Christ Destroys His Cross

By David Johns

I went to the Museo de Arte Moderno de Carrillo Gil in January with one goal in mind: to see the painting I had been thinking about for the past two years. Like the song you can’t quite get out of your head, this painting, Cristo destruye su cruz (Christ destroys his cross), has found its way into my conversations and into my classroom. I was in Mexico City again, so I took the Metrobús south along Insurgentes to the Altavista platform and walked about six blocks to the museum on Avenida Revolución.

It wasn’t there.

“It’s in the archives,” one of the staffers told me, and it wouldn’t be exhibited any time soon.

“A private exhibition, maybe?” I asked, thinking it couldn’t hurt.

Not likely; but she said I should send a letter stating why I needed to see the painting. So, I sent the letter. Then I sent another. After a few weeks they sent one to me.

José Clemente Orozco was a contemporary of Diego Rivera and David Siqueiros, the paint-splattered trio of muralists who gave visual expression to a new vision of Mexico emerging from the Revolution. Orozco blew off his left hand as a child while playing with fireworks so he never had to “let his right hand know what his left was doing,” he could simply be free; and that’s what he was as an artist.

He painted the theme, Cristo destruye su cruz, three times in his life, twice as murals—one of which still survives at Darmouth College—and once on a 4’ x 3’ canvas. The third he painted in 1943 in a studio at 132 Ignacio Mariscal in Mexico City, where today a Friends meeting gathers each Sunday.

“Parece como si fuera un leñador,” I told someone who asked how Jesus was portrayed in the painting; he looks like a lumberjack. After being crucified—that is obvious from his disfigured foot—Jesus swings a wooden handled ax and chops down the cross.

I can imagine him shouting with each impact of the blade: “Ya basta! Enough!” Or, as the biblical writers captured it: “It is finished!” To the violence that destroys and oppresses, to all the laws and institutions that diminish humanity under their power—enough. Orozco paints the cross not as wood, except for one small section that looks like a wooden stake, but as marble stone, the same material forming the crumbled ruins (a temple? a government palace?) behind the Jesus figure.

Taking down the cross is not enough. If one lives in the life and power that takes away the occasion of all wars, as Fox declared, more than war needs to go. Orozco’s Jesus is surrounded by symbols of those things that lead to crucifixions, Jesus’ as well as the crucifixion of countless, faceless others who are sacrificed in world where power crushes the vulnerable.

I returned to the museum and sat in the chief curator’s office for an hour talking about Mexican art, Orozco’s politics, creativity, and liberation theology. She was curious what a theologian from Indiana saw in this work. Then she led me into the archives, a small warehouse-like area where the work of masters was tucked away waiting their turn to breathe again in the galleries.

Cristo destruye su cruz was propped up against some shelving. I spent an hour with Orozco’s ax-swinging Jesus, on my hands and knees, examining color, lines, images, and the little things that aren’t so little when in the hands of a great artist.

For three hours in the museum’s research library I read everything the director placed in front of me—exhibition catalogues, biographies, reviews.

I was invited one last time to sit with Orozco’s canvas. Deeply grateful, I offered the curator a gift. She declined.

“I see something new in this work,” she said. “When Christ destroys his cross it’s not an act of revenge.”

It’s an act of hope for all creation.

David Johns is Associate Professor of Theology at Earlham School of Religion. He is an Associate Editor of Quaker Religious Thought, a member of First Friends Meeting, Richmond, and a proud member of the Associación Teológica Ecuménica Mexicana.

The Bible and Domestic Violence

By Valerie Hurwitz

I have been reading the minor prophets of the Old Testament for a class, and part of the reading for this week prophetically fit in with the Peace Forum speaker. From Hosea 2:2-3, 14-15 (New Revised Standard Version):

Plead with your mother, plead — for she is not my wife, and I am not her husband— 
that she put away her whoring from her face, and her adultery from between her breasts, 

or I will strip her naked and expose her as in the day she was born, and make her like a wilderness, and turn her into a parched land, and kill her with thirst.

Therefore, I will now persuade her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak
tenderly to her. From there I will give her her vineyards, and make the Valley of Achor a door of
hope.

There she shall respond as in the days of her youth,   as at the time when she came out
of the land of Egypt.

This metaphor of God as husband punishing faithless Israel as wife has troubled generations of seminary students and confounded readers of all types. Does this teach us something about the way a husband should treat a wife? Yuck!

Vivian Finnell, founder and CEO of the organization Not 2 Believers Like Us came to Peace Forum on March 8th, 2012 to speak about domestic violence in the faith community. There is the tendency, she says, to think that domestic violence doesn’t happen in faith communities, or isn’t an issue that should be addressed in those communities. Unfortunately, one in three women and one in eight men will report domestic violence during their lifetime. We pay for this violence through both financial loss and lost human potential; through hospital visits, bullying in the schools, and a number of other societal issues.

This violence is taught over the pulpit and through scripture. If clergy are not familiar with domestic violence issues, they can mis-advise their parishioners. At best they might not know where to direct someone to for help, at worst they might tell a wife to “go and submit” or tell a man to “stand up and be a man.”

Vivian advised seminary students going into ministry of any type to educate themselves about the signs of domestic violence and local resources (see, for example, the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence). She also suggested that pastors address this issue in sermons, bible studies, and other settings.

We might translate this into unprogrammed Quaker terms by saying that unprogrammed Friends should educate themselves and their meetings about domestic violence.

At the very least, we need to discuss and come to terms with biblical passages such as the one above. Thoughts?

Valerie Hurwitz is Director of Recruitment and Admissions at Earlham School of Religion. She lives in Richmond, Indiana and serves as choir director at West Richmond Friends Meeting.

The Slippery Slope

By Anna Woofenden

The core of this piece was written late on a Saturday night in last June, at the Wild Goose Festival (a gathering of emergent and progressive Christians), sitting under the stars at the campsite, reaching to comprehend and process the transformations that were taking place in me and around me by texting a dear friend and colleague. Turned out to be one very long text.

The warning has come in many forms over the years: watch out for the slippery slope. If we dare to question what we’ve been taught, we cannot predict what could follow, what unearthly pit is around the corner. If we dare to question, before we know it we could be... well… something and surely hell and hand-baskets are involved. Don’t raise those questions, don’t voice any doubts, you don’t know where it may lead. I had been warned.

I didn’t listen. I’ve had conversations with people whose views differ from mine. I’ve gone to worship services that have stretched me beyond my comfort zone. I’ve traveled to other cultures. I’ve read those “edgy” theological books. I’ve entered into conversations where I am challenged and uncomfortable. And in January I finally left the church organization I had called home for many years, as a “radical” pursuing ordination as a woman. Since then, I’ve dared to open up the Bible without being preemptively sure of what it might have to say to me. I’ve become friends with fellow seminarians who are seeking to serve God wholeheartedly who also happen to be lesbian, transgendered and gay. I’ve begun to question the cultural assumptions that had defined my theological reality and am finding the Bible to be alive with humanity and contradiction and the gospels to be downright manifestos of radical living. I continue to question the theology and church culture, as I understood it, while boldly stumbling along, pursuing God and spiritual community.

