Quakers and the gathering Word

North Valley Friends Church is a programmed Quaker meeting, part of Northwest Yearly Meeting. Yet, along with many meetings in the evangelical branch of the Quaker movement, we have both unprogrammed and programmed services. And in both types of meetings, we try to give precedence to the living Word (Jesus our Teacher, present among us), while also carefully considering the written Word.

I especially love the early unprogrammed meeting. The 20 or so of us who gather have become family. The facilitator for the morning (a task that rotates among us) passes out the “gathering word,” reads it aloud twice, and we then enter into silence. The word is usually a short portion of Scripture, but is sometimes a quote from Fox, Barclay, Woolman or another worthy Quaker.

The gathering word quiets our spirits, and literally gathers us around a central point of light. In the following silence we let the written word settle us in the presence of the living Word. A strong sense of community moves us forward. We are the people of God, listening together, waiting for our Lord to speak.

Sometimes the whole meeting proceeds in silence. Usually, after about 40 minutes, one or two people reflect on the gathering word (or on something else they sense the Spirit saying). We end in prayer. And then stand around talking for as long as we can. There are times I leave the meeting amazed by what I’ve learned, warmed by being part of the family.

I realize I’m describing this in ideal terms. In actuality, sometime I fight sleep the whole time. Other times I wrestle with reigning in my fertile imagination. But little by little, I think I’m learning how to do this. Letting go of guilt feelings when I don’t do so well helps. Having the gathering word to hang onto also helps me focus.

This past Sunday, the gathering word came from John 13:12-17: When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked them. “You call me Teacher and Lord, and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.”

Toward the end of the meeting, three people spoke out of the silence. Arthur remembered a foot washing ceremony in Alaska Yearly Meeting. Eskimo leaders of the meeting washed the feet of the Caucasian visitors, thanking them for bringing the gospel to Alaska years ago. It was profoundly meaningful to Arthur. Bill spoke from the context of the history of religion about the continuing temptations of leaders to operate from a base of power rather than service. He noted the enduring effect of the image of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet.

My reflection came from personal experience. I was especially struck by Jesus’ simple acceptance of his role: “You call me Teacher and Lord, and rightly so, for that is what I am.” My experience as an introvert cast in the role of teacher of Latin American leaders (mostly men) contrasts to Jesus’ example. I can do the servant stuff that goes with teaching, but I have trouble seeing myself positively as teacher. Yet Jesus says, “I have set you an example.” The integration of servant and leader, and the simple acceptance of both roles spoke to me. Sometimes a personal message is meant to be shared with the group, and this was one of those times.

We ended the meeting with a time of prayer for Alaskan Quakers. It was good.

The fragrance of our time together and the encouragement received continues with me throughout the week.

Story-telling, teaching and love

"[The] thing that has the capacity to make storytelling glorious is love. Just as great teaching is loving a subject in the presence of students who are also loved, so it is with story. A man who loves the story he is telling, and loves the people he is telling it to, is a formidable bard. Something mysterious happens when story-grip sets in. One man writes a disheveled story, breaks numerous rules, and gets away with it. Another writes a story with every hair in place, prim hands folded on the lap, and it stinks. Then someone else writes a textbook example of doing everything right, and it works anyway. Failures of story-telling are at some level a failure to love. Successes in story-telling are examples of love triumphing."

Douglas Wilson, “Love Story,” March 8, 2010  (www.credenda.org/index.php/From-the-Vaults/love-story.html)

The sunshine eater

Bree eats sunshine.
Every sunny morning
at precisely 10:30
she goes outside,
lifts her head to the sky,
opens her mouth
and lets the golden rays
slip down her throat.
They fill her body
with light.
She does it simply
because it’s good,
as right as oranges
and generosity,
as regular exercise,
doing your homework early
and helping with the dishes.
And also because it feeds
the butterflies in her stomach.
Such a diet of sun
brings out the brilliant
colors in their wings—the reds
and yellows and deep sea
blues. Otherwise, the butterflies
would turn brown and mushy,
she says. That’s exactly
what she says, this bright,
courageous and slightly audacious
sunshine eating girl.

On being a Weighty Friend

It finally happened. Just last week, in fact. In an elders meeting, someone referred to me as a weighty Friend, and everyone there solemnly agreed. No one even snickered.

So I guess I’ve arrived. But the question is—where?

“Weighty Friend” is one of those delightful Quaker terms that’s fun to say, but whose meaning slips and slides around a bit. Is this remnant from early Quakerism still meaningful? Helpful? And what does it mean in reference to me?

