Category: Quaker Practice

PASSAGE INTO THE QUIET

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

From my earliest days of practicing meditation, I’ve been aware of an invisible wall of resistance or restlessness before passing into the comforting depth on the other side. For whatever reasons, it reminds me of those early experiences of a sonic boom, when planes overhead would “break through the sound barrier” – not that we sense a loud crack of arrival, but there is a distinct change all the same. Maybe it’s an awareness that the air in the room feels different – heavier, like water, is one description. Maybe it’s not that far removed from the ancient Jewish priests who “passed through the veil” to offer sacrifice in the most holy space in the Temple.

My actual experience of meditative worship has also changed, from the initial goal of getting naturally high or stoned – of transcending out of the world – to the present centering down into the essence of life, but the wall remains. Some weeks it’s more pronounced than others; other weeks it’s quite faint. Even so, coming to that point Bill Taber referred to as “soft eyes” worship, where Friends begin removing their eyeglasses, is delicious. Even the clock stops ticking.

Frequency of practice can make a difference. Sitting in meditation twice a day, for instance, generally allows a deeper session than an every-other-week or once-a-month schedule does. Suitable physical exercise, charitable activity, or spiritual reading may also guide the experience. We speak of preparing for worship, but rarely of the unspoken flow within the hour itself. What I do know is how much easier it is to pass through that barrier when I’m sitting with others. That is, as early Friends sensed, even when two or three gathered in the Name.

A LIVELY CAST

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

One of our favorite TV comedies has been Little Mosque on the Prairie, a Canadian series about a small, struggling Muslim community the fictional prairie town of Mercy, Saskatchewan. I’ll let those of you in other faith traditions weigh in on the parallels, but I suspect you’ll find each of the show’s characters already existing in your own congregation.

You’ll also see many of the same dividing lines and tensions. Traditionalists versus modernists, for instance, or those bred to the faith versus converts. There are even the basic questions of identity and self-identity or motivation and discipline.

As I look at my own Quaker circles, I sometimes see a line between those drawn to the hour of worship itself and those drawn to the peace-and-justice witness, such as gender and racial equality, global non-violence and fair trade, prison reform, environmental concerns, and the like. Sometimes the difference shows up most sharply in the announcements that come at the end of our period of silence – those who want to leave quietly, savoring the calm, and those who instead urge us to attend all kinds of lectures, discussions, demonstrations, fundraisers, and other gatherings in the coming weeks.

Sometimes the lines even cross.

WHAT SILENCE? WHERE?

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 5 Comments

Yes, we’re called a silent meeting. But there’s silence and, well, then there’s silence. As nuns would tell parochial school students at the beginning of chapel, “Quaker meeting has begun, no more talking or chewing gum.” Who knows where that originated, much less why certain people – such as the priest – might be considered exempt. Let me declare, I know of no authentic silence. Nowhere on this planet! (Outer space, maybe? Deafness?) Even when we have no spoken messages arising in our worship, we still have the pulses of breathing, to say nothing of the clock, with its measure annoying some and reassuring others. Waves of restlessness, late arrivals, and traffic and sirens along Central Avenue, too. In summer, birds and crickets. Maybe a bagpiper at the edge of the cemetery. In winter, the furnace kicking on, children murmuring, a cough or sneeze. A coat crackling as it’s taken off or put back on.

There’s even silent noise arising in stray thoughts. Imagined lists of things to do. Recollections of things done in the previous week or decades earlier. News reports echoing through our minds. Sometimes, rain. Or simple wind. Maybe “stilled” is a more accurate description than “silent” or even “unprogrammed.”

Yes, I’ve heard stories of city dwellers who come to the countryside and are soon troubled by its relative quiet. I have to chuckle, realizing how much they miss. I think of a meeting for worship one May morning along Broadway in upper Manhattan, when I heard little else outside the room but birdsong, countered a week later in rural Ohio by loud farm tractors and semi-trailer rigs. Remember, too, a few Mays before that, when the kids came into the meeting room, saying that the boom heard a little earlier was Mount St. Helens exploding. Their classroom faced the west and the volcano eighty miles away, with its inky squall line soon blotting out the noontime sun.

What we have, of course, is a practice of acute listening, capable of detecting far-off explosions as well as the motions of the heart. What we enter is not silence exactly but something I often find more akin to swimming underwater. Something that can be calming, peaceful, refreshing, renewing, good – as in good to eat, too. Filling. “Has thou been fruitful?” as they used to say.

My description of what we have is QUIETIST worship, rather than “silent” or “unprogrammed.” Hushed, still, clearing, typically peaceful, not showy, and unobtrusive being a few of its earmarks. Though this hardly covers the experience, either.

While Quakers traditionally did not hire preachers, they did recognize individuals who had abilities as lay ministers and others with the spiritual gifts of elders (that is, bishops, within the congregation) and still others whose skills might help the members in their everyday struggles. When Meeting gathered for worship, these “weighty Quakes” would sit at the front of the room, in what we know as the “facing benches.” Somehow, their presence still lingers in the room, sweet as it is.

NOT QUITE SILENT

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

We speak of silent Quaker worship, though it’s not exactly silent. If I refer to it as meditation, or even group meditation, others may quibble. Let me explain.

First, within the gathered silence of traditional Quaker worship, someone may begin to speak or, more rarely, sing or pray. It’s a response we call vocal ministry, and it’s usually brief. Ideally, it’s a prophetic response, a Spirit-led message that takes the assembled body deeper into the mystery. At others times, the message is not in the stream of the day’s worship, and the sounds can disrupt that flow. In larger or more established meetings, including Dover, the individual rises from his or her seat before speaking; in smaller circles, the Friend may remain seated.

Second, the understanding of meditation, especially from Asian religious tradition, has it being an intensely personal practice. In one branch of Zen Buddhism, for instance, the sitters face the wall and away from the middle of the room. Typically, any physical movement is prohibited, and the practitioner’s focus is increasingly inward, leaving the physical surroundings behind. While Quaker worship demands a similar personal engagement, which we call centering, there is an expectation that it will open into a group experience involving everyone in the room, even if not one word is spoken. Not everyone centers through meditation, as such – some may sit with an open book, others may simply drop into deep reflection; some may sit with their eyes closed tight, while others gaze softly across the room. Whatever the individual approach, the result is Quaker meeting.

Actually, this blending of inward and outward might not be all that far removed from some of the Asian disciplines. There, the period of group meditation itself may run between twenty and thirty minutes, and be followed by scripture reading, chanting, or a lecture from the teacher. In Quaker practice, the first half-hour often – but not always – remains silent, with vocal messages appearing in the second half of the hour.

Still, with or without any words uttered, it’s group meditation, in my book.

I love the simple elegance of old Quaker meetinghouses.
Touches of good design, reflecting care, without ostentation.
How beautiful the wood itself can be, left unimpeded.
Elements we see echoed in the most exemplary architecture of our own era.