You open any of these doors, and before you know it, you’re led down a road where you're speaking up about the marginalized, selling your possessions to give to the poor, and surrendering your life to something greater than yourself. It's a slippery slope. If you open yourself up to revelation being alive and moving, letting it be more than a moral code or a patriarchal history lesson, then you slide. You slide and find that you're surrounded by revelation. Poems, stories, myths, the writing and lives of Gandhi and Dr. King, Maya Angelou and Rumi, and the mountains, the people, silence, and yes, even the Scriptures are speaking to you. All overflowing with the Breath of the Spirit and infused with Divine Voice. Each offers pathways connecting the human and the Divine, enlivening and disturbing, moving you to action, bathing you in peaceful Love.

It's a slippery slope, letting go of the lines that divide, seeing people different from yourself as human. Let the walls that make me an "us" and they a "them" crumble, and there is a world of humanity to love. No longer can you ignore the vulnerability, the humanity, the absolute sinner and saint in all of us. No longer can you push others aside or arbitrarily categorize them. Confronted by the humanity around us, we confront the humanity within us and expose our collective brokenness. We come face to face with the things we are capable of, for ill or good. We lose the ability to hide behind our self-righteousness or be cozy in our carefully constructed boxes of absolutism and superiority.

And then we might start caring. We might start exposing ourselves to the people in the world around us. We might start seeing needs. We might start owning and feeling the pain of the human family as our own story, a story that we are drawn into, that we now want to participate in. It’s risky, this slippery slope of seeing humans as human. It’s transformative, God being Divine.

Entertaining the idea that God is untamable, uncontainable and immersed in all we know, might just lead us to respond. To ask what Jesus taught and at least play with the possibility, maybe for the first time, that we're actually called to follow these teachings, is a daring and radical notion. Maybe Jesus had something right when he told us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. Maybe there's something to this command to take care of the widows and orphans. Maybe Jesus wasn't being metaphorical when he told us to feed, clothe and heal our human family.

Maybe, just maybe, this whole Jesus on earth thing, this spark of Divinity walking among us, is something to pay attention to. Maybe model our lives after. And maybe when we go back to the gospels we might find that most of what Jesus was interested in were the marginalized, the poor, speaking up against the oppressing forces, confronting the hard conversations, going to those that need healing, and approaching the broken parts of each of us. We could find that this radical Messiah came to speak and live out an alternative to ruling over others, to consuming, to living only for ourselves. We may begin to entertain the notion that there's something more to live for. We could start to hear the gentle breeze whispering in our ears that there's a force of Creative Love calling. Calling us to act. Moving us to live in harmony. Drawing us to follow this Radical Christ. And that, that my friend is damned uncomfortable.

Watch out for the slippery slope.

Anna Woofenden is a MDiv student at Earlham School of Religion and the Swedenborgian House of studies. She blogs at http://annawoofenden.wordpress.com

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, German Quakers and the limits of pacifism

Bonhoeffer, a German theologian executed by the Nazis, poses a challenge to Quakers. Although a pacifist, Bonhoeffer supported assassinating Hitler. Meanwhile, German Quakers made a strategic decision to fight in World War II in order to survive as a group. The alternative to military service was execution as a traitor (ie, the Nazis didn’t recognize CO status). Bonhoeffer and the German Quakers raise a question: In extreme situations, how far can the peace testimony bend? Can personal purity or holiness become immoral? Were pacifist Germans wrong to participate in violence?

Learn more at Dietrich Bonhoeffer: A Sneak Preview, a review by Diane Reynolds.

Diane Reynolds is a student in Earlham School of Religion’s Master of Divinity program. She maintains a personal blog, Emerging Quaker.

What is Quaker Spirituality? (Part 2)

George Fox (1624-1691), founder of the Quaker movement, had numerous mystical encounters that he called “openings” in which he was given revelations that brought new insights. He sometimes described such experiences as being “taken up into the love of God.” One such insight, that everyone was “enlightened by the divine Light of Christ,” became a key concept in Quaker spirituality. This Light, they claimed, was universal and “would work out the salvation of all, if not resisted.” Originally called the “inward light,” in later periods Friends divided over its interpretation, evangelically-oriented Friends preferring to call it the Holy Spirit, and mystically-oriented Friends, the “inner light.”

Quaker spirituality initially developed around the idea of holiness, which they called perfection or union with God, a spirituality of radical optimism. Perfection, always a work of grace, brought power to overcome sin, a new sense of spiritual freedom, and soul-joy even amidst suffering. Quaker theologian, Robert Barclay (1648-1690) called perfection the “holy birth…fully brought forth.” Quakers always described perfection in biblical terms such as “The life hid with Christ in God” (Col. 3:3), “Christ in you, the hope of Glory” (Col. 1:27), to “partake of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4), and to be “one spirit” with the Lord (I Cor. 6:17).

Early Quakers had a thoroughly biblical worldview and considered the Bible authoritative. However, Fox felt he was primarily called “to direct people to the Spirit that gave forth the Scripture.” Quakers believed revelation was not closed, nor confined to Scripture, but Scripture was the touchstone of truth, and would confirm all direct, personal inspiration. The Bible and the practice of communal discernment became safeguards for self-deception.

Early Quakers, like many puritans in their time, initially anticipated the imminent second coming of Christ, but when it did not happen literally they recognized that Christ had come again spiritually, within each person. Quakers then began to proclaim a “kingdom now” theology, preaching that the Kingdom is within.

Quakers were evangelistic and prophetic, preaching good news to the poor and denouncing oppression--religious, social and political. They became a missionary-oriented movement on a grand scale, adopting an itinerant, apostolic style of preaching. A concern for freedom of conscience, equality of all persons, and social justice were corollaries of their evangelism.

Early Quakers could arguably be called a grass-roots Pentecostal movement. The experience of being "in the power," which meant being Spirit-filled and led, is one of the most recurring phrases in George Fox’s Journal. Early Friends often used the term "poured down" to refer to whole meetings that were “in the power.”

The first generation of Quakers were often harshly persecuted for their beliefs, and thus identified themselves as belonging to the long line of martyrs for God’s truth. Their experience of suffering was viewed positively as identification with Christ, and brought redemptive meaning and purpose. The cross as a daily enacting of the suffering of Christ, became a central symbol of Quaker spirituality. William Penn wrote, “The bearing of thy daily Cross is the only true testimony.”

Quaker christology emphasized the inward Christ (the inward Light) and the cosmic Christ (the universal Light) more than the historical Jesus. Quakers proclaimed that Christ must be awakened and experienced inwardly, not simply believed in as an historic figure or event. Quaker preacher, James Nayler, testified to this Christology which is the basis of incarnational holiness, “None can witness redemption further than Christ is thus revealed in them, to set them free from sin: which Christ I witness to be revealed in me in measure. ”

A twentieth century Quaker spiritual writer echoes this Christology in his classic text, A Testament of Devotion, “Deep within us all there is an amazing inner sanctuary of the soul, a holy place, a Divine Center, a speaking voice….Here is the Slumbering Christ, stirring to be awakened, to become the soul we clothe in earthly form and action. And He is within us all.” The biblical phrase “in Christ“ for Quakers did not mean simply being “in the church” or being “saved,” but signified a mystical relationship of divine indwelling and a complete transformation of being, a knowing God in oneself, and knowing oneself in God.

