On reading the Bible aloud

A description from Alan Patton’s novel, Cry the Beloved Country (1942)


“Msimangu opened the book, and read to them first from the book. And Kumalo had not known that his friend had such a voice. For the voice was of gold, and the voice had love for the words it was reading. The voice shook and beat and trembled, not as the voice of an old man shakes and beats and trembles, nor as a leaf shakes and beats and trembles, but as a deep bell when it is struck. For it was not only a voice of gold, but it was the voice of a man whose heart was golden, reading from a book of golden words. And the people were silent, and Kumalo was silent, for when are three such things found in one place together?”

Cute

Something strange happened to me recently in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. It was one of those little incidents that is no big deal, really, but that goes on tickling the brain for weeks afterward. My brain has now been tickled to the point that I need to write.

Hal and I were on our way to a Miami meeting of the academic council of the program we work with. We had a two hour layover in Dallas right at lunch time. Although I try to eat healthy food, even on trips, I occasionally I get the urge for a hamburger, fries, and coke. (This is a confession.) I knew of a place in the airport that serves gourmet hamburgers and I managed to talk Hal into it.

We found a table in the crowded mall and slowly ate our burgers, thoroughly enjoying this slightly sinful luxury. We were not too aware of the people around us, but as we got up to leave the restaurant, a young couple at a nearby table stopped us, and said, “You guys are so cute! How long have you been together?”

I managed to mumble, “Oh, about 43 years,” and Hal added, “We really like each other.” “We can tell,” the woman said, and we moved on.

But I was stunned and not altogether pleased. It seemed like something one said to wrinkled people with white hair who hobble down the street holding hands. And who are, indeed, cute. I know I’m growing older, but I don’t think I’m ready for cute.

There was a time, of course, when cute mattered. I was a serious adolescent, a student, a reader of Great Literature, a poet, and so on. But in my heart of hearts I longed to be a cheer leader, go steady, and be considered cute.

Thanks be to God, I outgrew it. As an adult cute ceased to occupy a place on my list of values (except for the time when, as a young mother, I was relieved that my babies were cute). I haven’t worried about cute in years, and I certainly don’t want to now.

I guess this is really about growing older and accepting this season in life. I’m not sure how I’m doing with this. I need to admit that as soon as I got home from Miami, I bought some hair color, part of my anti-cute remedy. But this, of course, doesn’t solve anything. I think I just need to confess my dis-ease (what I’m doing here), laugh about it, and focus on what matters. So, what matters? How about—“To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God”?

Sort of makes cute seem irrelevant.

The grandchildren speak

Paige

I was sitting in the easy chair a few evenings ago
when Paige, pajamed, brushed, and smelling of toothpaste,
came over, placed her hands on my knees, put her face
up into mine, and purred, "I won't ever kill
you, 'cause you're my favorite grandma."
Thank God. One less thing to worry about.

Reilly

Saturday. Bad day right from the start.
"No! I don't want to get up!"
"No! I don't want to stay in bed!"
"Cheerios? Yuck!
“Mom! Make Paige give that to me! It’s my robot!”
A general no to everything.
And then it happened. A gigantic wet sneeze
left him as surprised as the rest of us.
A brief pause, and tears began rolling down his face.
Kristin, Good Mother, reached out.
“Reilly, what’s wrong?” “When I sneeze,”
he wailed, “my cheeks get cold
and I don’t know how to get them warm again.”
Kristin’s laugh didn’t help.
It’s hard to be six.

Peter

You didn’t talk at all for a long time,
and it warms me that one of your first words
was light, and your first sentence, light on, as you pointed
to the correct spot on the ceiling or toward the window.
Light has always drawn you, even at four months
when the experts pronounced you blind, told us
there was no cure, and we gathered our courage,
began checking out books on Braille.
But now at two you navigate the shores and shoals
of this house with more than your inner compass. You reach
for favorite toys, recognize people before they speak,
and point to pictures in books saying,
“Doggy! Doggy! Woof!” You’ve been promoted to
visually impaired, but we hold the label lightly.
Clearly the lights are on. Sail forth, young Peter.
Show us the way.

