The New Yorker's Quaker moments

This summer, in a rare event, two consecutive issue of the New Yorker magazine made passing reference to Quakers.

As a Quaker, I found it strange to see them and yet, in context they seemed to provide a snippet of tantalizing, off-hand insight about Quakers for New Yorker readers.

The first reference was in a piece about Radical Feminists and their exclusion of transgender females as not really being women. The Quaker reference happened to be to action taken by my own Quaker meeting here in Portland. Our meeting at first agreed to rent our meeting house to the Rad-Fems group, but after transgender members of our meeting objected, the meeting decided to cancel the rental, stating that to rent to the Radical Feminists would be hurtful to our trans members.

From my knowledge about how the decision was reached I know that an entire article could have explored the Quaker decision-making process and how inadequate it can sometimes be even as it seeks to be “spirit-led.” For an excellent book on the subject, see “Beyond Majority Rule” by Michael J. Sheeran, who happens to be a Jesuit priest.

The second reference was more remote, but more profound, though terse. It was a sweeping statement by Malcolm Gladwell in an article (“The Crooked Ladder” in the August 11 & 18 issue) about how Mafia families over generations strive for respectability and ultimately leave their illicit histories behind.

The Mafia may seem a long way from Quakers and their "Godfather" George Fox (see portrait to the right), but here’s the passage that caught my eye:

“Six decades ago, Robert K. Merton argued that there was a series of ways in which Americans responded to the extraordinary cultural emphasis that their societies placed on getting ahead. The most common was “conformity”: accept the social goal (the American dream) and also accept the means by which it should be pursued (work hard and obey the law). The second strategy was “ritualism”: accept the means (work hard and obey the law) but reject the goal. That’s the approach of the Quakers or the Amish or of any other religious group that substitutes its own moral agenda for that of the broader society…”

I suppose all spiritual groups (I hesitate to call Quakers a religion) feel misunderstood. Many, like the Quakers themselves, are diverse in how they follow their spiritual paths. One could fairly ask whether they understand themselves in their entirety. Without going into detail, I’ve adopted the saying that “If you have talked to one Quaker about the Quaker Way, you have only talked to one Quaker.” There are others, so many others, with so many other ways to describe what it means to be a Quaker.

So Gladwell is on shaky ground, and, on one point, dead wrong. Quakers are well known for NOT obeying the law when they find laws unjust. Civil disobedience is part of their arsenal in the “Lamb’s War” for peace and justice. Some Friends resisted war taxes, some sat-in in the South in the ‘60s, many have been conscientious objectors, some illegally assisted runaway slaves in the mid 19th Century. The list is long.

Still, Gladwell shares an underlying truth, which is visibly evident in the way the Amish live their lives, and less so in “The Quaker Way.” Each does indeed have its “own moral agenda.” The “American dream,” as generally understood (materialistic, individualistic, nationalistic), is counter to the Quaker “testimonies” of simplicity, peace, integrity, community and equality.

As interesting as the article about the transformation of crime families was, it seems to me that a more compelling story is that of groups that choose to follow their “own moral agenda.”

Both New Yorker stories hint that Quakers (and Amish) go about doing just that. The broader American culture could use more than hints.

Alice in QuakerLand

“Why doesn’t one of us in this room take in a foster child?” asked a member of our Quaker discussion group. "There are so many of them in need."

About 12 of us meet in a circle early Sunday mornings, and while the discussion is lively, and at times intense, it can become vague and philosophical.

But the question posed by the Friend was refreshingly, and troublingly, concrete.

But it wasn’t concrete enough for me. I decided to put the question in the middle of the room.

“Right there is a little girl,” I said pointing to the empty carpeted patch before us. “She was there when we came in this morning,” I explained. “We found a note pinned to her, introducing her as two-year-old ‘Alice.’ She has been left with us to deal with. We’ve been chosen, the note said, because we are ‘good people.' At the end of our meeting, the note continued, Alice will have no one to look after her but us."

At first a couple of people tried to ignore “Alice,” but a few of us felt compelled to acknowledge her imaginary presence. At one point, I suggested that Alice might be understanding what we were saying about her and her uncertain future. "We might keep that in mind." At another point I felt the need to address her directly and reassure her imaginary presence of our love for her and our feeling responsible for her safety and well being.

Someone said that, in the manner of Quakers, of course we would form a committee to decide what to do. It might take weeks.  A couple of others said we had a responsibility — indeed a legal obligation — to hand Alice over to the child welfare authorities.

I suggested that we might take turns looking after her until we could develop a plan. I offered to take her the first week. “Imagine what a wonderful group of parents we’d all make,” I exuded.

But another person said that having such a large group look after Alice would be the worse thing we could do. “She needs a family; everyone knows that.”

One young, single man, who desperately wants a family, said he would be happy to take Alice, but his offer went nowhere in the swirl of differing ideas.

As our hour and a half together ended, our focus seemed less on Alice and more on our own reactions to her. Someone said we should continue the discussion next Sunday.