Carole Spencer serves as Associate Professor of Christian Spirituality at Earlham School of Religion. She is a recorded minister in Northwest Yearly Meeting.


This text is excerpted from the Dictionary of Christian Spirituality, Ed. Glen G. Scorgie.

What is Quaker Spirituality? (Part 1)

I am the Associate Professor of Christian Spirituality at Earlham School of Religion, a Christian Quaker seminary where students can choose a spirituality emphasis. When people ask me what I teach I am always a bit reluctant to say “spirituality.” It sounds so self-righteous and superior! I continually wonder if it is even possible to “teach” spirituality, and on a more fundamental level, what it is that I am actually teaching. Spirituality is a slippery word that can mean practically anything, and is notoriously difficult to pin down to a simple definition that can be universally agreed upon. 

All spirituality is contextual. That is a postmodern axiom, true for all spiritual traditions, and emphatically so for Quaker spirituality which has always been contextual to the core, developing in reaction to, as well as accord with, its historical circumstances. When I teach Christian spirituality I bring to my classes a broad background of a lifetime of immersion in Protestant Christianity, as well as scholarly study of the diversity of Christian traditions. I also bring the experiences of my own spiritual journey and its grounding in the context of a particular Quaker tradition with its own unique history and development.

If I were to ask ten Quaker students at ESR to define and describe Quaker spirituality I would be certain to receive ten different descriptions each shaped by that student’s particular context and life experience. Granted there might be some commonality, but also wide divergence.

Knowing it is virtually impossible to summarize Quaker spirituality in a way that would be acceptable or recognizable to all within the diverse body called Quakers, it takes some boldness and even chutzpah to attempt such a task in 850 words or less. Yet this was my challenge when asked to write an entry on Quaker spirituality for the Dictionary of Christian Spirituality, recently published by Zondervan. So I offer it not as an authoritative description, but merely as a place to begin a conversation around the question, what is Quaker spirituality?

Quakerism began as an experiential faith with a strong mystical interiority, yet a mysticism that was not primarily individual but oriented toward the creation of an alternative community and mission in the world.  Being theoretically non-creedal and non-sacramental, its spiritual expression became highly malleable to historical trends and conditions.

Although we rarely think of Quaker spirituality today as puritan it was originally molded by its emergence in a Puritan/Calvinist context, and subsequently shaped in turn by forces of Quietism, evangelicalism, revivalism, modernism, pluralism, and secularism. In each new context, divergent forms of Quaker spirituality developed, conserving some elements of the tradition and secularizing others.

The first Quakers called themselves “Children of Light” and “Publishers of Truth” but were derisively called “Quakers” because they trembled when they spoke through the inspiration of the Spirit. Quakers today rarely tremble, and the spirituality of its various contemporary branches ranges from conservative evangelical to non-theist.

Quakers are uniquely divided by two forms of worship, “unprogrammed” Friends, meet in silence, without clergy, music or visible sacraments; and “programmed” or pastoral Friends follow a set order of worship, with hymns, scripture, sermons, and prayers. Early Quaker worship was both contemplative (based in silence and surrender) and charismatic. After a long period of silent waiting, messages would be delivered spontaneously through the inspiration of the Spirit.

Quakers of all types continue to be connected by a strong sense of history, as well as a few unique elements such as a consensus decision-making, a testimony to peace and gender equality, and an appreciation for the spiritual value of silence. The basis of all Quaker spirituality is a direct, unmediated experience of God. This may happen individually in the process of conversion and prayer, and communally in the experience of worship.

Carole Spencer serves as Associate Professor of Christian Spirituality at Earlham School of Religion. She is a recorded minister in Northwest Yearly Meeting.


This text is excerpted from the Dictionary of Christian Spirituality, Ed. Glen G. Scorgie.

The Silence of Holy Saturday

By David L. Johns

The most penetrating sound of September 2001 came
not on Tuesday the 11th but on Sunday the 16th.

In November of 1963, only two days after Kennedy
was murdered in Dallas, gridiron warriors assembled on one
hundred yard fields and pushed, and tackled, and punted, and
passed. Near capacity crowds were somber, but nevertheless
cheered on seven NFL games; Pittsburgh tied Chicago 17-17,
Cleveland trounced the Cowboys by ten points. On a Sunday
afternoon in late January 1991, while soldiers were engaged in a
Storm in the Desert, the most creative television commercials of
the season were shown during breaks from Super Bowl XXV.
Allied troops fought Saddam; the New York Giants beat the
Buffalo Bills 20-19.

The most penetrating sound of September 2001 came
not on Tuesday the 11th but on Sunday the 16th; in stadiums
across the country there was no football, there was only silence.
The silent stadium was a more truthful witness to the moment
than were the immediate demands for war; the silent stadium
spoke more poignantly than the immediate calls for peace.

It was the simple-minded naiveté of both the hawks and
the doves that first made me uneasy. It was all so simple. Too
simple. “Steer clear, dear Odysseus, steer clear and save your
life!”

On one hand, there was the immediate response to “kill
them,” “retaliate with everything we have,” “unleash the dogs
of war.” We are victims, they are the enemy! On the day
after, Lance Morrow wrote in Time magazine, “A day cannot

live in infamy without the nourishment of rage. Let’s have
rage. What’s needed is a unified, unifying, Pearl Harbor sort of
purple American fury—a ruthless indignation.”

At the same time, another chorus of voices sang a
dirge of national self-loathing. Here the model of blame is
inverted…they are the victims and we are the enemy. “Our
foreign policy has alienated and disenfranchised and, therefore,
the actions of the terrorists, while horrible, were certainly
understandable.”

It was all so simple.

Then came the statement of Pat Robertson and Jerry
Falwell—identical in sentiment to the statements made by
some others. “The United States is getting what it deserves,
what it has asked for. The anger of God (or, Disenfranchised
Arab and Muslim peoples) has been simmering for years and
on September 11 it reached the boiling point. We know who
the guilty party is, says Falwell and Robertson: homosexuals,
the ACLU, feminists, and abortion rights activists; we know
who the guilty party is, say the purveyors of national self-abuse:
corporate America, the government, the military establishment.
Therefore, since we are guilty, the attacks of God (or,
Disenfranchised Arab and Muslim peoples) is understandable, if
not actually justified.”

It was all so simple.

But it was precisely the simplicity of the solutions that
convinced me of their impossibility. From the “war on them” to the “war on us” everything had the ring of sanctimoniousness and superficiality. Many organizations hastily generated statements concerning the attacks. These statements appeared so swiftly it was obscene.

It was so with Friends. By Wednesday morning the
Friends Committee for National Legislation and Friends
General Conference had posted statements on the internet.
FCNL even posted photos of its office draped with a banner
sporting a bumper-sticker-esque slogan: “War is not the
answer.” Like many other colleges, even my beloved Earlham
jumped into the real-time statement game. In a statement dated
September 12th and posted on the college’s website: “Yesterday
[the] President, student leaders, and teaching and administrative
faculty leaders drafted this response to the day’s events.” I
was breathless. Memos and family pictures from the World
Trade Center towers were still drifting over Manhattan and we
were announcing to the world what we would and would not
do, what was in principle acceptable and what was not. For a
denomination that speaks much of the value of silence there was
precious little of it in response to September 11.

