Beyond
Majority Rule
voteless decisions in the Religious Society of
Friends
MICHAEL J. SHEERAN, S. J.
About
the Author
Michael
Sheeran is a Jesuit priest who became interested in the Religious Society of
Friends in 1968 when he was studying religious communities which practice
communal discernment, a decision making process which the Jesuit Order also
utilized when it was founded in 1540 but lost within a generation. During
doctoral work in the Department of Politics at Princeton University, he
returned to the topic, spending two years in conducting interviews, reading,
and participant observation focused on the communal discernment tradition as it
is exemplified in the voteless decisions of Quakers in Philadelphia Yearly
Meeting.
Born in
New York City in 1940, Michael Sheeran entered the Society of Jesus at
Florissant, Missouri, in 1957. Since then, he has taught at Midwestern Jesuit
high schools and colleges. Currently President of Regis University in Denver,
Colorado, he spends his free hours in teaching individuals how to pray and
helping groups to make decisions through a common search for religious peace, a
process which carries them beyond majority rule into communal
discernment.
Contents
Foreword
by Douglas V. Steere
Preface............................................
Part I.
Historical
Chapter
I. Quaker Beginnings, 1647-1666
The Root of the Meeting for Business: Quaker Worship
Individual Inspiration............
Revelation as Seed of Persecution, 1647-1649
Chapter
II. The Growth Of Central Decision Making, 1666-1736
Solid Structure Above the Local Meetings,
1666-1670
Individual Discernment and Personal Infallibility
Tests of Leadings: The Cross........................
Tests of Leadings: Scripture.........................
Tests of Leadings: Submission of Openings.....
Tests of Leadings: The Fruits of the Holy Spirit
Later Tests of Leadings: Silence, Unadorned
Speech
Limitations of Friends Tests of Leadings.........
Defeat of Localism: The Wilkinson-Story Dispute,
1670-1676
Robert Barclay and The Anarchy of the Ranters, 1674
Robert Barclay and the Apology, 1676.............
The Gradual Ascendance of Central Hegemony,
1676-1736
The Meeting for Sufferings as Lobby and Legal Aid
Society
The Meeting for Sufferings as Arbiter of the
Externals of Life
A Look Ahead..............................................
Part
II. Contemporary
Chapter I. An Overview of
Current Quaker Decision Making
Prescriptions for Good Quaker Practice............
Examples of the Process..................................
Chapter II. The Atmosphere
of Confidence
Why Quakers Expect to Go
Beyond Compromise Why There Are Few Shy Quakers
On
Keeping Emotion in Its Place........................
When
Confidence Fails.....................................
Chapter III. No Decisions
Without Unity
Preliminary Discussion.......................................
Serious Discussion............................
Dissent from a Proposed
Minute..........
"I Disagree but Do Not Wish to Stand in the
Way"
"Please Minute Me as Opposed"
The
James Nayler Crisis, 1656
Early Quaker Polity, 1649-1656 Fox's Attempts to
Protect Quaker Communities, 1656-1660 The Restoration and Renewed Persecution
The Perrot Threat, 1661-1666
Chapter IV. Belief Systems
Underlying Quaker Decision Making Myth from a Social
Scientific Viewpoint
Christocentrism............................................
Universalism...............................................
Social Activism............................................
Democracy..................................................
Ambiguity...................................................
Quaker Myths in Perspective: Primacy of the
"Event"
Levels of Unity: A Religious Dimension Not Always
Desirable
Conflicting Myths and Fundamental Cleavages...
Chapter V. Quaker Leadership.........................
The Clerk's Responsibilities: Devices for Hidden
Control
Agenda....................................................
Stating the Questions and General Neutrality..
Evoking Comments from the Silent................
Discipline..................................................
Diplomacy and "Acting for the Uncomfortable
Meeting"
Judging What Is Important..........................
Judging the Sense of the Meeting..................
Self-Restraint............................................
Quaker Leadership: Ability to Read.................
Management Types....................................
Beyond Type Y: The Leader as Reader.............
Some Weaknesses of Friends Leadership.........
Lack of Congruence Between Gifts................
Abdication of Responsibility by
"Ungifted" Quakers
Overmuch Influence by the Readers at Critical
Junctures
Conclusion
Completing a Theme: Local Autonomy Versus Central
Hegemony Today
Speculation: The future of The Quakerism
Speculation: Quakerism's
Message for the American Future
Appendix
A: The Christian Tradition of Divine Guidance 119
Medieval Catholic Practice............................ 119
The Anabaptist Tradition.............................. 121
Possible Anabaptist Channels to Quaker Origins 123
Early Mystics............................................ 123
The Famiists............................................ 123
The Seekers............................................. 124
(General) Baptists, Especially John Smyth..... 124
A Divinely-Inspired Army: The Putney Debates 128
Appendix
B: A Quaker Glossary 131
Notes
Bibliography.................................................
Foreword
Quaker
scholars like Caroline Stephen, Rufus Jones, Howard Brin-ton, Hugh Doncaster
and Elton Trueblood have written helpful accounts of the decision making
process that takes place in the Quaker meeting for business. But even in this
ecumenical age it is something new to see ourselves mirrored, in the process of
making group decisions, in this penetrating study that has been made by a
Jesuit scholar, Michael J. Sheeran.
Having
selected Philadelphia Yearly Meeting as his scene of focus and possessing an
extensive knowledge of the history of the Religious Society of Friends, Michael
Sheeran, over a period of two years (1973-75), had a chance to observe the
actual process of decision making by visiting a wide range of local monthly
meetings as well as annual yearly sessions of the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting.
He also talked personally on the intricacies of the decision making process
with Quakers in both the Philadelphia and New Jersey areas. At many points his
telling anecdotes, and the searching queries that he raises in this lively
sketch of contemporary decision making, indicate that he may well know us
better than we know ourselves!
In 1977
his study was submitted to the faculty of the Graduate School of Princeton
University for a doctorate in politics and received its high commendation.
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting of Friends, wishing to share this excellent study
more widely, has encouraged its publication.
The
initial third of the study, together with a sizable appendix, is devoted to a historical
account of the first half-century of Quakerism in Britain and to its religious
forerunners. Michael Sheeran selects with approval words from Thomas K. Brown:
"The meeting for business is in essence, the meeting for worship focussed
on specific matters' In his early chapters he describes with great care the
meeting for worship and the experience of the Divine Presence that may come in
the corporate waiting silence or in the vocal ministry that may grow out of
that silence. It is out of the experience of the Presence in the midst that
witness comes to the guidance that is to be found there and to the inner call
for obedience to its direction.
Pope
John XXIII once told of how in the first week after his consecration as Pope
he could not sleep. He seemed crushed by the realization of his responsibility
for the care of well over half a billion souls. At the "I Am Unable to
Unite with the Proposal"
Absence....................................................
Intangible Factors Affecting the Impact of
Dissent
==
close of the week he finally
fell asleep and dreamed that the Lord approached him and, using his new name
said: "Giovanni, what in the
world is the matter with you
with this no-sleeping business? Do you think you are in this thing alone?"
After that Pope John reported that he had no more trouble sleeping!
In the
experience of the early Quakers, it was ever so clear to them that they were
not "in this thing alone: In their local meeting for worship, they found a
Presence and a Guide that over and over again confirmed for them Isaac
Penington's piercing words: "There is that near you which will guide you.
0 Wait for it and be sure that ye keep to it" (99th Letter).
When these local meetings for worship were charged with carrying out a monthly
meeting for business, the mood of the meeting for worship, the openness for
guidance and the close dependence and trust
of each other went with it.
Such a monthly meeting for business carriedout the social responsibilities that
were entrusted to it. There was the care of the families of Quakers who were in
prison or whose property had been seized; the keeping of records of
"sufferings" imposed on Quakers by the persecutions; the handling of
the admission of new members; the care of marriages and burials; and even of
dealing with any misconduct or any laxity in carrying out the Quaker testimonies.
Such meetings also provided a committee of clearness in which personal leadings
and concerns could be shared and if unity with them was found, they could be
encouraged and given any needed support.
No
matter how earthy the matters to be decided might be in such a corporate
exercise of decision making as the meeting for business, it was never to lose
its spiritual nature. In an epistle written from Worcester prison on January
30, 1675, George Fox made clear that at their meeting for business "Friends
are not to meet like a company of people about town or parish business, neither
in their men's or women's meetings, but to wait upon the Lord:' William
Braithwaite in his Second Period of Quakerism writes, "Every
business meeting was concerned with knowing the mind of the Lord and sought to
guide the action by the weight of spiritual judgment rather than by mechanical
counting of heads or the rhetorical and argumentative skill of the
speaker" (p. 278). In another telling paragraph William Braithwaite sums
up the ultimate thrust of these local meetings for worship and business carried
on as they were by ordinary Quaker farmers, artisans and traders: "The
quiet meetings resolutely maintained up and down the land, remained the centers
of power and offered an invincible resistance to persecution . . . . By
viii holding meetings through storms of
persecution with unflinching tenacity, publicly and with open doors, Friends
not only secured the continuance of their own Society but greatly contributed
to the preservation of
Non-Conformity as a whole:'
In the
closing pages of his account of early Friends, Michael Sheeran, in spite of his
spirited defense of the necessity for centralizing the powers of Quaker
governance in the closing decades of the seventeenth century, admits that it is
in these earlier local monthly meetings that he found the decisive clues for
the uniqueness of the Quaker corporate decision making. For all of their
frailty and their exaggerated notions of infallibility, they contained, in his
judgment, the seed and the genius of authentic Quaker decision making. It is to
their plumb line that he returns in the remaining two-thirds of his book that
is devoted to the contemporary scene.
