Intentional ambiguity and Quaker process

A good friend of mine, when asked what his spiritual gift is, usually replies, “I have the gift of ambiguity.” I wish I had thought of that first.

It’s been over a week since yearly meeting, and as I reflect back on the hopes and expectations I had versus the actual experience, the word ambiguity stands up and takes a bow. Our discussions on human sexuality took place in an atmosphere of mutual respect. And while we were not able to “lay aside” our own perspectives and just listen to the Lord as instructed by the clerk, no voices were raised. In the end we were not able to come to consensus (OK, OK! I know Quakers don’t use that word!) on the re-wording of the statement in Faith and Practice, so the old statement stands. It stands, even though we’re all aware that we don’t agree on its content.

It seems we’re still in a holding pattern, a place of continuing ambiguity.

When our superintendent asked for a five-year moratorium on any “sudden movements” around this issue—meaning, I suppose, no churches leaving or being expelled—while we slowly continue the conversation, I thought that this was, indeed, the word of the Lord, the path forward. But it appears that even this admonition has engendered controversy. So, back to ambiguity.

Is that so bad?

It reminds me of a term I discovered in my graduate research. I integrated the disciplines of theology, anthropology and linguistics as I explored the cultural ramifications of writing about God in the different contexts of the church. (Let me insert here that I had so much fun doing this research that the legality of the academic degree I received is probably dubious.)

 While most of my case studies were conducted in contemporary cultures, I did one biblical study of the book of Ruth as effective communication in the context of its original receptors. As part of that study, I researched the communicational values of the Hebrew culture. And I discovered the concept of “intentional ambiguity.” Good communication in the Hebrew culture does not answer all the questions or tie up all the loose strings. It leaves you wondering, pondering, asking God what it all means.

This value affected all the writers of the Old and New Testaments. While the New Testament wasn’t written in Hebrew, its speakers and writers were Jewish and had Jewish values as part of their cultural DNA. Even Jesus.

One might ask, if God really wanted to clearly communicate with humanity, why did God choose the Hebrew culture as a channel, ambiguity and all? I think of the old poem, “How odd of God to choose the Jews.” You’d think God would elect a culture that has popular sayings like, “Come to the point!” “Say what you mean and mean what you say!” “Quit beating around the bush!” That’s us, folks. My dad said all those words to me, and transmitted those values into my brain.

But God chose a culture that values intentional ambiguity as a communication style.

It all gives me pause whenever I hear a brother or sister say, “But the Bible clearly says that…!” Actually, it’s not always that clear on the details. Intentionally so.

In some ways we Quakers are like the Hebrews. Quaker process, however you define it, seems to allow for slow movements and time to let the Spirit work. This may clash with the values of our surrounding culture, but so much of Quakerism does. Or speaking more broadly, many of the values of the whole kingdom of God clash with whatever culture we happen to swim around in.

So here we are at the end of yearly meeting again, still immersed in ambiguity. I guess that means we have to keep waiting, keep listening, keep talking to each other.

And keep on hoping for a clear word from the Lord.

Yearly Meeting hope

Hope is arising in me on this uncommonly grey morning in July. Northwest Yearly Meeting’s annual sessions begin today as I meet with the Board of Global Outreach (what we used to call the Mission Board). In a sense this is a time of closure as Hal and I are officially retiring from our service under this board, a service we began with great hope and anticipation in 1971. At the concluding banquet on Thursday evening, the yearly meeting will honor us. I hope (that word again) it will be a gentle celebration, not too much hoopla. Not any loud cheering. A few quiet handshakes, a mutual thank-you to all concerned. After all, we don’t plan to stop serving and traveling and writing and living this incredible adventure God called us to so many years ago. We just won’t do it officially any more.

But of course this yearly meeting time is about more than us. We find ourselves, as do so many other parts of the Body Christ, embroiled in the controversy surrounding human sexuality. In particular, our positions on gay, lesbian, and transgender issues are being called into question. And we are a divided people. Many meetings strongly affirm the traditional position that the Scriptures only allow for marriage between a man and a woman, and that any deviation from this position means we are in danger of compromising the faith. Fear combines with sorrow for these dear people. Many people, and at least one meeting, believe the Spirit is leading us out into a brave new world where we can affirm committed same-sex relationships. Most of us are somewhere in the middle. We’re all longing for a clear word from the Lord.

Part of my nature as a poet embraces the ambiguity and basks in God’s silence. But that doesn’t work so well when we’re faced with the concrete need to revise Faith and Practice. And the longing to stay together, even in the midst of controversy.