These statements were formulaic and predictable—
like form letters resting peacefully on a hard drive waiting for
someone to fill in the blanks, verbal ejaculations to protect
against our fear of corporate anger. They included a ceremonial
denunciation of the attacks to quiet the masses, then they
stated prepackaged solution. But how could we know how to
respond? In rushing to make statements we demonstrated just how messianic some of us think we are.

Blaming clogged the internet, but empty football
stadiums spoke more truthfully. The orthodoxy of political
correctness, of course, still grants permission to make
demeaning and smug remarks concerning “brainless
testosterone-driven athletes who sit in the back of the
classroom;” however, it was the chorus of silence sung by
absent line-backers that spoke more wisely than the erudite
prose of any academic.

Our time is distinguished by a certain ambiguity. An
ambiguous time is a time in-between, a place of tension, a time
when simple answers simply do not answer; the foundations
that once supported us have been removed and nothing is
completely settled. Louis-Marie Chauvet has written that even
God does not guarantee our certainties. By scrambling to ease
our dis-ease we ingest a panacea that inoculates us from living
with the pain, the anguish, and the anger of real victims.

Each year in the liturgical rhythm of the Christian
calendar a little noted day is lodged between two more
celebrated days—Holy Saturday. It is often neglected, but
it speaks to this moment in our history. Our time is a Holy
Saturday. The horror of the crucifixion is over; the image of
the embodiment of our hopes broken and bleeding and dead still
lingers fresh and raw. In the liturgy, Holy Saturday reenacts
a waiting for something we know has come. Our waiting is
different. In agony and in fear we want to rush into the tomb
and rescue Jesus, to save him from the chill of the tomb. But when we remove Jesus on Saturday we have nothing but a corpse. Easter has not yet come. And who knows, maybe Easter will never come. But, if it does, who can know what form it will take?

Holy Saturday is a day of wondering, of anguish, of
anger, of gnawing emptiness, of fear, and of the questioning
eyes of children. Holy Saturday is a place in-between, a time of
waiting, a time for tears, a space for grieving. Holy Saturday is
a day to remain silent before the ambiguity of life and death, of
death in life.

In many ways, Holy Saturday is the longest day of the
year. “Do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord
one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one
day” (II Peter 3:8). This longest “day” began on September
12th , but it has not been respected nor reverenced by us crafters
of words or by backseat legislators. Yet, silent stadiums …

Plato spoke of metaxy as an in-between place, a place
where humans meet God. We are standing now between
horror and hope in a chasm of betweenness, uncertain, messy,
dangerous, ambiguous. Yet, this metaxy is the place where
God is. On the lengthy Holy Saturday following September
11th I did not stand with chattering academics or with military
advisors or with spin doctors or with resolute pacifists; I chose
to stand in-between, beside the padded shoulders of a silent line
backer.

This essay will be included in an upcoming book, Quakering
Theology, and first appeared in Friends Journal (March 2002).


David Johns is Associate Professor of Theology at Earlham School of Religion. He has traveled extensively among Friends in Mexico and Central America and is a regular contributor to Quaker Religious Thought. He resides in Richmond, Indiana with his family.

The Light of Christ: an Integrated Christology Embedded in Quaker Roots

By Wayne Williams

Maurice Creasy, a 20th century Quaker theologian, discusses the original Christological understanding of founding Friends as being able to hold the “particular and the universal, the historical and the mystical emphasis” of Jesus together in unity.  The salvific significance and power of Jesus concerned “the universal and divine light of Christ”.  He argues that the teaching of early Quakers regarding this Light was an understanding that had to do with the action of God, not man.  God showed Godself in Jesus, and what God showed IS in all men.  This Light is innate in everyone, and we all have access to Christ’s Light eternally.

Teach these new disciples to obey all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age. (Matt 28:20 NLT)

Jesus’ recorded life in Scripture embodied love and compassion.  Through the Gospel narratives, Jesus exhorted and challenged others and the status quo.  Early Quakers believed the embodied expressions and witness of Jesus as being active and present at all times working in and through all persons everywhere.[1]

Salvation through Christ came not through mere possession of this personal Illumination.  Obedience to the discerned leadings of Christ was required to fulfill God’s purpose.  Early Quakers were concerned with an orthopraxy of ethics and action, not liturgy.  Though every person everywhere has access to this Light, few respond with the required action to manifest Jesus’ saving and transforming Power.  

Creasey writes that early Friends were observing in their contemporaries a lip-service glorification of Christ.  The established Church’s ignorance of Christ’s relation to Creation was evidenced “by an uncritical acceptance of social, political, economic, and military methods.”  Early Quakers also criticized the Church of putting a higher value on the “intellectual apprehension of doctrine” than a Spiritual transformation.  For founding Friends, belief in the Lordship of Christ implied transformation of the total individual through living through the promptings of Christ’s Spirit.

Those who so knew Christ themselves to have been delivered not only from penalty of sin but also from its power.  They found themselves, moreover, gathered into a community in which were to be known, not merely as a doctrine or an idea, but in reality and in daily life, both the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings and the power of Christ’s resurrection.[2]

Creasey seems to lament the loss of the original vision that Friends had.  This was an integrated understanding to the saving purpose of Christ.  He argues that the once united interworking concept of Christ embraced the particular and universal, historical and mystical, that these emphases among Friends have become polarized, divided, and in some circles even faded out of view.  It is the component elements’ relationship to one another that gives our comprehension weight and depth.  Our once integrated and comprehensive Christology was a keystone to our Society’s original unity and subsequent growth.  To discuss today our Society’s diverse Christologies (or lack thereof) can occasion division or even offense.  This is saddening, given the fact that Christ once stood as a unifying ideology among our own founding visionaries.  The time is ripe to reconsider our corporate vision of Jesus in relation to our current need for transforming the uncritical social, economic, political, and ethical powers and principalities at work in today’s world.

---

[1] Creasey, Maurice. Christ in Early Quakerism, (Philadelphia: The Tract Association of Friends, undated).
[2] Creasey, Maurice. Christ in Early Quakerism, (Philadelphia: The Tract Association of Friends, undated).

Wayne is a current MDiv student at Earlham School of Religion. He is a member of Brooklyn Monthly Meeting, New York Yearly Meeting.

Less-Anxious Leadership

By Jim Higginbotham

Being a less-anxious presence is a core concept of pastoral care. (The literature actually uses the term “non-anxious presence”; I think that's unrealistic.) Being anxious comes in many forms. For example, students in my classes are encouraged to recognize the ways they over-function in helping another person. Giving advice, asking too many probing questions, and doing things for someone who could do it for him/herself are some of the common ways that caring people try too hard to help. What students often discover is that the more they attempt to alter someone's behavior or feelings, even out of compassion, the less the other person changes. Ironically, doing less often has more power.  Under-functioning is another kind of anxious reaction, which is often related to a history of woundedness.

Systems theorists assert that managing anxiety is the key to effective leadership. The less anxiously a leader reacts to the dynamics of a group the more effectively s/he can guide them through even the most difficult situations. Unfortunately, leaders, like everyone else in a group, have difficulty recognizing their own reactivity. Organizations of all sizes have particular, often unrecognized patterns to their interactions, which are most characteristically exhibited in difficult decision-making. Groups will repeat the same “mistakes” over and over, even when the leadership changes. In small groups, people take on roles as if in a play, and it is hard to escape these roles without leaving the group. This is most evident in families, of course. Even in large organizations, systemic dynamics encourage the leader to react in a certain manner: the leader rose to that position, in part, because his/her style fits the system.

