being set particularly by Advices & Queries 37:
"Are you honest and truthful in all you say and do?"
This is a remarkably challenging query, given that the goal of complete truthfulness is generally seen as both unrealistic and undesirable in contemporary culture, including among Quakers. For most people, including most modern Friends, ‘white lies’ are thought to be both inevitable and completely morally acceptable. Lying is usually considered essential to avoid giving offence and to smooth over potential embarrassments or social awkwardness.

Truthfulness is certainly very difficult to practice in everyday social and work situations. It is important to avoid giving unnecessary offence, and there are sometimes strong incentives to lie in order to avoid significant personal inconvenience. But the habit of reaching for the easy ‘social lie’ as a first resort evades the challenge to find a way of speaking honestly that is also tactful and considerate of others. A more truthful response will often require greater openness and vulnerability. It may mean exposing more of our real feelings, needs and values, instead of hiding behind conventional excuses.

Habits of truthfulness are important, not just for our own integrity, but principally for the building and maintenance of trust. Truthful speech and honest behaviour are essential conditions of relationships in which we can trust that someone will say what they mean, and do as they say. Without this background of social trust, we are condemned to live in a ‘post-truth’ world, in which we don’t even expect people to speak honestly, or to take our own statements seriously. Instead, speech is regarded simply as an instrument for manipulating each other in the service of our own interests.

I am sure that lying is sometimes necessary to prevent greater harm, especially by those in positions of political power or great responsibility. There is almost certainly an unavoidable clash between the demands of personal integrity and public responsibility. But the fact that deception is sometimes necessary does not mean that it is not in itself an evil, to be avoided wherever possible. The existence of some ‘hard cases’, where it is unclear how lying can be avoided without causing greater harm, does not make truthfulness irrelevant. On the contrary, it should emphasise the importance of cultivating habitual truthfulness in our daily life, in order to develop the capacity to discern those occasions when lying is actually unavoidable.

By raising this subject, I am not trying to make false claims about my own truthfulness. I find truth-telling difficult, especially in social and work situations where I am often unsure how to avoid lying without creating unnecessary difficulties. I am also sometimes unclear about where the boundaries of truthfulness are. Is it dishonest to say ‘sorry, I can’t make it’ to a social invitation, or simply a form of speech, and what alternatives might there be? Questions such as this could be useful subjects for discussion, but these conversations only make sense where we have a shared intention to take truthfulness seriously enough to test our own motives and behaviour according to its standard.

What does the Quaker testimony of truthfulness mean to you? How do you deal with the challenges of trying to speak truthfully in daily life?

Friday, 5 May 2017

The Practice of Sanctuary

"As a faith practice, sanctuary brings back into focus our community’s covenant to serve the Peaceable Kingdom." 
(Jim Corbett, The Sanctuary Church, Pendle Hill Pamphlet 270)
The practice of sanctuary has deep roots in Christian and other religious traditions. Sanctuary has often been associated with a particular sacred place, which offered a space of safety for people fleeing violent persecution. In modern times, the idea of sanctuary has broadened to include the many ways that local communities offer welcome and protection to people displaced by war, oppression, poverty and climate change.

British Quakers have been supporting people seeking sanctuary since the 17th Century, when they welcomed Hugeonot refugees escaping religious persecution in France. Before the second world war, Friends played a crucial role in the Kindertransport, which rescued thousands of Jewish children from Nazi Germany. Today, many British Quakers are welcoming people seeking sanctuary into their homes and their lives, and supporting them as befrienders, advocates, teachers and campaigners.

Quakers have a long-standing corporate testimony to opposing war. Those Friends who welcome people seeking sanctuary are offering their testimony against the modern state's 'war on refugees'. Over recent decades, despite numerous changes of government, the UK has increasingly resorted to dehumanising and violent methods for the enforcement of national borders. Arbitrary and indefinite detention, enforced destitution and forcible deportations have become instruments of policy, deliberately designed to create a ‘hostile environment’ to deter potential migrants. These are policies that make trauma and abuse inevitable, and that have led directly to the deaths of people seeking sanctuary in the UK by suicide and unlawful killing.