As it turned out, we all took “Alice” home with us for the week. Next week, at 8:30 a.m. at our meetinghouse, I hope we all bring her back. She has much to teach us.

A Gift from Above

Several of us spent much of yesterday, a glorious autumn Saturday, indoors at our Quaker meeting house.

Our topic was "Helping in Times of Need and Stress."

The skylight in our meeting room framed and projected the day's beauty into our midst.

The big window quietly helped us as we turned our thoughts to helping others.

Working on "A"

After we break our hour’s silence, our small circle of worshipping Quakers often speak of “joys and concerns.”

In these hard times, we share mostly concerns.

Last Sunday, one woman’s comment seemed particularly urgent. “If anyone can tell me how to get from A to B, I’d appreciate it,” she said in frustration.

I wondered about how she had framed the problem: Getting from A to B.

She felt the need to reach a goal (at least it wasn’t “Z”), but she was stuck in the misery of her present.

This is going to sound a lot like Eckhart Tolle, but could it be that progress is all about ridding ourselves of “B”? If there is a “B” out there, by the time you reach it, it will be the new “A.”

Life is a river of “A”s. “B” is always around the bend.

The trick is navigating “A," being in and managing The Now, as Tolle has written,

“A” is all we have — ever.

Afterwards, I shared my thoughts with the woman. “Work on A,” I encouraged her. I think she understood.

Ourselves and Others

In the manner of Quakers, the query posted in the meeting room of our Stark Street Meeting House was changed today for the new month.

The March (or Third Month) query reads:

How careful are we of the reputations of others?
Do we practice the art of listening to one another, even beyond words?

Are we sensitive to each other’s personal needs and difficulties and do we assist in useful ways?

We worship in a circle, and I always position myself so that I can easily read the query on the distant wall.

After several re-readings and reflection, I was moved to speak out of the silence of worship. I asked my fellow worshippers to consider a change in the query so that it asks:

How careful are we of our own reputations?
Do we practice the art of listening to ourselves, even beyond words?

Are we sensitive to our own personal needs and difficulties and do we assist ourselves in useful ways?

I suggested that if we addressed these questions about ourselves, we would be far better able to address those about others as posed in the March query.

Out of Silence, Quaker Joy!

A Quaker query: We know of “making a joyful noise unto the Lord,” although we Quakers rarely practice such "noise." Is it possible to make a joyful SILENCE unto the Lord? How can our silent joy, once we’re led to it, be shared?

Today in our Friends meeting we dispensed with our normal silent worship and practiced what Friends call “worship sharing.”

Normally Quakers “speak out of the silence,” if they speak at all, during worship. It’s considered bad form to come prepared to speak on a topic. Instead, Quaker worshippers rely on the "leadings" in the silence for guidance. We listen for and then to “that of God” within us, and, if so moved, we stand and speak.

Worship sharing, though it begins in silence, is different. The group agrees that we will speak without necessarily being “called” to. Each person’s observation is followed by silence and prayerful consideration, and then that silence is followed by someone’s vocal offering, followed by silence etc.

The topics of worship sharing are usually unplanned as well, but last week one of us were provided a topic. At the end of worship, Renee Chinquapin, a fairly new attender, complained that our meeting doesn’t take into its care “single” members.

I responded by acknowledging the problem but then asserted that each of us is part of the meeting. We all, Renee included, bear responsibility for the meeting’s strengths and weakness.

I suggested that we make Renee’s concern our own and offer it as a subject for worship sharing.

I was looking forward to what Renee would say today. Renee is a musical, lyrical, open, earthy, perceptive free spirit. I shared a passage from her energetic travel book, “Bogotá to Buenos Aires —Riffs, Raps and Revelations Along the Gringo Trail” in an earlier Red Electric post. (I intend to post another selection soon.)

Her observation in today’s sharing was incandescent. She said she found Quaker worship joy-less.

The truth of her words stunned — and liberated — me.

Quakers share their “concerns,” they “hold in the light” the suffering and the oppressed, they struggle against war and hatred. They look within for the truth as they “seek the light.”

But where is the joy? And what keeps us from it?

As I considered her remark, I thought that perhaps the lack of joy might result from our silent worship. It is hard to express joy in silence. Rarely someone will recite a short verse out of the silence. One of our members occasionally sings. Once the silence led her to sing “Amazing Grace.”

But mostly we are profoundly and deeply silent. Some might see us as brooding and even grim.

Yet how easy it is to inject joy into our silence. After Renee spoke, I thought of all the potential for joy in our silent gatherings. I thought of my joy FOR our meeting. The joy in worship is there, if only we choose to turn our hearts to it.

I thought of a contemplative, serene and smiling Buddha. I remembered Alan Watts, the American popularizer of Zen, and his way of punctuating insight with unrestrained, even mischievous laughter.

Could our silence lead us to song and dance and laughter, as well as “spoken ministry”?

My guess is that in the future, thanks to Renee’s gentle prodding, we “early morning” worshippers at Multnomah Monthly Meeting will experience and celebrate our joy inwardly, and, when so moved, outwardly.

I look forward to it — with joy.