Therefore, good leadership is often not about changing the group you lead, but changing how you react to the group. Less reactivity can affect group dynamics. Similar to pastoral caregiving, leaders need to recognize when they are trying to do too much or when they are helping the group continue to spin in a direction that hasn't worked. In the latter situation, pushing the group to change directions probably won't be effective. However, if a leader stops enabling the current patterns and reacts with less anxiety when the group “rebels” against this new style, the group might slowly begin to function in a new manner. Organizations will also react strongly when one stops over-functioning. For many of us, it is hard not to rescue a group when it seems like it will fail without our doing what we have always done. However, good leadership has to allow the members to do what they can do for themselves, even if it means they have to learn the “hard way.”

So, what do you think about this idea of becoming a less-anxious presence as the heart of good leadership?

Jim Higginbotham is Assistant Professor of Pastoral Care at Earlham School of Religion. He live in Indianapolis.

Some Thoughts on Rieger and the Austrians

A partial review of Joerg Rieger's No Rising Tide

By Matt Hisrich

In preparation for the 2011 Willson Lectures at ESR I tracked down and have been reading a copy of Joerg Rieger’s book No Rising Tide: Theology, Economics, and the Future. I have been interested in the ideas of liberation theology since my days at ESR, where I wrestled with the work of Gustavo Gutiérrez. Whereas Gutiérrez and others such as Leonardo Boff represent what could be deemed the “first generation” of liberation theologians, Rieger and Jung Mo Sung are examples of a resurgence of activity around the core ideas of liberation theology – an intriguing development all on its own.

Aside from a general interest in matters of theology, part of my interest in liberation theology generally has to do with its explicit effort to connect economic concepts to faith. Having a background in economics and public policy before coming to ESR and continuing to seek out and address the intersections of these disciplines during and since I cannot help but be drawn to the work of Rieger and others engaged in similar work. What is of particular interest to me in the work of both Rieger and Sung, however, are their comments regarding the Austrian School of Economics. I first became acquainted with the ideas of the Austrian School in high school and it was these ideas that led me to study economics in undergrad and explore the overlaps with theology in seminary.

Now, I should preface all of the thoughts I am about to share with a number of caveats:

1) While I have come across Rieger’s work in several different contexts I have not completed a thorough analysis of his whole body of research and therefore these comments are limited to the contents of No Rising Tide alone;

2) I think both the general principles of liberation theology and how those are employed within the work of specific theologians and in specific texts such as No Rising Tide merit a much broader consideration but I will attempt to limit my comments here to Rieger’s discussion of the Austrian School only;

3) I am sympathetic to his critique of empire and have benefitted from spending time with his book; but

4) Just as I have found a theological home in Quakerism, I have found an economic home in the Austrian School, and these positions necessarily inform my understanding and color my analysis; and, finally

5) I am neither a professional economist nor a professional theologian and so I enter into this discussion knowing that I may well be in over my head.

So, what can be said about Rieger’s discussion of the Austrian School in No Rising Tide? In short, while his presentation of the Austrian School is important to the overall structure of his argument (as with Sung’s in Desire, Market and Religion), it nonetheless requires a fundamental distortion of the ideas of the Austrian School that unfortunately weakens his argument and reveals a lack of familiarity with important concepts in economic thought that are essential to Rieger’s project of critiquingfree-market economics.

Here is why:

- Rieger sets up an “us v. them” dynamic in attacking what he defines as mainstream economics and praising what he defines as heterodox economics – from institutionalism to Marxism. According to his interpretation, every school that he sees as questioning markets is heterodox and therefore offers something positive while any school that he sees as generally supporting markets – from Austrian to Chicago – is mainstream and therefore problematic. This creates two problems for Rieger. First, it puts him in an awkward position with regard to Keynesian economics (which I would argue holds far more sway in contemporary economic thought and public policy than he seems to feel it does). This is because Keynesians essentially seek to use the tools of state intervention to save capitalism from itself because left to its own devices it will destroy itself, and Keynesian economics and neoclassical economics have in many regards merged. Is such a position one that supports or questions markets? The ambiguity is clear in Rieger’s comments. Second, it forces him to conflate schools of thought that are not nearly as compatible as he would seem to suggest – namely the neoclassical and Austrian Schools, the latter of which is generally considered a heterodox school outside of Rieger’s analysis.

- At this point, it would be fair to ask why Rieger (and Sung) include a discussion of the relatively small Austrian School at all. This is an important point. Much of what Rieger criticizes with regard to empire and market has a lot more to do with a mercantilist hybrid of state and business interests, not with truly free markets (the same could also be said of more popular theologians such as John Dominic Crossan).  But whether Rieger fails to understand this distinction or chooses to ignore it for the sake of his argument, what he appears to want to critique in the book is free markets and not mercantilism. Unfortunately, schools of economic thought that advocate for genuinely free-market positions are few and far between. To accomplish this goal he must employ the Austrians for the sake of rhetorical power alone, using their words as a stand-in for what he wishes genuinely mainstream neoclassical economists would actually have said.

- It is possible that Rieger’s understanding of the Austrian School lacks sufficient depth to fully comprehend the distinction, for it is clear that he draws from only one economist from the school (Friedrich Hayek) to represent the whole, and he even goes so far as to use Capitalism for Beginners as a source for one of his Hayek quotes. Setting aside developments in the school since the era of Hayek, that one can bring in a discussion of the Austrian School without even mentioning its central figure, Ludwig von Mises, is telling. Just to provide one example of how Mises might have informed Rieger’s analysis, here is a quote from No Rising Tide: “A deregulated economy has been allowed to produce an imperial bubble where the stock market, the housing market, and the lending sector built forms of power that were more and more disconnected from real values and real life;” and one from Mises’s Human Action, “Nothing harmed the cause of liberalism more than the almost regular return of feverish booms and of the dramatic breakdown of bull markets followed by lingering slumps. Public opinion has become convinced that such happenings are inevitable in the unhampered market economy. People did not conceive that what they lamented was the necessary outcome of policies directed toward a lowering of the rate of interest by means of credit expansion. They stubbornly kept to these policies and tried in vain to fight their undesired consequences by more and more government interference.” Nonetheless, even working with Hayek alone it should become clear that the system Rieger seeks to attack as a tragically deregulated market bears little resemblance to what Hayek understands as a market free from state intervention. As Hayek commented in 1935, “[I]t is a fallacy to suppose capitalism as it exists today is the alternative. We are certainly as far from capitalism in its pure form as we are from any system of central planning. The world of today is just interventionist chaos."