As
intriguing as Michael Sheeran's account of the seventeenth century origins of
the Quaker decision making process may be, it is the hundred tightly-packed
pages that record his findings of its contemporary use that make the book a
particular treasure. Convinced as he is that Friends have something of first
importance to share in their technique of reaching a viable resolution of their
own problems, in these chapters he has collected and analyzed dozens of
striking examples that lay bare the presuppositions of the Quaker process.
These
presuppositions have a double edge to them. On the one hand, they differentiate
the process from the many attempts that writers like Frank Walser or Stuart
Chase have made to discover a secular voteless consensus that might be detached
from the spiritual element that marks the genuine Quaker decision making
experience. On the other hand, these presuppositions warn contemporary Quakers
that when they grow lax and fail to carry them out, the process breaks down and
only shabby imitations of it remain.
I know
of no comparable analysis of these presuppositions that compares with what
Michael Sheeran has managed to present. There is in the beginning the necessity
of having a group of limited size who know and respect and trust each other.
Members of this group must be willing to listen to each other with open minds,
to learn from each other and be willing to feel into the shaping of a decision
that upon occasions might be drastically different from anything they had
previously conceived. They must have experienced in their meetings for worship
and in previous gatherings for decision making, that they are not "in this
thing
ix
alone" but that given patience and
sufficient openness there is a right resolution of the problem which they
confront.
Along
with this they must be assisted by a clerk whose qualities are radically
different from an aggressive or a manipulative leader. The clerk, whom the
group have themselves chosen, must be one who also knows that he or she is not
"in this thing alone." They must be persons who have confidence in
the process and trust that there is a right solution to be found. Clerks must
have skill and patience and fairness and have such faith in the members of the
group that they can receive their suggestions on the way to move and be able
to formulate a minute that will finally meet with general approval without
putting the matter to a Vote. The process at its best presupposes that the
clerk will not be hurried nor be "influenced by mere numbers or
persistence . . . nor be hindered from making experiments by fear of undue
caution nor prompted by novel suggestions to ill-considered courses:' The clerk
will listen with great care to "weighty Friends" but not give them
undue attention.
Among the more common blockages to these
presuppositions could be included: unwillingness on the part of members to
attend Quaker business meetings regularly because of the danger of involvement
in the carrying out of the decisions arrived at; unwillingness to come to such
meetings with other then a fixed and unchangeable mind as to the outcome;
unwillingness to lay aside pressure tactics to force an early decision;
unwillingness to follow the Quaker caution "to use as few words as
possible and as many as are necesary;" unwillingness to experience the
communal togetherness that such an exercise involves; and unwillingness to be
open for the transforming experience of a "covered" meeting which in
silent periods in a meeting for business may take place. These are among the
basic obstacles that contemporary Quakers must seek to correct if they are not
to lose this treasure which they have inherited.
There
is a modest but not especially convincing attempt in the closing chapters of
the study to distinguish the "Christocentric" from the
"Universalistic" Quakers in the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting and to
see whether one group is more qualified than the other for carrying out the
full dimensions of the decision making genius of the Quaker business meeting.
His conclusion is that above all other qualifications is the question of
whether the Friend, regardless of the theological formulation of faith, has in
the meeting for worship or in the meeting for business actually experienced
the Presence and felt what obedience to the Guide may mean. Earlier Sheeran had
written: "Quakers do not begin with a theory. They begin with an event"
(p. 5). This event, this knowing at first hand that the continuous
revelation is still at work is, in his judgment, what really matters. It is at
this point that he sees that the seventeenth century Friends and contemporary
Friends, when they are authentic, are one.
Michael Sheeran might well have shared a passage
here from his
fellow Roman Catholic, Thomas Merton's
experiential witness when he wrote: "You don't have to rush after it. It
is there all the time. If you give it a chance, it will make itself known to
you:'
The gift of this study will search contemporary
Friends to the core and our debt to Michael Sheeran is not small.
DOUGLAS V. STEERE
xi
Preface
Roman
Catholicism's Second Vatican Council urged Religious Orders to renew themselves
by getting in touch with their roots. The Jesuit Order, of which the writer is
a member, discovered in its earliest documents a forgotten decision making
procedure called Communal Discernment. Members of the community were expected
to share in decisions by praying about the issues the community faced, sharing
with each other outcomes of the prayer, and moving through discussion and
further prayer to virtually unanimous conclusions.
When
Jesuits and other Catholic communities which share the Jesuit spiritual
tradition began to implement Communal Discernment during the early 1970s, they
found constant practical obstacles to success. In particular, lack of
acceptance of the process, mistrust of other participants, and inability to put
aside one's own interests seemed regular roadblocks.
A little more than a decade ago, this writer
began to work with Catholic groups who were attempting to employ Communal
Discernment in their major decisions. He decided to look for communities outside
Catholicism which might have day-to-day experience with such a process. John C.
Futrell, S.J., at the time, Director of Ministry Training Services in Denver,
Colorado,, suggested the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), a small
religious family of some two hundred thousand members worldwide who have
utilized Communal Discernment—without using the name—as their ordinary decision
making process for the past three centuries. Under the direction of Harry
Eckstein and Walter E Murphy, Professors of Politics at Princeton University,
the writer undertook a doctoral dissertation on the Quakers, attempting to
trace the origins and current practice of their voteless decisions. This book
is a revision of that dissertation.
In addition
to analysis of historical and contemporary Quaker sources, the study relies
heavily upon interviews with about one hundred and fifty members of
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, the Quaker body selected for careful study. It
would be foolhardy to attempt to thank all who were particularly helpful.
Suffice it to say that the entire group of individuals who agreed to
interviews, by their consideration and generous sacrifice of time, truly proved
themselves Friends.
It is hoped that the book will be useful to
Catholics and other Christians in tracing how Friends successfully employ a
tradition of religious
decision making which is deeply embedded in
Scripture but which other Christians have typically lost. In particular, the
ways Quakers seem to avoid the problems which faced Catholics new to the method
are explored.
Social
scientists and political philosophers are invited to discover in Quakers what
may be the only modern Western community in which decision making achieves the
group-centered decisions of traditional societies. In the Conclusion, the
author discusses Friends as a possible answer to the common contemporary wish
for advancement beyond the fragmented individuation of "liberal" man.
Finally,
the author hopes Quakers themselves will find in these pages a helpful
mirroring of Friends decision making. Newcomers to Quakerism and those who find
themselves in roles of leadership within the community may find in this study
an outsider's understanding of the possibilities and pitfalls of the Quaker method
of going beyond majority rule.
M.J.S.
Denver, Colorado
September
1983
Preface to the Edition of 1996
This
new edition reflects typographical corrections and a few clarifications. It
also offers an opportunity to express thanks to Sylvia Bronner, a talented and
gracious lady whose careful editing in 1983 converted the author's clumsy
language into prose.
M.J.S.
Denver, Colorado
August 1995
======[wk 1-2]
PART I Historical
xiv
Chapter I Quaker Beginnings, 1647-1666
The central
idea was the complete elimination of majorities and minorities; it became the
Quaker custom to reach all decisions in unity. The clerk of the meeting merely
performed the function of reporting the corporate sense, i.e., the judgment of
the assembled group, and of recording it. If there were differences of view, as
there were likely to be in such a body, the consideration of the question at
issue would proceed, with long periods of solemn hush and meditation, until
slowly the lines of thought drew together towards a point of unity. Then the
clerk would frame a minute of conclusion, expressing the "sense of the
meeting'1
This simple decision making process already characterized the tiny Quaker
communities which evolved after the first decade of explosive growth following
1647. In that year, as political England struggled towards the beheading of a
king and declaration of Cromwell's commonwealth, which would occur two years
later, George Fox began his effort to bring all the world to "walk in the
light of Truth. 112 His greatest appeal would
lie among England's Baptists,
Seekers, Familists, Ranters, and other "masterless men" who together
constituted the non-Episcopalian, non-Puritan politically insignificant 50
percent of the nation. At Fox's death, forty-four years later, one in every
hundred Englishmen would be a Quaker,3 and the process of replacing
majority rule with unity would be firmly entrenched as the linchpin of this
Quaker polity.
Central to the Quaker understanding
of unity-based decision making is Fox's idea that there is "that of God
in every one. '14 When a group of believers comes together to
deliberate about the best way to serve God
3
here and now,
each expects to find in others some manifestation of "that of God;' and
looks for the mark of the Spirit of Christ—Truth with a capital "T'—in
everyone else's remarks. In short, since the same Spirit speaks in each heart,
the members expect to end their meetings united
But how were those meetings conducted? The earliest clear statement this
writer has found is Edward Burroughs 1662 testimony concerning the origins of
the London Business Meeting in 1655. Burrough tells us that those men who were
not engaged in the full-time preaching and tract writing of the unordained
ministers gathered every week or two to deliberate: "concerning providing
convenient meeting places for the publishing of Truth; and how the poor people
that believed should be honestly taken care for, that no want should be amongst
them; and that the sick and weak and impotent should be visited and provided for;
and that such servants as were put away out of their services for receiving the
Truth, should be looked after, and placed in some honest employment. 6
Their style of deliberation was singular, continues Burrough: "Not in
the way of the world, as a worldly assembly of men, by hot contests, by
seeking to
outspeak and overreach one another in discourse, as if it were controversy
between party and party of men, or two sides violently striv‑
ing for dominion, in the way of
carrying on some worldly interests for self-advantage; not deciding affairs by
the greater vote, or the number of men, as the world, who have not the wisdom
and power of God ."7 The Quaker procedure is just the opposite,
wrote Burrough: "
[I]n the wisdom, love and
fellowship of God, in gravity, patience, meekness, in unity and concord,. . .
and in the holy Spirit of truth,.
in love, coolness, . . . as one
only party, . . . to determine of things by a general mutual concord, in
assenting together as one man in the spirit of truth and equity, and by the
authority thereof.1"8
The
Root of the Meeting for Business: Quaker Worship
As
these remarks of Burrough make clear, early Friends understood the decision
making dimension of Quaker life as one moment in the entire religious
experience of the community. Today one is reminded forcefully of this fact by
the five minutes or so of silent worship which begin and end every Quaker
meeting for business. If one is to understand the Friends business meeting, it
is necessary to appreciate the style of worship itself. The procedure is
deceptively simple. All gather together in an unadorned room and sit in silent
worship. After awhile, one or another may stand and speak of a religious
insight he or she feels called upon to share. The meeting ends, perhaps an hour
after it began, with the general shaking of hands. An example of the power
sometimes experienced in such a period of worship is reflected in Caroline E.