My first reaction was shock (unexpressed in typical quakerly fashion). My second reaction was laughter (silent, of course). I thought of “Fat Quaker” as a likely synonym, but my need to diet is not extreme. If the pudgy-cheeked man on the oatmeal box were only frowning, he would be the perfect model.

My third reaction has been a week of pondering and, now, journaling.

I love the old terms, even the archaic ones. Some of them carry an ambience of holiness, order, and, yes, Quaker culture. Some of them still manage to be useful, even after all these years. Maybe “weighty Friend” is one of these.

As I understand the term, it refers to long-time Quakers whose words and lives have made them worth listening to. These people have earned a reputation for wisdom. In my own setting in the Northwest, people like Arthur Roberts, Ralph Beebe, Paul Anderson, and Howard Macy (who will chuckle if he reads this) come to mind. (Actually, Howard might just be too funny to be a weighty Friend, at least in the solemn sense of the term.)

How am I to hold this term in reference to myself? To be honest, I don’t feel ready to adopt this as part of my identity. Perhaps this is part of my admitted resistance to growing older. Do I also have to grow more solemn, stern, and stereotypically Quaker? I certainly don’t always feel wise.

The following words come to mind: “By the grace given me, I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you” (Romans 12:3). And, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves” (Philippians 2:3). (If the Apostle Paul had had the foresight to have become a Quaker, he would have indeed been a weighty one.)

This gives me perspective. I think “weighty Friend” is a helpful concept, as long as I apply it to other people. But I will not wonder whether I am or am not. It’s not for me to say. And if anyone ever calls me that again, I’ll chuckle out loud or keep it silent, depending on the sensibilities of the person addressing me.

Having worked that through, I feel so much lighter.

Catching the dream song: discerning God’s voice in unusual ways

While Western spirituality doesn’t give much credence to dreams, voices and visions (unless you’re a Pentecostal), Christians in other cultures take these phenomena seriously. I’ve also learned to accept that dreams are one of the ways God speaks to me. Perhaps my relationships with Friends in Bolivia and Rwanda have made me more open to this experience.

Not all dreams weigh the same, of course. Most mornings I wake up to floating images that I desperately want to hang onto because of their tantalizing hints and colors, but the harder I try, the quicker they dissolve. Most mornings. But from time to time, I awaken to a story or an image that is clear, if not totally coherent. I’ve learned to receive these dreams as a gift, and to write them down as soon as possible as a way of listening to them.

Sometimes, the dream gives me an insight into a difficult relationship or into some aspect of my own inner turmoil. Other times it’s clearly a word from God. It’s one of the ways God shows me the way forward. It gives light on the path.

One morning last week I woke up with a new song. Snatches of the tune and a few lines of the chorus were swimming through my brain: “Newborn, let me slow down and walk with you.” I was singing the song to a baby. The music was hauntingly beautiful. But like catching a strong and stubborn fish, I’ve hooked the song, but I can’t reel it in. Only the images remain. I shared it with Hal and we both agreed that God was speaking to me.

In the dream I was an older woman, about 10-20 years beyond where I am now. I was walking around London by myself, obviously a tourist. (On our recent trip in “real life,” Hal and I had a 15 hour layover in London, and we spent it doing just that.) I had the scraggly mussed look of someone in the middle of a long journey.

I wandered into a lovely old stone church that managed to be smaller on the inside than it was on the outside. A handful of people of various ages were standing around the altar, and as I approached I saw that a young couple was christening their baby.

I joined them, and at a lull in the service, I asked a young man if I could borrow his guitar and sing to the baby. In the dream this seemed entirely appropriate. I sang a lullaby I had written, a blessing addressed directly to the baby. It was gentle, simple, profound and beautiful. People were obviously touched. The baby went to sleep.

Before the song even came to an end, I woke up.

I think God is addressing some of my fears about growing old. This is God’s loving, affirming response to my questions: Will I still be me? Will I still be creative? Will I still have something of value to give other people?

Some insights after reflection on the dream: 1) Old age happens mid-journey. It is not the goal, certainly not the end of the trip.

2) My beauty and ministry will be rooted in my creativity.

3) God’s gifts grow better with time.

4) As I follow the Spirit, God will make my giving appropriate, profound and beautiful.

My prayer partner had an additional interpretation of the dream. She suggests that I am all the people in the dream, that I need to (and can) minister creatively to all the ages inside me, including the baby. It’s interesting that all age groups were clustered around the altar.

So much to ponder. I sense anew God’s love and blessing. And I’m grateful for all the ways God speaks to us.