To close, I do think that liberation theology adds to the richness of the theological landscape and should not be ignored as such. Nonetheless, as a proponent of this view Rieger would be more convincing if he displayed a greater depth of economic knowledge. In particular, if he chooses to single out particular schools for criticism, it would behoove him to devote significant attention to the origins and contributions of those schools if he seeks to level effective critiques. Austrian economists have contributed much to the study of how war, oppression, and poverty are connected to naïve or intentional use of state power for supposedly positive ends. That Rieger finds it necessary to ignore these contributions in order to advance his thesis ought to be of concern to anyone seeking to think through how economies can or should function in light of ethical standards and Christian faith. If readers are interested in a critique of Austrian economics from a faith perspective, I would recommend Charles McDaniel’s God & Money: The Moral Challenge of Capitalism. While I don’t agree with his conclusions, it is clear the McDaniel spent considerable time trying to understand and confront the core ideas of the school.

Having spent some time with Rieger’s written work, I am looking forward to the chance to hear him in person at ESR this April. I have no doubt it will be an interesting discussion!

Matt Hisrich is the Ministerial Advocate for Indiana Yearly Meeting. He lives in Richmond, Indiana, with his wife and two daughters, and is a member of First Friends Meeting there. Matt is a graduate of Hillsdale College in Michigan and ESR, where he received his MDiv in teaching and theology. Prior to enrolling in seminary, he worked with non-profit public policy organizations in Indiana, Kansas, and Ohio.

Preparing Leaders to Think Theologically

By Jay Marshall

In an increasingly diverse world, how can theological education prepare leaders to work spiritually and practically with people from different backgrounds and different faiths?

Theological education forms how one views God, self, others, and the world. Even more, it shapes how one understands the interactions between each of these participants within life’s sandbox. I think that may be the most powerful contribution theological education makes to the preparation of leaders. Skills are important, but framing how we perceive, critique, and reflect, informs one’s decisions and consequently, one’s actions.

At least four questions underlie this one about a leader’s work with diversity, and the answers given to the four will greatly determine how the one may be answered. Those four are: What is the purpose of theological education? What is a leader’s work? How does leadership intersect with spirituality and practicality? How do we conceive of relationships with the “other?”

There is no one, universal answer to the question of how to offer theological education. Some programs exist to promote the doctrine of a particular denomination. Others wrestle with theological questions with an academic thrust apart from connection to a living faith tradition. Of course, there are a myriad of positions between those two poles. Two key elements of theological education at ESR are rooted firmly within our accreditation standards: spiritual formation of the student, and development of an awareness of context. As those two intertwine, theological education invests much energy into helping students come to know themselves and to become clear on their place and stance within the culture. One facet of the process involves introducing students to people, classmates, readings, and practices that have or represent different points of view than that of the students. A valuable outcome of engaging with different viewpoints is, in addition to learning about a different tradition, we come to know ourselves more truly. As those knowledge bases are honed alongside one’s understanding of God, theological education ultimately helps those it forms to live with integrity of conviction.

Conviction, though, can be an unstable element in the equation. Perhaps it is usually or even always an unstable element. Conviction drives the one convicted. This can create volatility—not necessarily a bad thing, though when it seeks to convince by domination or suppression, conviction may cross the line of acceptable behavior if being respectful of divergent points of view is to be valued. While the expression of conviction can create tension, coming to the point of knowing one’s own convictions is a useful, even essential, process as part of theological education.  I am of the opinion that the better we understand our own reasons for being persons of faith and the truths we hold, the less troubled we are by lack of uniformity in the beliefs of others (unless we stake out an exclusivist position in which only one way, and of course by “one” we mean “our” way is holy enough gain Divine acceptance). When we can finally sit with the unanswerable questions without fear, fight, or flight, our need for neatly gift-wrapped answers decreases, as does the unease created when others’ beliefs do not match our own. Having reached a place of internal knowing, we can articulate our point of view while allowing space for others to do the same. This is a position of confidence and strength, but appropriately humble as well; even as we know why we think as we do and are convinced of the truth, we are deeply aware of the limits of our knowledge. Pride and arrogance simply aren’t options.

This leads us directly to the second question: “What is the leader’s work?” Simply stated, it is to live with integrity of conviction, according to the gifts given and the calls to ministry received. Good theological education accompanies students’ quests to discern those gifts and hear those calls. Particularly when those gifts take one outside of traditional ministry contexts where the work has a specific “religious” nature, the intersection of leadership with spirituality can become more complex. In conversations with students in classes on leadership, one hurdle to always be crossed is broadening the view of faith within leadership as something other than religious jargon or pietistic expressions that sometimes seem disingenuous. It is a conversation that typically moves the participants to consider issues of authority, communication, relationships, and values. Once those are considered as integral to formation and expression of faith--as lived spirituality--then spirituality and practicality are virtually inseparable. A leader’s work in the world is always, on the most basic level, an expression of his or her spirituality.

This connects with the fourth question: How do we conceive of relationships with the “other?” By other, I mean those of different faith backgrounds and faiths. The answer to this question connects tightly with the nature of the theological education one receives. Theological education, remember, considers spiritual formation of the student to be an essential part of the educational process. The assumptions held and transmitted by the educators will be extremely influential in shaping the minds, hearts, and ministries of its graduates. If the curriculum is rooted in an exclusivist point of view, it is entirely conceivable that theological education may not prepare persons to work with diverse backgrounds and faiths at all (allowing, of course, that in these contexts students might take a contrarian position and move to a dissenting position).

Exclusivist perspectives might refuse to work with those of differing points of view. Or, they may work with them; having in mind that the ultimate goal is to convert the other to their point of view (conviction running rampant!). A more inclusive outcome, and preferable given my own set of convictions, is that the theologically formed leader who offers her or his ministry with some degree of confidence and conviction is able to engage in God’s work alongside whomever is encountered along the way. With clarity of belief and truthfulness, with awareness of those points on the horizon where clouds of unknowing are most dense, well-formed leaders are capable of making their contribution alongside a variety of partners. They find common ground, staring simply with their humanity and their sharing of space in God’s creation. From there, in most cases, respectful conversation will divulge shared values that provide a place to stand in unity without compromising integrity. Except in the most extreme circumstances, that is usually sufficient to allow good, faithful, collaborative work to unfold without threatening diversity or undermining particularity.

Jay Marshall is Dean of Earlham School of Religion and a native of North Carolina. Before beginning his service at ESR, he was a pastor in Western Yearly Meeting.

Reasons Quakers Don’t Read the Bible

By Paul Buckley

Originally published as the introduction in Buckley, Paul, ed., The Quaker Bible Reader (Richmond: Earlham School of Religion Publications), 2006.  Used with permission of the author and publisher.

Modern Quakers do not neglect books in general.  Professionally, Friends are found in academic and other intellectual professions well out of proportion to their numbers in the population.  In any moderately sized collection of Quakers, there is likely to be at least one librarian.  Nor are Friends uninterested in spiritual matters.  A quick review of the materials offered in the various Quaker bookstores reveals long lists of books on spirituality, Quaker biography, other religious biographies, devotionals, guides to spiritually-based social action, and a variety of religious study materials for all ages.  But listening to conversations, especially among more liberal Friends, might give the impression that more copies are sold of the Gnostic gospels than those of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

While the Bible used to enjoy a privileged position in the English-speaking world, today’s world is vastly different.  Even beyond the constant and unavoidable impingements of non-print media in our lives, the competition for a reader’s attention is enormous.  Our lives are flooded with books, newspapers, magazines, catalogs, mail, email, text-messages, and more.  In modern America, discarded print material is the single largest source of consumer garbage.  As a spiritual resource, the Bible competes with abundant other sources, from traditional writings to the products of self-help gurus.  Within the category of sacred works, the Bible now shares shelf space with the scriptures of other religions.  This diminished role makes itself apparent in everyday life.  While in the seventeenth century, scriptural quotes and allusions were the commonplace of daily conversation and literary works, today’s popular culture recycles lines from songs, jingles, slogans, and advertising.