Stephen's
recollection of an 1872 meeting.
On one never-to-be-forgotten
Sunday morning, I found myself one of a small company of silent worshippers who
were content to sit down together without words, that each one might feel after
and draw near to the Divine Presence, unhindered at least, if not helped, by
any human utterance. Utterance I knew was free, should the words be given; and
before the meeting was over, a sentence or two were uttered in great simplicity
by an old and apparently untaught man, rising in his place amongst the rest of
us. I did not pay much attention to the words he spoke, and I have no
recollection of their purport. My whole soul was filled with the unutterable
peace of the undisturbed opportunity for communion with GodY
Robert Barclay, the Quaker Apologist, tells us:
When I came into the silent
Assemblies of God's people, I felt a secret Power among them, which
touched my heart; and as I gave way unto it, I found the evil weakening in me,
and the Good raised up.
Such is
the evident certainty of that divine Strength, that is communicated by thus
meeting together, and waiting in Silence upon God: that sometimes when one hath
come in, that hath been unwatchful, and wandering in his Mind, or suddenly out
of the hurry of outward business, and so not inwardly gathered with the rest; so
soon as he retires himself inwardly, this Power being in a good measure raised
in the whole Meeting, will suddenly lay hold upon his Spirit, and wonderfully
help to raise up the Good in him, and beget him into the sense of the same
Power, to the melting and warming of his Heart°
In
Fox's Journal, the most common observation of a Quaker meeting is to the
effect that "we had a blessed meeting; the Lord's power and
presence was felt among us21
At the
center of Quakerism is this communal experience. Quakers do not begin
with a theory. They begin with an event in which, ideally, the presence of God
is experienced by each person as part of a group experience. Rufus Jones
emphasizes that "Quakerism is peculiar in being a group mysticism,
grounded in Christian concepts." The experience is "mystical" in
the extended sense of a "self-evident conviction" of the divine
presence, a "vital discovery of divine Life revealing itself here and now
in and through a group of persons who are bent on transmitting that Life. 1112
The
entire Quaker format of worship, as described by Howard Brin-ton, can be
understood best in terms of seeking this experience.
At first sight, it might
appear that the meeting can only be described by negatives—there is no altar,
no liturgy, no pulpit, no sermon, no organ, no choir, no sacrament, and no
person in authority. No external object of attention prevents the worshipper
from turning inward and there finding the revelation of the Divine Will.
Whatever is outward in worship must come as a direct result of what is
inward—otherwise, it will be form without power. There must first be withdrawal
to the source of power and then a return with power.13
Gerald
K. Hibbert expresses the experiences in the language of sacrament:
Suddenly or gradually we
realise "the Presence in the midst;' and the silence becomes fully
sacramental. Thus comes the sense of our communion one with another through
partaking together of the Bread of Life, and we go forth to actualise that
communion and fellowship in our daily lives.14
In
Quaker parlance, a special term is used to identify this phenomenon. During
the time the group is aware of "the Presence in the midst;' the meeting is
"covered" or "gathered" or, in Barclay the Apologist's
phrase, "gathered into the Life'15
Now the
early meeting for business (a decision making meeting) is a type of meeting for
worship, an outgrowth of the latter. It seeks to reach decisions "in the
Life," decisions which grow out of the experience of God's invitations,
his "leadings" during the time of gathered prayer. One might
oversimplify, but only slightly, that the regular meeting for worship seeks
corporately for God's presence; the special meeting for worship which focuses
on matters of business seeks corporately for God's will. And, at least in
serious matters, the group finds God's will by first finding God. The
atmosphere of a meeting for business is well described by Richard Vann in a
discussion on Buckinghamshire Monthly Meeting Minutes for 5 February 1683 in
which the "extraordinary psychic atmosphere" requires that all
present be in the "state and condition" of openness to God. Vann
marvels at "this feeling that even one person out of harmony with the
meeting could prevent it from accomplishing anything, 1116
The
extraordinary authority credited to decisions made in this situation cannot be
minimized. In the second part of this study we shall attempt to draw out the
peculiar motivation to obey which is produced by the decision making rules of a
unity-seeking body. Here let us underscore the enhancement of legitimacy which
comes when a group believes that its decision is divinely guaranteed.
Disobedience is not an act against the group, but sin against God himself. Even
should a member be unable to see the wisdom of the decision some months after
it was reached, he or she still feels weighty obligation to obey. Obedience is
required whether he or she sees the reason or not, and must be obeyed until
such time as the group is led to rescind the requirement, thus reflecting fresh
divine guidance for new circumstances.
Individual
Inspiration
At this
point, we turn for a moment to a complementary Quaker belief. For, if the
Spirit of God speaks to the meeting, he also speaks through individuals in the
meeting. There is no reason to think that the Spirit's voice can be heard only
in the gathered meeting. Let us see how individual inspirations (leadings)
might occur and then turn to the community crises which sometimes arise out of
them.
A typical example is the call of Marmaduke
Stevenson: "In the beginning of the year 1655, I was at the plough in the
east parts of Yorkshire; and, as I walked after the plough, I was filled with
the love and presence of the living God. . . . And. . . the word of the Lord
came to me in a still, small voice, which I did hear perfectly, saying to me in
the secret of my heart and conscience, 'I have ordained thee prophet unto the
nations'"
Stevenson accepted this call to missionary
service. And "the Lord said unto me, immediately by His Spirit" that
he would care for Stevenson's wife and children. With this reassurance,
Stevenson and William Robinson set off for the American Colonies. As it turned
out, the call was not only to mission but also to martyrdom; on October 27,
1659, both were hanged on Boston Common, the first Quakers to be executed under
a 1658 Massachusetts statute against the "cursed sect" of Quakers.17
Revelation
as Seed of Persecution, 1647-1649
Impressive
as the missionary vocation and martyrdom of a Marma-duke Stevenson may be, such
reliance on individual inspiration had its pitfalls. George Fox's own early
experience of revelations illustrates the point well. For example, sometime in
1648, Fox had an "opening" "that such as were faithful to [God]
in the power and light of Christ, should come up into that state in which Adam
was before he fell, in which the admirable works of the creation, and the
virtues thereof, may be known,
through the openings of that
divine Word of wisdom and power by which they were made'18
Two
important claims are made here. First, sinful man is capable of inner holiness,
even perfection. Secondly, a man in that state of prelap-sarian holiness can
have direct and reliable divine revelation on the nature and qualities of all
creation. So strong was Fox on the point that he even paused over "whether
I should practise physic for the good of mankind, seeing the nature and virtues
of the creatures were so opened to me by the Lord'19
This
vision is the root of two prolonged difficulties. First, there was the claim
that perfection is possible for man, a claim shared with General Baptists,
Familists, and other sects. However, Fox expressed the claim in the language of
the Ranters, an amorphous group of disenfranchised men notorious for their immoral
lives. The Ranters simply carried Fox's idea of restoration to holiness a step
further: If Christ's resurrection restores the believer to Adam's sinless
state, then any action a believer performs, be it dancing or cursing or
fornicating, is sinless! However, the Ranters would bring the Commonwealth's
persecution on their heads in 1651 and 1652 when their leaders were imprisoned
and the flock scattered into invisibility without religious groups similar to
their own in theology among the "masterless men" of English society.
Quakers would find themselves publicly suspect as being mere "externally
upright Ranters" for more than a decade.20
The
second prolonged difficulty with beginnings in this 1648 opening is more
fundamental. Fox was proposing a theory of direct divine inspiration of an
extraordinarily detailed sort: God showed him the inner workings of all
reality. This divine illumination was dependent upon neither Book nor human
event; hence, the normal avenues of independent verification were closed. Fox
would spend decades trying to cope with the ramifications of this mystical
experience. He would soon find that separate religious insights, at least when
they are reduced to human concepts and language, can vary and can even
contradict one another, yet he would have no adequate standard for assessing
their validity. A religious community based on such sometimes conflicting
openings would often find itself adrift. Fox first faced this central problem
with the scandalous excesses of James Nayler.
The
James Nayler Crisis, 1656
Certainly Marmaduke Stevenson's vocation and
martyrdom was ade‑
quate to edify the
community. But suppose a Friend's leading proves embarrassing. And suppose the
Friend is a man of special prominence. James Nayler is a case in point.
Well-known for his spirited and attractive presentation of Friends' beliefs,
James Nayler vied with Fox himself as the most noteworthy Quaker during the
period from 1652 to 1656. In an official narrative, London Yearly Meeting
explains what occasioned the crisis:
In 1655, Nayler came south
to help in work in London, where he became ensnared by flatterers, who behaved
themselves in an extravagant fashion, bowing, kneeling and singing before him.