Disembodied Quakers?

Quaker historian Tom Hamm, in the opening session of the QUIP (Quakers United in Publishing) gathering in Indiana last month, suggested that the contemporary outpouring of Quakers on the internet was the 21st century equivalent of the original 17th century “publishers of truth.” Later in the conference Brent Bill reminded us that in the first 50 years of the Quaker movement, over 640 writers put out more than 3000 pamphlets, tracts and books. Today some of our most lively exchanges are on the internet. A good deal of the QUIP conference was devoted to the phenomenon of Quaker blogging. And here I am, trying to join the conversation.

I have my doubts. The university I work for is going online, and I am trying to prepare my course in this new (to me) modality. The teacher in online-course-design is telling us that once we experience this wonder, we will never again want to have a traditional class with people physically present in a room. I think he’s wrong. The almost magical claims about what virtual reality can offer scare me and make me a doubter.

Before the QUIP conference, I received emails from people I didn’t know, and my mind automatically supplied images to match the words. Of course being there in person made all the images disappear. In each case the reality of the person was better than what I had imagined.

I’m reminding myself that face to face encounter doesn’t necessarily guarantee knowing another person. And a lively mental exchange is possible on the internet. Sometimes the virtual exchange is better, for example, in the case of quiet people like me. In a group I don’t always speak up, but online or on the page, I have a voice. I can enter the conversation. I’m reminding myself that all writing is a medium, and part of the challenge of the good writer is to embody what she writes—root it in time and place and the real world. Language itself is a medium.

But still there’s something so good and so concrete about being physically present to another person. Add the smell of fresh bread, the timbre of voice tones (that skype can’t quite replicate), the gestures and expressions that can say more than words, throw in a hug or two, and something real happens.

I’m theologizing now, drawn to the story of the incarnation. God felt the need to become embodied in order to extend salvation to the human race. “He became flesh and dwelled among us and we beheld……” Jesus was a flesh and blood person who got tired, suffered hunger, knew pain, as well as the joys of friendship and family.

But then my back-and-forth mind asks, “What about today?” Jesus is no longer with us in the flesh. We believe he is here among us, speaking to us, leading us, protecting us. I see the Quaker painting, “The Presence in the Midst.” So, does that mean our relationship with Jesus is now virtual?

Again my mind rebels at the label. The term virtual makes relationship seem somehow mechanical, less than wholesome. It makes me wonder about the nature of virtual reality, its strengths and its dangers.

No, our relationship with the living Word is not virtual. As I sit in his presence, he is as real to me as the air I breathe, and our communion is warm and friendly. Sometimes it’s frightening, and I realize how little I really know him. There are times when I can’t emotionally sense his presence at all. But I know that he is there, beyond feeling, thought or word. And not as some virtual reality. As Reality.

It’s significant that the Scriptures speak of the afterlife in terms of a new earth and new heavens. We will have new bodies. I don’t understand this and can barely even imagine it, but a blessed and glorious materiality awaits us. And, with material eyes, we will see the one we are now coming to know.

And so I continue to wait quietly, daily in his presence. And I will continue to explore this new medium, interacting with friends and Friends (and maybe even an enemy or two) over the internet. As I do, I will try to remember that behind the words that float out from cyberspace, there are people with bodies and feelings, with relationships, stories to be told, and destinies to fulfill. In doing so, maybe I can make even blogging a sacramental act.

Quaker writers: a people to be gathered and sent

I spent last week participating in the annual meetings of Quakers United in Publishing (QUIP), concurrent with a writers’ conference. This was my first experience with this group. I had been invited to present a workshop on “Poetry as Ministry.”

QUIP is a networking organization of publishers, yearly meetings and writers from all branches of Quakerism. They come mostly from unprogrammed liberal Friends, but include evangelicals (like me) and conservative Friends. (Pardon the labels. They’re not always helpful but hard to avoid.) This mix of different Quakers is one thing that draws me to this type of gathering. I was not disappointed.