In the 18th Century, Quaker abolitionists such as John Woolman struggled against the "spirit of oppression" that made some human beings into slaves for the wealth and comfort of others. The same spirit is at work today in our treatment of people seeking sanctuary. They are our own society’s ‘non-persons’; victims of violence and abuse, detained without trial, or made destitute without the right to work. By steadily removing people seeking sanctuary from the basic services and legal protection of the rest of society, and making them into a target for violence and persecution, we have created a new underclass of systematically violated people. The immigration system is a visible sign of the disunity of the human family, a reflection and a consequence of our alienation from the Divine Guide. The practice of sanctuary confronts an immigration system that is designed to exclude and deter, that is grounded in the deliberate refusal of human community.

The Quaker experience is that friendship with excluded people is sacramental. It brings us into contact with the pain of our fellow human beings, but also with the hope and possibility of a world transformed by the presence and guidance of God. Offering sanctuary is an act of faith; a statement of hope in the possibilities of human solidarity. Through friendship with people seeking sanctuary, Quakers have discovered a view of society from the perspective of those who do not count, those who are rejected and dehumanised by official policy. These relationships of solidarity bring light to the hidden places where the violence of the immigration system is usually concealed, in detention centres, hostels and immigration courts. By illuminating the darkest corners of our society, and opening up new possibilities of unity and friendship, the practice of sanctuary expresses the transformative power of the divine Light, which "shows us our darkness and brings us to new life" (Advices and queries 1).

By defending the humanity and dignity of people seeking sanctuary, Friends keep alive the vision of a society that is open to friendship across barriers of race, culture, wealth and nationality. By refusing to accept the division of humanity by nationality and immigration status, the practice of sanctuary reveals and celebrates the divine ground and potential of human community. Like the practice of Quaker worship, the practice of sanctuary is "a celebration of the continual resurrection within us of the springs of hope and love; a sense that each of us is, if we will, a channel for a power that is both within us and beyond us." (Lorna M Marsden, Quaker faith & practice 20.16)

Relationships with people who are violated and excluded challenge us to discern how to respond with our own lives. By sharing their lives and stories with us, people seeking sanctuary remind us that they are not statistics or problems, but unique and precious human beings, each with their own hopes, anxieties and divine potential. By opening our eyes to this fundamental reality they ‘answer that of God’ in us. They awaken us to the Spirit of God at work in them and in us to overcome the violent divisions that we have imposed on the human family. Through them, the Inward Teacher is speaking to us, to challenge our own comfort with a social system that needs to brutalise and humiliate vulnerable people to protect our own standard of living.

Friendship with people seeking sanctuary is a reflection of our vocation to be a community that serves the Peaceable Kingdom, that keeps alive the vision of a world where human divisions are overcome in friendship and sharing. The practice of sanctuary reminds us that the heart of the Quaker way is a spirituality of hospitality. The Quaker practices of worship and discernment develop our capacity to welcome the life and activity of the divine Guide in our lives, to make a home for the "promptings of love and truth", even when they are unfamiliar or challenging. The practice of the Quaker way enables us to become people who are willing to open ourselves to the unsettling presence and unexpected gifts of the Other.

Wednesday, 29 March 2017

Weeds and flowers in spoken ministry

There are many ways of understanding Quaker spoken ministry. For some Friends, it is a spontaneous expression of the Spirit, for which the individual Friend serves as a channel. The aim of ministry should be to get our own views, feelings and judgements out of the way in order to let the Spirit speak through us. In this case, there can be no humanly-made rules or guidelines for spoken ministry, and no-one can presume to judge, advise or correct a ministering Friend, since the authority for ministry is solely divine. All spoken ministry is, by definition, of and from the Spirit.

Another commonly-held view of spoken ministry is that it is how Friends share their thoughts, feelings and experiences with each in other, in the context of an inclusive community. Ministry is one way that we can support, encourage and get to know each other. It does not require any special ‘spiritual’ experiences or promptings, and the aim should be to accept and welcome every person’s contribution without judgement, as a way of recognising everyone’s equal worth and value to the community. Some ministry may speak to me more than others, but there can be no question of any ministry being ‘deeper’ or more ‘authentic’ than any other. All ministry is simply and equally the truthful expression of the individual Friend’s own experience. In this view, it would also be wrong ever to question the content or motivation of any spoken ministry, which would amount to criticising that Friend’s presence in the community.