On going to Bristol he was persuaded by Friends there to see Fox, then in
Launceston jail, but on the way he was taken and imprisoned at Exeter. He was
freed in October, 1656, and a few days later entered Bristol on horseback with
his followers around him. They spread garments before him and sang, "Holy,
Holy, Holy, Lord God of Israel' The authorities interfered and sent him to London,
where Parliament after long debates sentenced him to imprisonment after being
whipped and pilloried in London and Bristol, and branded for a blasphemer, and
having his tongue bored through?1
The
seriousness of the problem that Nayler suddenly had become is illustrated by
the fervor of Parliamentary debate. There had been previous messiahs in this
religion-ridden age, such as William Franklin, Arise Evans, Theaureaujohn. All
had been dealt with by local magistrates with brief prison terms. But to
Nayler, Cromwell's House of Commons devoted six weeks of frenzied vitriol. The
horrors Nayler finally suffered were an attempt to placate those who demanded
a sentence of death. The difference? The other messiahs were insignificant men
without serious followings. Nayler, however, was leader of a large movement
which had spread rapidly, drawing many members from the anti-parlimentary
Levellers and the immoral Ranters?2
Suddenly
the pleadings in Quaker pamphlets for social justice began to look like
preachments of political revolution. A 1653 publication had threatened, for
example, that "the earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof. He hath
given it to the sons of men in general, and not to a few lofty ones which lord
it over their brethren. '23 Another prophesied woe to "you
lofty ones of the earth, who have gotten much of the creation into your hands .
. . and are become lords of your brethren.1124
"God is against you;' Nayler himself told
"covetous cruel oppressors who grind the faces of the poor and
needy."25 Elsewhere Nayler lamented, "Who could have
believed that England would have brought forth no better fruits than these, now
after such deliverance as no nation else can witness?1"26
As the
reader would expect, Nayler's case brought an increase of persecution upon the
heads of Friends and a vivid sense of the vulnerability of the Quaker
community to individual excess. In order to understand the significance of the
Quaker response to this double threat, the reader is asked to consider Quaker
organizational structures prior to the Nayler affair and then to contrast them
with the changes Fox felt forced to introduce in its aftermath.
Early
Quaker Polity, 1649-1656
In
reporting the origin of Quaker meetings for business, George Fox comments:
"The first Monthly Meeting was on this wise in the North:
we did
meet concerning the poor, and to see that all walked according to the Truth,
before we were called Quakers, about the middle of the nation in
Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, and part of Leicestershire, where there was a
great convincement. 1127
These
are all districts where Fox had found groups of adherents by the end of 1648,
two years before Judge Hotham dubbed the sect Quakers. Since there are no
records of the sessions held among these groups, we must jump ahead to records
of practice among the northern Seekers Fox attracted in 1652.28
In
Westmoreland and East and West Riding, Fox found Seeker groups which already
met at regular intervals of three or four weeks to handle relief of their poor
and discipline of the "disorderly walkers" among their membership. In
1653, William Dewsbury, who had set up the East Riding Meeting the year before,
wrote a general epistle urging that "one or two Friends who are most grown
in the power and life, in the pure discerning in the Truth" should be
chosen to "take care and charge over the flock of God" as overseers9
In the
same year, an epistle was sent out in Fox's name recommending various points
of good order in the local business meetings. A secretary should keep a record
of all "sufferings" which could eventually be shared with other
Friends at a regional meeting. Idleness should be discouraged. Friends in
financial straits should be aided if possible from locally collected and
administered funds. Although it is clear that Fox and those who consulted with
him prior to the letter's writing.held great influence over the local meetings,
it is equally clear that Fox was making strong suggestions to groups that were
autonomous and self-governing. Constant encouragement was given to local
resolution of problems. Provision, however, was made for special, regional
gatherings for those instances
10
when local Friends were
unable to resolve problems. But the very irregularity of such regional
gatherings indicates how great was the primacy of the local meetings°
It
would appear that meetings for business were not held on a regular monthly
basis in many districts outside the region; instead sessions might
be summoned only when need was felt. With the
increase of persecution, however, such gatherings became necessary on a more
consistent basis. On one hand, those in jail and their families needed looking
after,
as did those who lost their employment because of
joining Friends. On the other, any hint of immorality which might justify the
persecutors'
charge that Friends were "secret
Ranters" must be remedied. The meetings
kept busy discovering such
"disorderly walkers;" they then either publicly asserted in writing
that the individual in question was not a member
of their group or obtained
from the culprit a written public confession
that his action had been
contrary to "Friends' Principles" along with a promise of
reformation. Both approaches were described as actions to
"clear Truth ."31
For example, Fox notes in his Journal for 1655 that "Christopher
Atkinson, that dirty man, had run out and brought dishonour upon the Lord's
Truth and his name; but he was judged and denied by Friends, and he after gave
forth a paper of condemnation of his sin and evil'32
By
1654, however, Fox had realized that regular local business meetings were
important to the community's survival and had set about the task of
"settling" Quaker groups where regularity was lacking3
In that
same year, Fox had gathered a sizable group of full-time itinerant preachers
who, like himself, spread the Quaker good news about
the Inner Light of Christ,
establishing and then fortifying little groups of fellow believers wherever
they travelled. The "Valiant Sixty" or "First Publishers of
Truth;' as they have come to be known in Quaker annals, taught a doctrine which
can be summarized in four cardinal principles. There is:
(1) Something of divine origin—"that of
God," "the Inner Light of Christ"—in every human being; (2) a
universal grace; (3) a universal call to moral perfection and religious union
with God; and (4) a continuing progressive revelation of God's will through the
ages.34
The
emphasis was not on specific doctrines about God, Christ, or redemption but on
the kind of life that should be lived by someone who experiences God's activity
in his life. Says British historian G. M. Trevelyan, "The finer essence of
George Fox's queer teaching common to the excited
11
revivalists who were his
first disciples was surely this: that Christian qualities matter much more than
Christian dogmas:'35
It is
important to notice that, in this earliest period, Fox did almost nothing to
organize his brethren above the local level. The meetings kept in touch with
each other through the loose and informal contact of the Valiant Sixty or other
travelling Friends. There is simply no indication that Fox or his followers had
any more rigorous plan of governance in mind. As the reader is about to see,
any development of polity above the local level seems always a step forced by
the need to defend Friends from government actions or those inner excesses
which invite government action; and always it is tailored to achieve maximum
effect with a minimum of added structure.
Fox's
Attempts to Protect Quaker Communities, 1656-1660
At the time of Nayler's punishment, George Fox,
fresh out of jail, toured the nation and discovered an increase in the
frequency of harassment for such Friendly offenses as refusal to pay tithes,
take oaths, or show respect for civic officials by removing the hat. A
significant explanation of increased persecution is, perhaps, found in Fox's
remark, "Oliver Protector began to harden :'36
Fox
sought first to achieve a restoration of order within the various Friends'
communities, bringing them back from "that evil spirit. . . which had
drawn James Nayler and his followers out from Truth, to run Friends into heats
about him:'37 He wrote three epistles to Friends, one urging that
their "patience must get the victory and answer that of God in every one,
must bring every one to it, and bring them from the contrary:' This can be
interpreted as a plea for internal reconciliation and, perhaps, a less
"aggravating" public witness. The second and third epistles are
concerned with deepening the sense of the Spirit's presence ("the power
of the Lord") in meetings for worship and loving but firm guidance to be
exercised by more mature Friends over those who may "go beyond their
measure:'
From
this very positive starting point, Fox set out to reinforce the meagre
structures of the separate communities: monthly meetings of men—prime places
for discovering and dealing with "disorderly walkers'—were established
wherever they were not already set up; special general meetings involving one
or two representatives from each county were to be held at Skipton annually to
bring ordinarily isolated local units together for a period of renewal and
united decisions; "reliable" books were wide ly disseminated; and
regional meetings were established to meet four times a year (quarterly
meetings) throughout the nation8
Fox did
not use the Nayler episode to exercise undue personal power. He did, however,
respond to the crisis by initiating a regular, if minimal, superstructure above
the level of the local units. The local units remained primary, although the
superstructure served to communicate and advise in a consistent way which the
haphazard journeys of the travelling ministry—the First Publishers of Truth—had
not been set up to achieve.39
The
function of the now regular gatherings of travelling ministers and elders from
local meetings was clearly regarded as advisory. There was no doubt of local
sovereignty. An excellent illustration of the spirit with which the new
structure would approach its task was the 1656 epistle of "the brethren in
the north" which was sent from a special meeting of elders gathered at
Balby. Since they wrote while Nayler's case was being debated in Parliament,
their exhortations to internal discipline and self-constraint, including
supervision by local elders, are understandable. But these Balby Friends
followed their injunctions with a postscript that would set the tone for the
regular gatherings of elders to follow.
Dearly beloved Friends,
these things we do not lay upon you as a rule or form to walk by, but that all,
with the measure of light which is pure and holy, may be guided: and so in the
light walking and abiding, these may be fulfilled in the Spirit, not from the
letter, for the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life."40
The
importance of Fox's tour of England becomes more apparent when we face the
advisory nature of the Balby epistle and those that were to follow. Greater
control over excesses could be exhorted by gatherings above the local level,
but implementation was by local option. If the Balby proposals were to become
effective, the vigorous charismatic presence of Fox was sometimes crucial.
Fox's gentle but insistent efforts proved adequate to reunite and discipline
the community after the Nayler fiasco, aided greatly, one must note, by
Nayler's own humble repentance and return to the fold.