The meetings took place on the lovely campus of the Quaker Hill Conference Center in Richmond, Indiana (another first for me) and went from Wednesday evening to Sunday noon. The very full schedule included evening plenary sessions on fascinating topics, 10 different workshops to choose from, interest groups, QUIP business sessions, with times of unprogrammed worship binding it all together. This was all about words—the many ways and challenges of writing and publishing words—yet it was the interweaving silence that enriched our words and allowed meaning to deepen.

Some of the highlights for me include…

…the high level of participation by young people. About one third of the participants were young women and men in their 20s and 30s. Their contributions were encouraged and valued. This was partly due to the presentation of the book, Spirit Rising: Young Quaker Voices, a two year QUIP project (see photo). The enthusiasm, vitality and honest searching of these Friends energized the whole conference.

…the desire of those involved in QUIP to encourage new voices. I thought frequently of the Andean Friends among whom I’ve spent most of my life, and of developing writers in Africa and Asia. Yes. It’s their turn, and they have much to teach the rest of us.

…new friends and networks. I loved hiking down to the waterfall with Dody Waring, listening to the fascinating experiences of this New England Quaker lady in her eighties. We exchanged books, and I read Dody’s memoirs, Sacred Trust: A Quaker Family since 1816, on the plane home. I loved spending time with Bolivian Friend Emma Condori. It was a relief to both of us to be able to speak Spanish. I listened as she processed her experiences living in this culture. I interacted with other poets and bloggers and trust the relationships will be ongoing. This refreshes and encourages me more than anything else.

…the voice of Jesus and the rising of his Spirit among us—in the times of silence, in the hum of conversation at the dinner table, in the careful crafting of business minutes, in the tears and hugs as people left on Sunday afternoon.

There are differences between the branches of Quakerism, some hard issues the swim beneath the surface in any gathering. We need wisdom as we name and face these. But deeper than the tensions, I sense a new hope that God is still gathering a people, pouring out the Spirit, and sending us forth to publish truth.

George Fox, Margaret Fell and purple prose

Hal and I enjoy reading aloud to each other at night. It’s usually a novel, a biography, or some exciting person’s memoirs. (In other words, nothing academic. This is reading for pleasure.) Recently we tackled Jan de Hartog’s classic novel of the beginnings of Quakerism, The Peaceable Kingdom, along with the sequel, The Holy Experiment. I had read these years ago and, while vague on the details, remembered this as exciting reading. Hal had not read the books, so I checked the combined volume out of the local library, and we got started.

Any more Hal does the reading, and I’m often asleep before the second page (and have to catch up the next day on my own). The morning after the first chapter, he commented to me, “Nancy, this isn’t the George Fox I know from his journal. The book is highly over-written.” I hadn’t recollected any of that, perhaps having been an uncritical reader in my youth. When I asked him if he wanted to continue, he said he wanted to see where the book went.

It is, indeed, exciting reading, so much so that I managed to stay awake for the following chapters. But I saw Hal’s point about the book being over-written, almost, at times, seeming like tabloid purple prose or a Harlequin romance. Frequently, we both burst out laughing. These portraits certainly did not fit the images we had of our Quaker ancestors, the heroes of the faith. Permit me some examples:

“Henrietta Best [neighbor and friend of Margaret Fell] did not know what prompted her to go and see Margaret Fell again, but the moment the thought struck her, she decided to act upon it. She did not stop to consider that more than a month had gone since Fox’s departure; all she thought about was how she herself would feel at the realization that the man she loved had gone forever. There was no doubt in her mind that Margaret Fell had fallen in love with him; a woman could fool herself about her relationship with a man only as long as he was around. The moment he had left, she would drop all pretense, and no wonder; at that moment her heart would break and the awful, awful sickness begin; the agony, the hopeless yearning with every fiber of her body, every nerve, for his presence, his touch; her every waking thought, her every dream would be centered on him in unbearable, self-inflicted torture. It was the most harrowing torment to which women were prone, and it made no difference how old they were, how wise, how rich, how well schooled in the control of their emotions. To see a woman in that anguish made every other woman want to sneak away and leave her to lick her own wounds, know that for this torment there was no solace, no cure. The only remedy was time.” (Book 1, Ch. 7)