According to both of these views, there is little wisdom in the Quaker traditions of weighing and discerning spoken ministry, of regular ministers’ responsibility for study and spiritual development, or of elders’ duty to encourage authentic ministry and discourage what is unhelpful. These traditional aspects of Quaker practice are often discounted as out-dated or irrelevant, because they do not fit with the understandings of ministry currently held by many Friends. But these traditions make much more sense if spoken ministry is understood as having much in common with other, everyday skilled practices such as gardening, cooking or carpentry.

This approach shares the understanding that Quaker practices such as spoken ministry cannot be reduced to a set of rules, but this does not mean that there are no standards by which they can be judged and appreciated. The Quaker practices of worship, discernment and testimony require skill and good judgement both to practise well and to appreciate in others. Just as we don't become a skilled gardener or cook overnight, we also have to grow into the exercise and appreciation of Quaker practices, through continual learning and patient effort.

Shared standards of judgement and appreciation are part of what defines a community of practice. Gardeners differ widely in their tastes and styles, but part of what it means to be a gardener is to have developed the capacity to recognise good gardening when you see it – even in styles that are quite different to one's own. Cooks, carpenters, plumbers and beekeepers have a multitude of different approaches and traditions, but they all involve acceptance of collective standards for the successful exercise of their craft. The standards accepted by organic or permaculture growers differ in significant ways from those of mainstream gardeners, and it is largely the differences in these standards that give these communities their identity; but to reject any collective standard would put the practitioner outside of any community of practice. If someone adopts their own, purely personal standard; saying 'I like my garden full of bindweed and my compost heap anaerobic and slimy', they are simply pleasing themselves rather than participating in any existing community of gardeners.

Spoken ministry in a Quaker meeting for worship is also a communal practice, and it involves collective standards for appreciating good and helpful ministry and avoiding what is unhelpful. There is a role for ‘rules’ or guidelines for good practice; such as avoiding speaking more than once during a meeting, addressing another Friend or contradicting another's ministry. But as with other kinds of skilled practice, rules can only help us to avoid the most glaring errors, and might even be legitimately broken in unusual situations. By themselves, rules cannot guide our appreciation of a good meeting or good ministry. For this we need a shared understanding of the goals of worship and ministry.

Just as with the appreciation of gardens, cooking or poetry, it is inevitable and healthy that we won't always be in full agreement about our appreciation of good ministry, which depends to a considerable degree on our individual needs and conditions. But it is possible to appreciate the quality of spoken ministry from a shared understanding of what the practice of worship is for, rather than just our individual preferences. Just as gardening has goals that are internal to the practice, such as beautiful, thriving and wildlife-rich environments, spoken ministry has its own goals that are inherent in the practice of worship. Authentic ministry is not simply self-expression, it has a purpose that is part of God's purposes for us as a community of faith.

The aim of ministry is to speak from and to the depths of hearts and minds; to raise in its hearers a desire to live more closely to the Inward Guide, more ready to leave behind comfort, security and certainty in the service of a larger, more courageous life of faithfulness to the divine Life within. Ministry such as this is not solely a product of our own efforts; it is a gift of the Spirit, beyond our deliberate contriving. But we have the responsibility to practise becoming more attentive to the Spirit's leadings. It is easy for all of us to confuse divine promptings with the sometimes subtle claims of our own needs for self-assertion or reassurance. It may take a lifetime of practice to become fully sensitive to the leadings that are offered to us, and capable of distinguishing the weeds from the flowers in our ministry. These are the skills of Quaker practice that we need to learn from each other, to enable us to be more faithful in our ministry and more discerning and appreciative of the ministry of others. This deliberate turning of our whole being towards the Inward Light is the work of a lifetime; it takes patience, perseverence, courage and humility that must be learned through continued wholehearted attempts and partial successes and failures. In the words of A. Naeve Brayshaw:
"the knowledge of the harm that we may be doing and of the help that we might be giving turns our faces in the direction of the work, giving us encouragement to it and power to come over the fear that would hold us back."

(Christian faith and practice, 1959, 289)
How do you understand the practice of spoken ministry? How has your practice or appreciation developed with experience?   

Friday, 17 February 2017

Stories and Values

Liberal Quakers pride ourselves on being universalists. At its best, universalism means recognising the value of many different religions and cultures – that no one tradition has a monopoly on spiritual truth or insight. This is certainly a vast improvement on the ‘exclusivist’ claim that there is only one ‘true religion’, and that all other churches, sects, religions or cultures are in error. This kind of thinking, which has contributed so much to discrediting Christianity and religion as a whole, was widespread in most Christian churches until the 1960s, and is still a characteristic feature of fundamentalist sects.