As for
government opposition, it is not clear whether Christopher Hill has adequate
evidence for his general judgment that "once the Nayler case had broken
the radical-political back of Quakerism, the men of property seemed secure from
the perils which had environed them since 1647'41 That imprisonment
of Quakers continued, there can be no doubt. Whether the pace slackened is hard
to say.
It does seem clear that the
tide of pamphlets from Quaker pens con‑
tinued to urge social
reform. Anthony Pearson advocated abolition of tithes as a device to relieve
the poor. Already by 1658, John Audland prophesied immediate divine wrath
against immoral Bristol—significantly, the town Nayler had entered as messiah
two years previously and where he had subsequently been flogged the following
yea02
The Restoration and Renewed Persecution
The
turbulence immediately preceding the 1660 restoration of the monarchy brought
forth a large volume of Quaker political tracts calling on Parliament to
"set free the oppressed peoples' Army leaders were accused of arming
Anabaptists and Quakers in an attempt to prevent the Restoration3
The
collapse of parliamentary government led Fox to personal despair over the
political realm. Just before the Republic's fall, he issued an uncharacteristic
pamphlet objecting to democracy itself. Its lengthy title expresses the
theme: A Few Plain Words To be considered by those of the Army, Or others that
would have a Parliament That is chosen by the voyces of the people, to govern
the three Nations. Wherein is shewed unto them according to the Scripture of
Truth, that a Parliament so chosen are not likely to govern for God and the
good of his People.44 This thoroughly anti-democratic essay
still calls for abolition of tithes, reform of law, and religious toleration.
It is also a prelude to the despair of politics that would take hold of Fox and
his movement in 166W'5
When
the Restoration finally occurred, suppression of Quakers by the agents of
Charles II was singularly bruta06 One must remember that Quakers
were among the most visible targets to be found by the Royalists in their drive
to make the kingdom safe against Parliamentarianism and the "masterless
men" who had joined the Army and who had otherwise supported the
Parliamentary forces.
The
Fifth Monarchy Uprising against the new king in early January 1661, led the
government to mass imprisonment of Quakers as likely participants. Fox tells
us that "several thousands" of Friends were imprisoned in January by
the King and Counci07
At this
point, Fox and Richard Hubberthorne drew up a declaration against "plots
and fightings" to be presented to the king. It was seized while at the
printer's and destroyed. A second version was prepared by Friends and printed
over the names of Fox, Hubberthorne, and ten other prominent Quakers who wrote
"in behalf of the whole body of the Elect People of God who are called
Quakers:' The king was told: "All Bloody
14
principles and practices, we
as to our own particulars, do utterly deny, with all outward wars and strife
and fightings with outward weapons, for any end or under any pretence
whatsoever. And this is our testimony to the whole world. "48
This is
a curious document. A dozen prominent Friends took it upon themselves to
declare that pacifism was a central Quaker tenet. Yet we know that at least two
of the signers, Howgil and Hubberthorne, had advocated the use of force as late
as 1659. And Fox, himself, though he had refused an army commission in 1651,
still felt free in 1657 to urge "the inferior officers and soldiers"
of the army to conquer Rome9 Further, it would appear that the
plight of imprisoned Friends was so pressing that the twelve were led to define
Quaker belief with an absoluteness uncharacteristic of the movement. Because
their action—combined with the timely denial of Quaker complicity by Fifth
Monarchy leaders just before their own execution50—brought relief
from the large-scale imprisonment of Friends, it seems to have drawn no
immediate objections from within the Quaker communities scattered over England.
But the
action underscores the weakness of the position Friends were in. Conceived by
their opponents as a national group of possibly revolutionary proclivity, they
had no regular national unit which could speak authoritatively for them. To
what extent was a declaration by twelve Friends—even twelve prominent ones—a
definitive statement of the community's belief?
Even
more important theoretically, if not recognized at the time, how could any body
representing the local communities speak authoritatively for them all?
The local autonomy which was central to Quaker communities implied a
nondelegatable power of local decision. The Balby elders, in 1656, had gone as
far as a nonlocal unit could go simply by giving strong advice to the local
meetings. The proclamation of 1661 by the twelve leading Friends declared to
the government a testimony of pacifism which not only had not been approved by
all the local communities but which was inconsistent with the recent statements
of some of the most prominent signers themselves. In this clear emergency,
under great immediate threat of major persecution, the twelve had let
necessity be their guide. Their action opened the door for Friends to metamorphose
from a sect of locally sovereign communities to a church with central polity.
This transition involved a substitution of central for local divine guidance.
For
other sects, this substitution, though difficult, has not been fundamental
because it does not affect the general body of doctrines the sect
15
holds. Not so for Friends. Quakerism is a
religion which tries to be without doctrines. What is central instead is the
common experience, the felt action of God in the gathered meeting. In the personal
experience of decisions which arise from that felt presence, the Friend draws
confidence that the decision is truly "of God" and therefore that it
calls for his or her obedience. To transform this "authority from
experience". into "authority from external directives" is to
transplant a tree by cutting off its root. In fact, Friends will never quite
make a successful transition from sect to church. The regional and national
government units, no matter how justified in theory, remain in constant de
facto tension with the theological fundamentum of experience which makes local
meetings innately sovereign51
But now
back to 1661. Given Friends' high visibility and the government's efforts to
suppress them, there was clear impetus for some sort of national structure in
the early years after the Restoration. But the persecution was so strident that
even those regular regional meetings Fox had succeeded in establishing in the
1656-1660 period52 became irregular at best and disappeared entirely
at worst.
The
local communities, however, thrived in spite of the persecution. When others
went into hiding, Friends insisted on meeting publicly for worship every First
Day (Sunday). In some instances when all the parents in a meeting were
imprisoned, their children kept the meeting going as usual. Says Christopher
Hill, "One of the most important reasons for the survival of the Quakers
was their stoutness under persecution, on which even their enemies commented:'53
The
Perrot Threat, 1661-1666
But in
the midst of these once again isolated communities, an old problem emerged.
Although James Nayler had died contrite and restored in 1660, his earlier
heresy reemerged in the highly appealing John Perrot. Some writers have been so
misled by the apparently paltry nature of Per-rot's disagreement with Fox as to
dismiss the issue as insignificant or even to blame Fox for being unduly harsh
towards a relatively innocent offender.54
The
occasion of the famous "hat controversy" was Perrot's leading in
prayer that he should not remove his hat when he (or anyone else) prayed aloud
in meeting for worship. This was an insight "which I have received by
express commandment from the Lord God of heaven ."55 The reason
Perrot's position was not insignificant is that it was a direct reminder of
16
Nayler's actions. Says Fox:
"But James Nayler and some of them could not stay the meeting but kept
their hats on when I prayed. And they were the first that gave that bad example
amongst Friends:'56 Nor was Nayler's custom original. In a denunciation
of hat-wearers in 1681, Fox indicates that this practice was a trademark of the
Ranters: "And alsoe all such as weare their hatts when ffrinds pray, and
are gotten into ye old rotten principle of ye ranters whoe sets up ye wearing
theirof in oppostion to ye power of god. 1157
As one
might expect, Perrot held a cluster of positions associated with Nayler and
with the Ranters hidden within Quakerism and he numbered "most of those
that had joyned to James [Nayler]" among his own enthusiasts.58
At the center is the idea that the individual Friend should act according to
his own leadings no matter what others may hold, even if one's leadings are
exactly the opposite of the agreement of Friends. Perrot believed that:
"The Lord in me [is] more worthy of audience and obedience than the voyce
of any messenger to me; and therefore till I hear the voice of god in me,
though I have heard the voice of a trumpet with me[,] I am to stand still and
wait for a certain knowledge of the echoings through the valley of my soul, as
found answerings of God's minde in
Out of
this doctrine came the anarchical argument that meetings for worship should not
be scheduled regularly but should only occur when members of the community felt
moved to worship together. Next Perrot imitated Nayler in growing a Jesus-like
beard and encouraging a number of women to show him respect bordering on
obeisance. Under color of achieving spontaneity, he organized separate evening
worship sessions among London Friends. At this, Fox explicitly denounced the
increasingly popular Perrot.60 A pamphlet war ensued during the
1661-1665 period.
Perhaps
the clearest statement of the basic threat which Perrot's thought presented is
in Richard Farnsworth's 1663 critique. Farnsworth charged that Perrot first
totally split the outward and inward man, then claimed that God's inner
teachings touch only the inner man. Thus, the outward life need not be an
expression of the inner convictions. For the old Ranters this had meant freedom
from the need to live externally moral lives so long as their inner lives were
renewed. For Perrot and his followers, it meant that one did enough if he
conformed to the "outward" religious legislation of the restored and
unFriendly king so long as he had a nonconforming heart. This was an all too
appealing subterfuge to avoid being "liable to any persecutions of
suffering for righteousness' sake.1161
17
A good
example of Perrot's technique may well be his own arrangement in 1662 to go
into voluntary exile in Barbados in return for his release from Newgate Prison.
This agreement was followed at once by his informing the Quaker settlement in
Barbados that he was coming "to preach the Gospel" among themP2
To Fox,
Perrot's journey to the New World did not have the earmarks of a divine
missionP3 For Perrot, this gap between inner life and outer
expression seemed most acceptable. Once in Barbados, he divided his time
between missionary journeys and taking on such unFriendly (but lucrative)
duties as becoming royal negotiator to the neighboring Spanish (a post which
involved wearing a sword) and acting as clerk of a court where Perrot
cheerfully administered oath04
Chapter II The Growth of Central Decision Making, 1666-1736
The last chapter examined the origins of Quakerism and traced its history
through the years of early fervor and persecution. The autonomy of the local
meeting emerged as central to the peculiarly experiential religion of Friends.