Competition with other resources aside, however, I believe one of the principal reasons many Friends do not read the Bible is they do not have any idea how to approach the Bible as Quakers.  Some have never been introduced to it.  Other may have learned at an earlier time in their lives to read the Bible in a particular way.  For various reasons, they have come to reject that way of reading and, in rejecting the interpretation, they have thrown the text out with it.

Many people had their first encounter with the Bible in a Sunday School (or, as Quakers call it, a First Day School) class.  In this setting, the stories are reformulated to present a simple lesson for a young mind.  Complexity is rooted out, and a single, simple message—appropriate to a child’s understanding—is emphasized.  Only a small sampling of the whole is presented: Adam and Eve, the flood, Moses parting the sea, and Jesus feeding thousands with a few loaves and fishes are popular; Joshua conquering the Canaanites and the vivid images of the Apocalypse are not.  There are implicit or explicit theological assumptions underlying the selection and rewording of the Bible stories, but these are invisible to a child.  In fact, a young child hearing a Bible story is not likely to be taught that there is any interpretation involved.  Children do not interpret stories, they just listen to them.  It would never occur to them to deconstruct Dr. Suess, so why should they treat Bible stories any differently?  As he or she grows, such hidden assumptions may or may not become more apparent.  In any case, they are often very different from the theological assumptions and beliefs that an older child or adult holds.  For some, it is easy to believe that, just as they no longer read picture books, they have likewise outgrown the Bible.

Other Friends learned to read scripture within another faith community before coming into our Society.  This may mean reading the Bible as literally and infallibly true or as a book to be understood only in the light of church traditions and teachings.  (Being brought up Catholic, I fall into the latter category.)  The distinction between the words of scripture and the meanings ascribed to those words is often lost.  Leaving ones spiritual community for another entails giving up certain beliefs, perhaps including those about how to read scripture.  Where text and interpretation have been thoroughly entwined, it may seem to a newly-convinced Quaker that the Bible can no longer speak to his or her spiritual condition.  The God who directed the flood (at least as they were previously taught) cannot be the God who leads them to embrace the Peace Testimony.

Special attention is due to those you tell you that they have “wounded by scripture.”  I have frequently heard women, people of color, poor people, gay men, and lesbians refer to instances when various passages have been used to attack, demean, and belittle them.  Over the years, the Bible’s words have been used to justify verbal, spiritual, emotional, and physical violence.  These attacks do not always issue from the mouths of bigots or intransigent reactionaries, but may come from loving, kind people who were taught “the right way to read the Bible.”  In response, many of those who have felts so assaulted have denied the validity of the claims made in the name of the Bible.  Others, however, accept their attackers’ interpretation as a true reflection of the scriptures themselves.  They then see themselves as faced with a stark choice: to deny themselves or to deny the validity of the book.  It is no surprise that many of these people have chosen to turn away from the scripture.

Others see the Bible as no more than a set of legends and fables, offering insight into the minds of an ancient people and a foreign culture—much like Beowulf or Aesop’s Fables.  The Bible presents western civilization’s myths, but for truth about the world we live in, they turn to science.  Or they may look at the rich variety of other spiritual books and question the special status accorded to the Bible.  Why, they ask, grant it pride of place instead of reading the Koran or the Upanishads or the sacred works of the Druids?

The Goal of This Book*

It may be useful at this point to introduce one technical term: hermeneutics.  Every time someone tells a Bible story, they are engaged—consciously or not—in interpretation.  There is a set of rules that they use to ferret out the meaning of a text.  For example, while “serpent” may just be a fancy name for a snake, to many people the serpent that tempted Eve into eating forbidden fruit is more than a common snake—but what?  Some will tell you the serpent is a devil in disguise.  This interpretation contributes to and supports a particular meaning for the story.  Others consider the role of the serpent as minor and come to different conclusions.  Each set of rules—implicit or explicit, known of subconscious—constitutes what Bible scholars call hermeneutics.

There is no one set of Quaker hermeneutics.  As well be seen in the chapters that follow, there are a number of techniques and approaches to understanding scripture that are consistent with Quaker beliefs and practices.  I hope that this book will provide readers with a sense of the varieties of Quaker hermeneutics—assorted, Friendly ways to read and understand scripture.  But this isn’t the goal of the book.  As Manuel Guzman-Martinez says, “Unfortunately, no one learns in someone else’s shoes.”  Our goal is to help you find your own shoes and put them on.

Find the “Quaker Hermeneutics” that speak to your spiritual condition may allow you to engage the Bible in an honest conversation.  Then you, too, can do “Quaker exegesis”—not passively accepting someone else’s interpretation; not looking for “the good parts” and skipping the rest; not contorting scripture to support predetermined ideas—but entering into a dialogue with this ancient book, exploring your own assumptions about God, and deepening your relationship with the divine.  In the process, I believe you will also come to have a more grounded understanding of who Quakers are and why we believe what we believe.

*(A note from the bloggers--this piece was originally the introduction to an anthology of essays on different ways modern Quakers read the Bible, a purpose clearly referenced in this section.  We have left references to this larger context because keeping the original words and intent seemed better than extensive editing.)

Paul Buckley is a writer and translator of Quaker thought. His book Twenty-First Century William Penn has made Penn accessible to many, and he is the editor of the recently re-published Journal of Elias Hicks.

The Bible Among Friends

By Paul Buckley

Originally published as the introduction in Buckley, Paul, ed., The Quaker Bible Reader (Richmond: Earlham School of Religion Publications), 2006.  Used with permission of the author and publisher.

For many Friends, the Bible is a lost resource.  They don’t read it, and they don’t miss it.  This is not a new situation—complaints that too few Friends read or know scripture have been heard consistently for at least the last two-hundred years.  For example, more then fifty years ago, Henry Cadbury, a Quaker and one of the twentieth century’s great biblical scholars, decried this condition in an address at Guilford College.