The form that universalism usually takes among Quakers is the elevation of universal values over particular religious stories. According to this approach, what is true or valuable in different religious traditions is not the culture-specific details of their stories, myths, images and characters, which are limited to particular times and places, and which all contradict each other. Instead, it is only the universal values they have in common which express anything of real significance. This appears to be the idea expressed, for example, by Karen Armstrong’s claim that compassion is the single, fundamental value at the core of all religions.

This attitude often leads modern Quakers to dismiss the Christian origins of the Quaker way as accidental and irrelevant to contemporary Quaker practice. According to this view, the Quaker movement happened to arise in the context of an exclusively Christian culture, which is why early Friends used Christian language, as the only vocabulary available to them at the time. In the modern context of a plural and increasingly secular culture, this language is no longer relevant for British Quakers as a whole. At most, it is a minority interest of a particular special interest group, those known as ‘Christian Quakers’.

As the Christian story has been gradually abandoned by liberal Quakers, it has been replaced by ‘Quaker values’ such as equality, social justice, simplicity and sustainability, which are now often regarded as the defining features of the Quaker way. By the ‘Christian story’ I do not mean abstract theological doctrines, but the Biblical narratives, characters and images which offer symbolic resources for illuminating human experience. These include parables and stories such as the good Samaritan and prodigal son, and Jesus’ birth, miraculous healings and betrayal in the garden of Gethsemane.  The Christian story also draws on the exuberant richness of imagery, myth and symbolism of the Hebrew scriptures – streams of living water, hills that shout for joy, and divine lovers with ‘eyes like doves’ and ‘kisses like the best wine’ (Song of Solomon 5:8, 7:9).

Stories like these can be read and interpreted from vastly different perspectives, as is evident from the enormous diversity of Christian theology and spirituality. The value of religious stories does not lie in literal belief, as if the Bible were just a set of factual propositions. In fact, the literal, fundamentalist approach to the Bible is a surprisingly recent modern invention. For most of Christian history, the Bible has been read as a source of guiding images, of symbolic glimpses into divine reality, rather than a collection of empirical facts. Instead of a literalist reading that is alien to the culture of the Bible itself, the Christian story can be understood as a collection of ‘true myths’ that continually generate new possibilities of meaning because they are anchored in experiential realities of the soul.

Religious stories, myths and images are not irrelevant details; they constitute an emotionally charged imaginative world. The stories of the Christian tradition enable an emotional identification with specific people, places and events that is often lacking from an intellectual commitment to abstract values. In the same way, the poetry of the Koran and the acts of Muhammad, or the life and teaching of Buddha, are irreplaceably precious to Muslims and Buddhists. These particular stories, words and images are not secondary to a real core of ‘fundamental values’; they are indispensable to the meaning of any religious tradition.

The kind of universalism that seeks to replace particular religious stories with universal values assumes a false position of objectivity, which presumes to judge and re-interpret every religious tradition according to its own assumptions. This is actually another form of ‘exclusivism’, which sees universalism itself as the only truly objective standpoint, and every storied religious tradition as merely a limited, culture-bound vehicle for the universal values that are discernible by the more enlightened universalist.

In mainstream British culture the Christian story has been hugely, and perhaps fatally, discredited by the historical crimes and failings of institutional Christianity. But until very recently Quakers have had a distinctive understanding of Christianity that rejects authoritarianism, dogma and collusion with violence, and uses the Bible to illuminate our own experience of spiritual reality. This Quaker Christian tradition is our unique contribution to the religious cultures of the world. By abandoning our own story in favour of abstract ethical principles we reduce the beauty and diversity of spiritual resources available to all people.

Commitment to a particular religious story does not mean dismissing all others. It is not uncommon to have emotional and spiritual roots in multiple religious stories, as Rhiannon Grant has recently explored in her work on ‘multiple religious belonging’ (article available to download here). By taking the diversity of religious stories seriously, we might allow ourselves to be challenged by the real differences between traditions, rather than insisting that they all conform to one set of values. This is a form of universalism that is genuinely open to a diversity of spiritual insights and experiences, and that recognises the unique contribution of each particular story, including our own unique Quaker Christian tradition.

What does the Christian story mean to you? Are particular religious stories or universal values more important for your Quaker practice?