Here’s another brief description of a ride through a dark forest, one of the passages that had us whooping in laughter (not an exaggeration): “As he rode on through Kendal forest, the increasing wind hissed and foamed in the shedding trees, sending whirling at him from the ghostly woods diapers, infant’s colic, whooping cough, vomit on the carpet, snot on his chair, bat ears, inward squint, buck teeth, midnight screams, porridge flung across the room, piercing whistles.” (Book 1, Ch. 7) And so on. This is probably enough to make my point.

But on we read, captivated by the dramatic story. I had to travel while we were still somewhere in the middle of the book, and Hal actually finished it on his own. He felt the book improved, in terms of its literary value, in the second half, the story of the early Quaker movement in America. He observed that De Hartog is an artist who uses primary colors and paints in broad strokes. An apt description.

Here are some observations: The book is a novel. While based on history, the author makes no pretense that this is non-fiction. He freely uses his imagination to depict the inner emotional states of the characters, and fills in the gaps with his own interpretations. This is all appropriate to the genre.

But, while being a novel, the author, a Quaker himself, did his research. We were glad to find a section of historical notes at the end of the first book, and learned some fascinating details.

Having said that, I must admit that this interpretation of the main characters of early Quaker history did not jive with our own readings of Fox’s Journal and other writings, along with the letters of Margaret Fell. They seemed like totally different people. I guess it hinges on the word “interpretation.” And it points out some of the differences in Quakerism today, with all the perspectives ranging from liberal to evangelical to conservative, although in possession of the same early documents.

And here De Hartog, in his historical notes, makes some interesting observations. He writes that Fell lived eleven years after the death of Fox and that during that time she edited Fox’s journal for publication (with the participation of a committee of London Friends). De Hartog notes that in this process, “All miracles and supernatural occurrences were deleted….From its pages emerged not the man George Fox had been, but the one Margaret Fell decided he should have been.”

De Hartog goes on to state that, “During [Fox’s’] lifetime she and he had battled for supremacy in the Society of Friends, each trying to impose a different concept of love on the movement as its guiding star. Only after his death did sly old Maggie, mischievous saint, finally have her way; henceforth the accent in the spiritual life of Quakers would be on service rather than salvation, tenderness rather than righteousness, and on infinite patience with the foibles of others as well as one’s own….It was a concept that would lead to great things: the first prison reform, the first humane treatment of the insane, the first school among the Indians, the first abolition of slavery….”

This is a fascinating interpretation: George Fox the evangelical and Margaret Fell the liberal. I’m dubious as to this take on subsequent Quaker history. And one look around the world shows a vibrant Quaker movement in Asia, Africa and Latin America where evangelical preaching is backed up by a commitment to works of justice and mercy in the context of the poor.

As an evangelical Friend, I especially note the absence of a key character of early Quakerism in The Peaceable Kingdom. I’m referring to Jesus. Although the novel mentions “the light within,” “the rising of God within” and so forth, Jesus is not prominent. But He fills George Fox’s Journal and defines “the light within.”

On the positive side (and so much of this novel is positive), these portraits clearly depict Fox, Fell and other early Friends as real people. This is not hagiography. Since we have the tendency to glorify our Quaker heroes, I find this down-to-earth view, however accurate or not, healthy. Some of it just could be true.

I got a notice from the library this morning that the book is due in a few days. Since I have already renewed it once, I need to turn it back, not having finished it myself. In a week or two I just may check it out again and read all the way to the end. That in itself says something, doesn’t it?

Quote by Carl Sandburg

"I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it."