In some ways, this is a surprising situation.  Friends in the seventeenth century were devoted to their Bibles.  Early Quaker writings seem at times to consist of little more than stringing together selected bits of scripture.  George Fox, founder of the Religious Society of Friends, knew scripture so well that Gerard Croese, in his 1696 book, The General History of the Quakers, makes the claim that “though the Bible were lost, it might be found in the Mouth of George Fox.”  Early Friends, of course, were not unique in their love of the scriptures.  Three hundred and fifty years ago, the Bible was the pre-eminent book in the English-speaking world.  For many people, it was the only readily accessible book and it profoundly influenced views of life, society, history, politics, and the world.  George Fox was far from unique in committing it to memory.
Despite this intimate familiarity with the Bible, the tension between roles of immediate revelation and of the scripture had been present from the very earliest beginning of the Quaker movement.  In the section of his Journal devoted to 1648, George Fox wrote:

I was to direct people to the Spirit that gave forth the Scriptures, by which they might be led into all Truth, and so up to Christ and God, as they had been who gave them forth.  … I saw that the grace of God, which brings salvation, had appeared to all men, and that the manifestation of the Spirit of God was given to every man to profit withal.  These things I did not see by the help of man, nor by the letter, though they are written in the letter, but I saw them in the light of the Lord Jesus Christ, and by his immediate Spirit and power… for I was in that Spirit by which they [the scriptures] were given forth, and what the Lord opened to me I afterwards found was agreeable to them.  I could speak much of these things and many volumes might be written but all would prove too short … (p. 34)

Fox is claiming immediate revelation for himself and declaring his mission to be directing all people to know it in themselves.  The final sentence makes it clear that these revelations are more than a mere reiteration of the recorded scriptures.  At the same time, he acknowledges that afterward he found that what had been revealed to him was “agreeable” with scripture.  This formulation—continuing revelation that does not contradict (but may go beyond) the Bible became the Quaker norm and appears in the writings of many other early Friends.  The evolving structures of gospel order did little to provide precise definitions of what was agreeable and what contradicted scripture.  In general, it was left to subgroups within the Society—monthly, quarterly, and yearly meetings—to deal with individual cases.  This process led to a degree of local conformity, but no Society-wide standard.

This tension remained unresolved at the beginning of the nineteenth century.  If anything, the cracks were widening as ideas were absorbed from both the Enlightenment and from other Protestant sects.  The events leading up to painful separations in the Society in 1827-28 prominently featured charges and countercharges over how the Bible was read, how it should be read, and how it was properly interpreted—although not over its ultimate status among Friends.  Of course, each side claimed proper use for themselves and charged serious error on the part of their opponents.

Nor are the 1820s unique in this respect.  Today’s structures, organizations, and practices within the Religious Society of Friends are the product of our history.  It is only a slight exaggeration to say that it is impossible to understand Quaker history without having some understanding of Quaker theology and impossible to understand Quaker theology without knowing something of the Bible.  The peace testimony, the practice of simplicity, both silent workship and the elements of programmed worship, and the other hallmarks of twenty-first century Quaker faith and practice were firmly established on biblical foundations.
Even understanding the ways we speak of ourselves depends on scripture. 

Many contemporary Friends take pleasure in referring to themselves as belonging to a “peculiar people.”  But to say we are “peculiar” is not to claim that we are odd.  The phrase is found in both the Hebrew (Old Testament) and Greek (New Testament) scriptures.  As a Quaker, my favorite example is from the first epistle of Peter, “But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light” (1 Peter 2:9).  We Quakers are well acquainted with that “marvellous light.”  This is, of course, the translation in the King James Version of the Bible.  In modern English versions, “peculiar people” is rendered as “a people belonging to God” or “God’s own people.”  To say we are a peculiar people is to claim that the Religious Society of Friends is the chosen people.

Early Friends indeed made this claim, but we shouldn’t think it was a point of pride.  They knew the implications of being God’s people—it may be an honor, but it is much more a responsibility.  To know the elements of that responsibility, you need look no further than the historic Quaker testimonies.  Early Friends described the testimonies as “peculiarities,” but not to suggest these were mere idiosyncrasies.  These are the obligations that God’s people carry.  A person adopted Quaker dress, speech, and practices as an outward sign of submission to God in all things.

Paul Buckley is a writer and translator of Quaker thought. His book Twenty-First Century William Penn has made Penn accessible to many, and he is the editor of the recently re-published Journal of Elias Hicks.

What is the Greatest Challenge Facing the Church?

By David Johns

Perhaps the greatest challenge facing the church in our own time is the greatest challenge facing the church at any time: understanding the times and discerning the Spirit in how to respond.

This is not easy work. It requires careful observation and critical thinking. It requires the courage to 'desacralize the status quo,' whether that status quo is in society, nation, cherished denomination, place of employment, or our own heart and assumptions. Until this status quo is desacralized it can not be analyzed, and until analyzed it can not be determined to be just or unjust, that is, whether it is in step with the gospel message of life and hope, or whether it is simply another means for exploitation and idolatry.

A seminary education can help us consider differently what is the sacred, how to see clearly and to evaluate faithfully, and how to know more profoundly the gospel of life.

Here is the difference, however. Some programs of study place emphasis either upon the analysis or upon the action. When we are at our best -and we strive often, I think, to evaluate whether we are so doing -  ESR attempts to bring these together, understanding the times, and discerning the Spirit in how to respond. It is easier to give our attention to only one piece of the equation, but that is not in the long run going to form women and men prepared to address creatively the challenge of being the people of God in our time.

David Johns is Associate Professor of Theology at Earlham School of Religion. He has traveled extensively among Friends in Mexico and Central America and is a regular contributor to Quaker Religious Thought. He resides in Richmond, Indiana with his family.

Leadership Formation at ESR

By Jim Higginbotham

I believe that a good leader attempts to respond in a relatively less-anxious manner to the powerful dynamics of an organization's system. When a group begins running around like they're rearranging chairs on the deck of what seems like a sinking ship, instead of trying to direct people over the howling winds (as the group expects), a leader might simply sit down on one of the chairs in the middle of the deck. Even if we can't calm the winds like Jesus did when his followers were panicked in the storm, we can exhibit peacefulness when others are overwhelmed.

As the above image implies, I believe that becoming a good leader is a product of spiritual formation. Only when we are well-connected to the depth of who we are created to be can we live less reactively (among other important qualities of a good leader). Jesus' ability to inspire and empower his followers was directly connected to his depth of spirituality. He constantly went away to pray before important events in his life. Similarly, we need strength from a Source that will help us to face challenges less afraid and not anxiously respond to the pressures that a group places upon us. In other words, we can not act peacefully if we do not possess peace.

This spiritual formation requires self-awareness and a willingness to open ourselves up to a transforming Spirit. Although the Gospels seem to portray that Jesus developed his own spirituality, if this picture is completely accurate, it was only due to his unique relationship with God. We need others to help us understand our strengths and growing edges as well as to connect to the power of the Spirit. That is one of the primary reasons that Earlham School of Religion focuses our program on spiritual formation; it is a corporate activity that can't be done only in isolation. We need to worship and pray together to find our spiritual center. When we are vulnerable with spiritual friends and others whom we can trust, they can help us to recognize our gifts and the areas in us that need to be transformed. Usually, hidden parts of our soul are the source of our anxious reactions to others.

For example, a goodhearted person might sometimes rescue others when they don't need so much help because s/he is uncomfortable with seeing people struggle. A hidden part that this person might need to discover is that s/he feels responsible for others' pain even if s/he hasn't contributed to it. This person takes responsibility for the struggles and thus robs others of the chance to grow from facing their own challenges. Such over-responsibility is not just a personal foible, but it is also a spiritual issue. This hypothetical person needs to learn to turn their concern over to a Comforter that can empower others in their struggles. If we believe that there is a power greater than ourselves, we must learn to trust this Spirit. It can be difficult when we feel uncomfortable, but having faith that God will be present frees us to do what we do best and allow others to use their strengths and gifts as well.

Obviously, leadership requires knowledge and many kinds of skills which seminary helps to develop. ESR's program is based in spiritual formation, because the world needs leaders formed in faith.

Jim Higginbotham is Assistant Professor of Pastoral Care at Earlham School of Religion. He live in Indianapolis.