What superstructure there was operated irregularly and in strictly advisory
relation to the sovereign local meetings. The very existence of such structure
was heavily dependent on the need for internal discipline as a rampart against
actions like Nayler's, which brought such public opprobrium and persecution on
Friends. With the truly harsh governmental action of the early Restoration,
this meagre system of gatherings above the local level disintegrated just as a
dangerous variant of Naylerism, the teaching of John Perrot, seriously divided
the local communities.
This chapter explores the growth of
the permanent and effective authority superimposed on local meetings which
gradually made local sovereignty more theoretical and less actual. It all began
with the drive to combat Perrot's influence.
Solid
Structure Above the Local Meetings, 1666-1670
John Perrot
died in early September 1665. His movement continued, however, and attracted
many; for he had placed personal leadings ahead of group leadings and allowed
external conformity with government religious decrees—an easy gospel, indeed.
Fox, who had opposed Perrot for some years, was once again in jail. Eleven
prominent Friends convened
specially in London in May
1666, and approved a strong letter to Friends written by Richard Farnsworth.
The burden of their message was that "if
any differences arise in the
church, . . . we do declare and testify, that the church, with the Spirit of
the Lord Jesus Christ, have power, without the assent of such as dissent from
their doctrines and practices, to hear and determine the same'1
William
C. Braithwaite aptly summarizes the impact of this letter: "It obviously
marks an important stage in Quaker history. Individual guidance
is subordinated to the
corporate sense of the Church, which is treated as finding authoritative
expression through the elders who are sound in faith. The fellowship is still
grounded in a common experience of spiritual life; but agreement with the
approved practices and principles which have sprung from that experience is
also essential:12
Howard
Brinton agrees, writing "this letter, by definitely subordinating
individual guidance to the sense of the meeting as a ihole, marked an important
step in Quaker development."
What
Braithwaite and Brinton overlook, however, is the drama of the critical
situation in which the letter appeared. First, none of the signers of the 1661
disclaimer of violence is numbered among the eleven who wrote this letter.
Imprisonment, far-flung travels, and death may account for the absence of the
earlier twelve, but the authority of the eleven who spoke in the 1666 letter is
unclear.
Admittedly
all of the eleven were prominent elders or ministers. But they had no regular
authority, being specially convened to write the letter. Furthermore, there
were very many equally prominent Quaker ministers and elders to be found in the
Perrot camp4
There
is no indication of how the elders' letter was received in the months following
its publication. What we do know is that George Fox set out immediately upon
his release three months after the letter's promulgation to visit as many areas
as possible, holding special meetings for reconciliation and establishing
monthly business meetings for men and for women wherever these were not
functioning. Fox tells us: "But I was so weak with lying about three years
in cruel and hard imprisonments, my joints and my body were so stiff and
benumbed that I could hardly get on my horse. Neither could I well bend my
knee, nor hardly endure fire nor eat warm meat: I had been so long kept from
it. . . And though I was very weak, yet I travelled up and down in the service
of the Lord15
Why
would someone in this condition drag his body through an excruciating journey
lasting months? Given the extent of the Perrotonian party, it would appear that
Fox believed his movement was in critical danger. He sought reconciliation and
introduced a structure that would regularize internal discipline, provide for
organizational coordination among local units through quarterly meetings in
each region, and capped the operation by establishing a yearly meeting, which
was first held
at Christmas 1668.6
In this four-year period of hectic travel, we
have something of a
paradox. George Fox kept the
movement from falling apart and succeeded in reconciling dissidents by the
power of his own clear devotion and his inspired preaching. But what he was
"moved of the Lord God 117 to preach and establish by his
charismatic presence was a two-fold institutionalization of charisma. First
there was a subordination of all individual leadings to the control of the
community, a belief that the Spirit's voice in the gathered community was more
reliable than the Spirit's voice within oneself. This made official what had
already been standard practice among ministers who regularly tested their
leadings by entrusting them to other ministers for "clearance," and
to some degree among Friends in general who knew that their actions were under
the watchful discernment of the local meeting's overseers. Nor was this action
simply a substitution of institution for charisma. It is properly described as
substituting communal
charismatic decision for individual charismatic
decision.
The second form of institutionalization was the
establishment of
regular quarterly and yearly
meetings. True, their procedure was to be according to the same decision rules
as the local meetings and their decisions were always advisory. But their very
regularity and efficiency soon
raised them to a predominant position.
Fox reveals a clear sincerity in the path he
chose. He did not make
the political atmosphere and
the inner strife an opportunity for imposing a structure which would
institutionalize his own preeminence. Insofar as he did achieve special status,
it came from the extent of his devotion to his communities, a devotion made
obvious by his travels in such bad health, and the historical accident that
many of the other First Publishers of Truth either died or were permanently
imprisoned.8 Fox's charismatic personal authority comes through
clearly in William Penn's generous appreciation:
And truly, I must say, that
though God had visibly clothed him with a divine preference and authority, and
indeed his very presence expressed a religious majesty, yet he never abused it;
but held his place in the Church of God with great meekness and a most engaging
humility and modera‑
tion. For upon all
occasions, like his blessed Master, he was a servant to all; holding and
exercising his eldership in the invisible power that had gathered them, with
reverence to the Head, and care over the body; and was received only in that
spirit and power of Christ, as the first and chief elder in this age; who, as
he was therefore worthy of double honour, so for the same reason it was given
by the faithful of this day; because
his authority was inward and not outward, and
that he got it and kept it by the love of God and power of an endless life.
I write
by knowledge and not report; and my witness is true, having been with him for
weeks and months together on diverse occasions, and those of the nearest and
most exercising nature, and that by night and day, by sea and by land, in this
and in foreign countries; and I can say
I never saw him out of his place, or not a match
for every service or occasion.
For in all things he acquitted himself like a
man, yea, a strong man,
a new and heavenly-minded man, a divine and a
naturalist, and all of God Almighty's making.9
This is
not to say that Fox was faultless nor even that he showed good grace at all
times when his personal leadings were not accepted by the community. A telling example
of Fox's chagrin at having to subordinate himself to his own institutions
appeared a decade later in his 1676 remarks concerning a strongly-worded
polemic which the "Seconddays* Morning Meeting" of men ministers had
refused to let him circulate: Fox wrote, "I was not moved to set up that
meeting to make orders against the reading
of my papers'10
By 1676, Fox's charisma, too, was under institutional control.
With
Fox's hectic journeys from 1666 to 1670, then, we get the initiation of a firm
system of governance. And, because of Fox's successful campaign, the letter of
1666 from the eleven elders became the procedure for resolving future conflicts
between individual community leadings.
Individual
Discernment and Personal Infallibility
In order
to understand a bit more clearly the leadings we have been discussing, we might
take a few pages here to explore the concept of spiritual discernment.
Spiritual discernment is the ability to differentiate reliable leadings from
unreliable ones.
George Fox tells us that he received two separate
gifts early in his spiritual life. First, "the spiritual discerning came
into me, by which I did discern my own thoughts, groans and sighs, and what it
was that did veil me, and what it was that did open me." Subsequently, he
received a gift
* Monday
of discerning others'
spirits "through which I saw plainly that when many people talked of God,
the Serpent spoke in them. And a report went abroad of me that I was a young
man that had a discerning spirit "11 These two gifts are
examples of charisma in the New Testament sense—intense gratuitous presence in
an individual of a quality which builds up the Chris‑
tian community"2
Fox's power of discernment, his reading of the
Inner Light, was the
root of his apostolic decision
making. He believed his discernment to be incapable of error, that it was
infallible. "I was commanded to turn people to that inward light, spirit
and grace. . . which I infallibly knew would never deceive any."13
Fox's claim of infallible knowledge was consistent with his antecedents. The
Seekers, for example, believed that in the Apostolic Age "all was
administered under the anointing of the Spirit, clearly, certainly,
infallibly." Not so in this age of apostacy. Therefore, "they waited
for an Apostle, or some one with a visible glory and power, able in the Spirit
to give visible demonstration of being sent ."14 And, for many,
Fox was just such a man.
Nor was the belief limited to Fox. Edward
Burrough, one of the chief
Publishers of Truth wrote, "The
judgment in that matter [heresy] must be just, equal, Holy and [only] by the
Spirit of Christ, which is infallible, and gives infallibility of judgment and
discerning into all cases and
things.
Quaker belief in infallible inspiration by the
Spirit drew barbs from
adversaries. These critics attempted to pinpoint
weak arguments in Quaker tracts, arguing that any such error proved that Quaker
leadings were not
divinely inspired. One such
critic concluded his 1674 argument that "your Books must be false; and
consequently not the issue of the infallible Spirit, as you would have the
world believe they are.'/16
Modern
apologists for the Society of Friends have occasionally attempted to minimize
this dimension of Quaker origins. Henry Van Etten, for example, asserts,
"It must be remembered that he [George Fox] did not use the word 'Truth'
in any exclusive sense, and that he never believed himself infallible."17
In reality, Fox considered infallible knowledge of God's will to be so
universal a gift that it even appears in a 1663 tract on marriage which he
coauthored with Thomas Lawrence. When asked "whether freedom from all sin,
and infallible assurance of God's will be of absolute necessity" for
marriage, he replied, "To have infallible assurance [that] there is
freedom from all sin, to hunger and thirst, and press after it, to witness a
growth, to be sincere in heart, and faith to God in measure,
is of absolute necessity:'18
Fox's
own reliance on inspiration was so complete that it led him far beyond the strictly
religious realm. We have noted above his brief flirtation with the practice of
medicine as the result of an enlightenment about the inner nature of creatures.