We don’t know what will happen during this year’s sessions, and I sense that many outside of our community are watching and waiting. That’s why I find this hope that’s twirling around inside me so strange, illogical and lovely. “Hope and a Future” also happens to be the theme of the sessions, and I anticipate what our special speaker, Noah Baker Merrill, will bring.

As I’ve been praying for us all this last year, the words eventually come down to two basic requests:

Lord, have mercy.

And, Holy Spirit, come.

Yes.

Putting in the Pieces: Commentary on Quaker Business Meetings

The meeting moved forward
slowly. The borders had been
established, and now different
ones were adding pieces,
filling in the middle of
this large puzzle.
An underwater scene was
emerging, an ocean that pulsed
with kelp, corral, fish, bubbles
and more light than was logical.
But large holes remained.
As I sat, one gnarly puzzle piece
swam through my brain, lodged
just behind my eyes. I couldn’t
make sense of it at first, but all
at once I recognized a small
orange pair of fish lips.
“You’ve got to be kidding,”
I said to Spirit.
“Nope,” she replied.
“But I can’t offer this. It’s silly.”
“Yes, Nancy, you can.” I felt
rather than saw her smile.
“Besides, if you don’t put in
your piece, just think of that fish,
forever doomed to live
without its lips.”
My giggle broke the surface
of the silence. When the quiet
again settled in, I stood up.

Lunch is not broken

Hal and I are in the middle of a three-week adventure of watching the grandkids while their parents are diving off of Honduras (a much needed holiday). I feel like I’m diving into the deep sea of raising young children. I don’t remember it being this hard. Or fun.

I’m not getting much writing done, so this will be a short blog.

The other day, I told Peter (six years old) that I was “going to fix lunch now.”

“Grandma!” he protested. “You can’t fix lunch. It’s not broken!” He wasn’t joking. His literal autistic brain would not let me fix anything if it wasn’t broken.

There’s simply no arguing with his logic, so we negotiated the language and decided I could make lunch.

Which I did.

Military band on a Quaker university

Early this week Hal and I attended a concert on the campus of George Fox University. The US Air Force Band of the Golden West was touring Oregon, and GFU hosted them in their huge Bauman Auditorium. The concert was free to the public, but required tickets in order to handle the crowds. We had obtained ours a week in advance, and rightly so. The place was packed out.

Hal had just preformed last week in this same auditorium, part of the community band concert, and the audience, while not massive, enthusiastically supported its efforts. But we were both looking forward to what we knew would be an evening of excellence with the Air Force Band. The incongruities of the situation did not occur to me at first.

It was, of course, a superb performance. I especially enjoyed the band’s rendition of Aaron Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring,” and an incredible jazz clarinet solo.

But a sense of restlessness slowly arose as I sat there, hearing the glorious sounds that included, naturally, military marches, seeing the multitude of uniforms, and taking in the sense of pride in the introductions and comments. It was like one of those what’s-wrong-with-this-picture exercises in children’s magazines. Something seemed out of balance.

Toward the end of the evening, the band played “America the Beautiful.” This song always brings tears to my eyes. And that happened this time, too. But the pictures that flashed by on the huge screen were scenes of beautiful America taken from the cockpits of Air Force jets, with the jet dominating the screen. My tears dried up and I wondered if I should even be singing.

The concert concluded with the “Armed Forces Medley,” and as the theme song of each branch was played, veterans and different people connected with that particular branch stood. Around the auditorium, groups of men and women proudly rose up as the rest applauded. Emotions ran high, and the final crash of drums and cymbals was met with the whole audience on its feet, clapping and yelling, roaring its approval.

We were both pensive on our walk home. I remembered how that during the Vietnam War, Hal went through the difficult court procedures to finally be declared an official Conscientious Objector (CO) to war. He then served two years, under the draft board, doing agricultural projects in a Mayan village in Guatemala. It was during a dangerous time of civil unrest in that Central American country, but, of course, nothing like what was happening in Asia. Other classmates went directly to Vietnam as COs during the war, serving in different humanitarian projects. In fact, I was sure one of them was sitting in the audience that night.

During that last rousing song, as people all around us stood up and sat down, Hal, of course, stayed seated.

I know that GFU serves a constituency that is larger than the Quaker community. I know that this concert was offered as a service to the entire community. But I wonder if, as a Quaker university, it couldn’t have offered a chance for the COs in the audience to stand up and be recognized. Would the Air Force have allowed it? Possibly not. Would the audience have clapped? Possibly not.

All this leaves me wondering if a renewal of the passion for peacemaking is in order. What expressions could it could take?

The restlessness in my spirit continues.