William Braithwaite suggests that similar inspiration lay behind Fox's attempt
to demonstrate the correctness of using "thou" for one person and
"you" for many. "He seems in some way to have regarded himself
as possessing a spiritual counterpart to human learning, which took him above
and beyond it.19
The
same conviction that his inspiration was infallible led Fox, long after the
event, to rationalize his behaviour in Lichfield in a manner which Christopher
Hill considers "singularly unconvincing, 1120
More generally, writes Braithwaite, this belief
in infallible inspiration led to a "forcefulness and also [a] mixture of
unperceived error [in early Quaker apologists], e.g., confident preaching in
the face of persecution but also intolerance, deprecation of the value of
intellectual gifts, frequent extravagance of conduct. The violent language
often used showed a want of charity, which was only to be excused because the
Quaker was convinced that he was infallibly right."21
It was
Nayler's fall that first cast serious doubt on personal infallibility. Here,
indeed, was a pillar of the church who was so clearly deceived as to bring
ridicule on Friends. Yet what controls could be introduced to test inspiration
without denying inspiration altogether?22
Tests of Leadings: The Cross
The earliest major test of one's leading seems to
have been whether one finds the Cross in what he is drawn to. Wrote Fox,
"To speak of truth when ye are moved, it is a cross to the will; if ye
live in the truth which ye speak, ye live in the cross of your own Wills.
'23
So, too, Richard Farnsworth wrote in 1652 that "you will be brought into
a discerning, to savour truth from error, both in yourselves, and also in one
another" if you will follow the cross which will "cross and crucify
that which would consult with human wisdom and reason:' And thus, "that
which is earthly, carnal, and brutish, will be cut down in you:'
Ten
days later, Farnsworth exhorted the newly convinced*
Margaret Fell to "keep in the cross, and purity will grow;—the safest way
is in the cross: take up the cross daily; mind to be guided by that which
crosseth your own wills, and it will bring every idle word, thought and deed to
* Converted
judgment in you; and so the old man will be
crucified, with the affec‑
tions and lusts thereoL1124
The appropriateness of this test of one's
leadings is especially clear
if one recalls that Quakers needed to dissociate
themselves from the licentious Ranters who "fled the cross:' Actions from
the true Spirit were
therefore seen by Friends as always contrary to
self-will?5
But as a positive mark of divine leadings, the
presence of the cross
left much to be desired. Friends found themselves
justifying many unwise actions "partly because of the strong call under
which they were exercised, but mainly because they were contrary to Friends'
natural inclina‑
tion and so involved 'a very real taking of the
cross. 1126
Thus, the practice of going naked as a sign—a
display last seen among
the Munster Anabaptists—was not disowned by
Quaker leaders. James Nayler, in 1654, says that the Friends who acted this way
acted contrary to their own will?7 Vernon Noble tells us of the
reception of this sort of
witness at Oxford.
These two young girls from
Kendal. . . went the wrong way about converting the riotous university
scholars and they were soundly beaten for it. Elizabeth Fletcher, a dainty girl
of 17, took off all her clothes and walked through the streets "contrary
to her own will or inclination, in obedience to the Lord." She was
described as "a very modest, grave young woman;' and this startling
behavior was to be a sign that God would strip the people of their hypocrisy?8
As late
as 1672, the intellectual author of the Apology, Robert Barclay, called
the city of Aberdeen to repentance by walking three of the main streets in sack
cloth and ashes. The criterion of action: he did not want
to do it?9
Tests of Leadings: Scripture
Although one might expect that Scripture would be
of help in sorting
out some of the leadings of
early Friends, there is not much satisfying evidence. For example, those who
went naked at Munster noted the biblical passage of the prophet Isaiah who went
naked for six months as a testimony to the doom of Jerusalem° Other scriptural
passages could be cited which urged modesty or avoidance of scandal,31
but who was to say
which scriptural strand was more appropriate.
As J. William Frost comments, the Friends, like
all other Christian com‑
munities, had their own special emphases in
reading Scripture. They heard literally Matthew's injunction to "swear not
at all:' But, "although they
believed in the duty of charity, they did not
echo Christ's advice to the
rich young ruler to 'sell
all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor" Again:
Friends refused to bow; when
opponents mentioned that Abraham bowed to the children of Heth and Lot to the
two angels, Barclay argued that the practice of the patriarchs was not to be
the practice of today or else polygamy would be allowed. Yet, since the Old
Testament was much clearer than the New Testament about forbidding mixed
marriages, Friends used as a precedent the passages in Genesis where the giants
became sinful because they married daughters of the earth and Jacob pleased his
parents by marrying one of Isaac's kin while Esau displeased them by marrying a
Hittite2
In a
sense, the problem Quakers faced was even more fundamental. Other Protestant
communities, no matter how they decided what Scripture meant, held that
Scripture itself was normative. For Fox, his comrades, and successors, only
the Spirit of God—the Inner Light—was normative. The Holy Spirit, not
Scripture, was the "touchstone and judge by which . . . to try all
doctrines, religions, and opinions and to end all controversies:' Fox noted
that he reached his own early leadings entirely by the inspiration of the
Spirit, not from Scripture. Only subsequently did he turn to Scripture, always
finding, of course, that it was possible to construe its meaning according to
his enlightenment. In this sense, he remarked, "Yet I had no slight esteem
of the Holy Scriptures, and what the Lord opened to me I afterward found was
agreeable to them. 1133 Nor was Fox ready to limit this power of
understanding to himself. In 1658
he wrote: "That which may be known of God is
manifest within people. Thou needest no man to teach thee.
Friends
found themselves in a permanently ambiguous situation. Robert Barclay, for
example, could explain that "because the Spirit of God is the Fountain of
all Truth and sound reason, therefore, we have well said, That it cannot
contradict neither the Testimony of the Scripture, nor right reason. 1135
The Inner Light or the Spirit, however, provided the test of the meaning of
Scripture and of the rightness of reason.
We are
not saying that Friends threw out Scripture. In fact, when some of the extreme
followers of John Perrot did so, perhaps even burning their Bibles, they were
castigated for it by Fox's party. Clearly, however, the
authority of Scripture
remained secondary to an individual's strong inner leadings6
Tests of Leadings: Submission of Openings
It is no surprise that early preachers found it
expedient to submit their
26
leadings to each other as a
way of testing or letting the "self-consistence of the Spirit" become
operative. For instance, in 1659, Aldam wrote Fox and Burrough to "take
into your consideration the things written downe in that power which came to
mee and W. Dewsbury at Yorke and lett mee have an answer, how the Large wisdom
of God in you doth aprove of the particular thinges to bee done, and what it
disaproves of, that in one Mynde wee may meete."37
The
same attitude appears in the informal First Day meetings of London ministers
who would gather to share ideas before dispersing to preach at the different
meetings in the area.
Tests of Leadings: The
Fruits of the Holy Spirit
But,
when Friends gathered, be they ministers on First Day or all the brethren in local
meeting for business, how were they to know whose leading was genuine and whose
was not? The early literature abounds in descriptions of the fruits of the good
and evil spirits. The principle of God within, writes Fox, produced soberness,
peace, stillness, quietness, and strength. The transgression of the principle
of God resulted in distractions, distempers, unruliness, and confusion.
Another epistle listed the fruits of the good spirit as "tender love,
unity, grace, and good order" as well as "a sweetness and harmony of
life, unity, and subjection to one another, and a preserving one another in the
Lord: In essence the assorted lists turn out to be variants of the Pauline
catalogue of fruits of the Holy Spirit: "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,
goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control:' The litany boiled down to
the "presence of inner peace" which Howard Brinton characterizes as
"the main Quaker test of right guidance:' As Barclay put it, "And
since there is no greater Mark of the People of God, than to be at Peace among
themselves; whatsoever tendeth to break that Bond of Love and Peace, must be
testified against :'38
Later Tests of Leadings:
Silence, Unadorned Speech
With
the passage of time, the community drew upon its experience to add some
supplemental tests of reliable leadings. Barclay underscored the importance of
the silence in a meeting; internal silence was necessary if one was to
"discern. . . the still, small Voice of the Spirit:' One who was
waiting for the Lord in inner silence could not be deceived because "the Excellency
of this silent waiting upon God doth appear, in that it is impossible
for the Enemy, viz, the Devil, to counterfeit it, so as for any Soul
to be deceived or deluded by him in the Exercise thereof.1139
27
Additionally,
a special plain style of speech in meeting was taken as a sign of genuine
inspiration. Penn described Fox as such a speaker.
And abruptly and brokenly as
sometimes his sentences would fall from him about divine things, it is well
known they were often as tests to many fairer declarations. And indeed it
showed, beyond all contradiction, that God sent him, that no arts or parts had
any share in his matter or manner of his ministry; and that so many great,
excellent, and necessary truths as he came forth to preach to mankind had
therefore nothing of man's wit or wisdom to recommend them°
Limitations of Friends Tests
of Leadings
Friends
tests were not fully reliable. Simplicity of speech could always be fabricated
by those who knew that an audience favored such a style. Inner silence could be
fabricated, too, so that even the individual who sought to be silent might be
deceived. And harmony of the group could be achieved by excluding those who
disagreed—the history of Quaker schisms shows how readily a divided community
can split into separate camps each of which manifests internal love and
unity.
More
basically, the Friends doctrine of discernment lacked a number of the assets of
other religious traditions. First, belief in corruption of nature led Friends
to replace reason solely with direct inspiration. In an insightful paragraph,
J. William Frost explains, "Both Friends and Puritans recognized the
necessity of something other than reason in religion, but with this difference:
The Puritans used and defended all possible tools of man in learning about and
communicating the contents of revelation; the
Friends admitted only
supernatural means in evaluating supernatural matters"41
Secondly,
Friends lacked—at least at the beginning—a theological tradition. Surrounded
with a sampler of theological positions on every possible topic, early Quakers
constantly used the Spirit to discern which of these theologies was correct. Many
issues such as war or pacifism, marriage with or without officiating
witnesses, independent local units or one of the many variants of central
control or some combination of the two—these were areas that had to be
determined before Friends had developed a distinctive tradition which
they could then use as a criterion for judging the merits of each fresh
concern. We shall see how quickly Friends
created and sanctified such a tradition—a mark in
itself of how badly some sort of objective test was needed.
Finally,
strictly in the area of assessing the person's inner motions, Friends clearly
seem to have been deprived of a working knowledge of the literature of
discernment that had preceded them. While there were precedents for Quaker
belief in guidance by the Holy Spirit (see Appendix A), a reading of the
letters of Fox and early Friends does not reveal that this general inclination
to trust the Spirit was accompanied by an understanding of the nuances of
discernment as it had developed and flourished from the Fathers of the Desert
to the mystic who founded the Jesuits, Ignatius of Loyola (1491-1556) 42
For
example, Loyola's approach made a basic distinction among leadings. There was a
special kind of spiritual experience that was "without
any previous cause through which a soul might be
led to such a consola‑
tion through its own acts of
intellect and will This "experience of transcendence" was reliable
and self-authenticating to the person who ex‑
perienced it. All other
inward experiences could come from either the good
or the evil spirit. The
whole question of infallibility which plagued Friends was thus eliminated by
Ignatius. Certainty was attached only to the rare
special sorts of visitations
of the first category, and even these visitations
could be tested by
outsiders. Ignatius could rely on the objective goodness and badness of actions
which could be determined by natural law as well
as on the rich tradition and
legislation of the Roman Church because "it
is necessary that all
matters of which we wish to make a choice be either indifferent or good in
themselves, and such that they are lawful within
our Holy Mother, the
hierarchical Church, and not bad or opposed to her."
Loyola
proceeded to suggest guidelines for discovering the hidden meanings of those
inner leadings which were not in the special self‑
authenticating class. After
much weighing of inner experiences, individual decisions could be made by
heading in the direction where genuine peace seemed most to lie, but the
decision was never made with certainty3
What
was true in individual discernment was equally so in the case of a group.
Loyola's earliest companions gathered with him to discern
God's will for them.
Although they sought to find the Spirit and achieve unity in their conclusions
("todos contentos"), they made no claim of infallibility in their
attempt4
For
Fox, there was no adequate distinction between types of spiritual leadings and
no external yardstick by which to measure such individual
leadings. No wonder the
meeting came to assume so central a role. For only the inspired group was
available to act as a check on the individual's inspiration.
We have
already seen how this reliance on the meeting's unity officially triumphed over
individual inspiration in the ministers' letter of 1666. Now
we shall see how the local
meetings themselves gradually became subject to the unifying influence of the
higher levels of meetings which slowly ate away at local autonomy.
Defeat
of Localism: The Wilkinson-Story Dispute: 1670-1676
Let us
return to the development of Quaker structures. In the 1660-1670 period, Fox
was busy establishing regular monthly, quarterly, and yearly
meetings, with the first yearly meeting held in
1668. This newly created
system had two results.
First, there was a "bracing effect upon the Society" giving
"the strength that comes from a well devised organization:'
But there was a drawback as
well because "the natural result was not merely to coordinate the
discernment of the community with the spiritual leadings of the individual, but
to enlarge continuously, by the successive encroachments with which a system of
organization aggrandizes itself, the area of conduct over which the community
exerted absolute sway:145
Eventually,
the community's sway would touch even the cut of one's clothes. If such excess
was not experienced immediately, the potential was clearly there and
recognized. An anonymous 1673 pamphlet railed against the
"Foxonian-unity" which stigmatized those Friends who dissented from a
decision because they were not inwardly moved to favor it as being God's truth.
The result was "to deprive us of the law of the Spirit and to bring in a
tyrannical government: it would lead us from the rule within to subject us to
a rule without:'
The
anti-Fox pamphlet also cited supposed abuses from outside the local meetings.
There was too much rooting out of error, too much external programming of
supposedly spontaneous meetings for worship in order to assure that the
recognized ministers monopolized the time with their preaching, thus
eliminating both the time of silence and the chance for ordinary members of the
community to minister [preach] if they felt so moved6
Fox was
on a missionary journey to America at the time, so the abuses—to the extent
that they were real—were laid at his door because of the system he had
established rather than because of his personal actions. The pamphlet proved
unsuccessful in some quarters because Friends were still so painfully aware of
the perils of disunity which Perrot's similar views had caused, and as one
might expect, the pamphlet was rebutted by the 1673 Yearly Meeting.
By
1675, however, with Fox back in England, a group which had endorsed the 1673
pamphlet formed around two traditionalist leaders, John
30
Wilkinson and John Story.
This duo called for a return to the individual freedom and local autonomy which
had been prevalent prior to 1666. In addition, their affirmation that one need
not provoke persecution from the government was ambiguously close in expression
to Perrot's argument that one need not accept persecution at all, 47
a phenomenon making them at once liable to accusation from Fox's group and
attractive to many who had followed Perrot.
Finally,
in 1676, the ministers gathered for their yearly meeting and affirmed that
"the Power of God is the authority of the men's and women's meetings and
of all the other meetings. 11'48 Individual Friends' leadings,
when they contradicted the
decision of the meeting, were not to be followed. The authority of local
meetings was not attacked, of course, and
superior meetings remained
only advisory. But there was no attempt to force these new units to refrain
from issuing definitive "advice:' The Wilkinson-Story party went into
schism.
An
example of this forceful "advice" was the decision of the Yearly
Meeting of Ministers in the following year. Now happily unified because
it was free of the unrepresented Wilkinson-Story
faction, the meeting felt
drawn to "reprove and
judge that jealous, rending and separating spirit (of Wilkinson and Story). By
that salt which we have in ourselves from
the Lord are we enabled to
savor between the transformation of the enemy and the scruples of the innocent,
and, as to be tender to the one, so to give judgment against the other'49
Officially,
of course, nothing had changed. The 1676 Yearly Meeting of Ministers had been
careful to avow that "all the faithful men and women
in every county, city, and
nation, whose faith stands in the power of God, have all right to the power of
the meeting, for they be the heirs of the Power and Authority."50
In
1678, elders representing the country districts met for a yearly meeting and
received a gracious letter from the ministers' yearly meeting
declaring that the latter
utterly rejected "all power, authority and government in the Church of
Christ that is not exercised in the holy power and free spirit of the Lord151
Robert
Barclay and The Anarchy of the Ranters, 1674
As one can readily understand, the victory of
corporate over individual discernment carried its own difficulties. Friends
started with the primitive conviction that the Spirit infallibly guided them.
But, when harsh experience showed that sometimes the individual could err,
people tended
31
to decide that the community
which judged their leadings should assume the infallibility which they had
previously attributed to themselves. The next step—in a period when units above
the local meetings were still emerging—was to argue that local meetings were
not the ultimate focus of infallibility, but the yearly (national) meeting was.
Robert
Barclay, a young Scotsman of twenty-eight who had been a Friend for only six
years, addressed this problem in his 1674 booklet, The Anarchy of the
Ranters, a carefully thought-out defense of Fox's new form of
ecclesiastical polity. Although the book was an effective weapon against the
Wilkinson-Story party, Barclay later commented that he knew nothing of this
group at the time he wrote.52 Barclay first sought to eliminate infallibility
as a necessary adjunct of either individual or group decisions. Then he set out
constructing a new basis for church government.
Recent
authors show a penchant for misreading Barclay. Arnold Lloyd, for example,
asserts that in The Anarchy of the Ranters, Barclay upheld the
"infallible Voice of the Spirit in the doctrinal positions held in common
by Church leaders" Lloyd accuses him of an "emphasis on infallibility
quite out of harmony with the Seeker temper" of the original Quakers.53
The opposite was quite true.
Barclay
wished to steer a middle course between those who put infallibility in every
individual leading and those who made every action of the gathered meeting
infallible. This task was not easy because some form of infallibility was held
by every Christian church. He argued that Matthew 18 did guarantee that the
"Gates of Hell shall not prevail" against the church and therefore
that it must be truly guided by the Spirit in crisis situations. But
infallibility was the property of the Spirit, not of men. Barclay wrote that
"the only proper Judge of Controversies in the Church, is the Spirit of
God, and the Power of deciding solely lies in it; as having the only unerring,
infallible and certain Judgment belonging to it; which infallibility is not
necessarily annexed to any Persons, Person or Places whatsoever, by Virtue of
any Office, Place or Station any one may have or have had in the Body of Christ
."54
Furthermore,
an individual or group judgment was infallible only if it fully expressed the
Spirit's leading: "The Judgment of a certain Person or Persons in certain
cases is infallible, not because they are infallible, but because in these
Things, and at that Time they were led by the infallible Spirit."
Hence,
Quaker infallibility differed from the Protestant version which was present
whenever there was a "Synod or Council" representing all
32
true Churches of Christ. And
Friends certainly differed from Papists who held that infallibility occured if
there was "Plurality of the Votes" and agreement by "the Pope
and his Legates." For Friends, in the event of a crisis so serious that
the "Gates of Hell" threaten to prevail, "there will be an infallible
Judgment from the Spirit of God, which may be in a General Assembly; yet
not limited to it, as excluding others: And may prove to be the Judgment of the
Plurality; yet not to be decided thereby, as if the Infallibility were
placed there, excluding the fewer." In brief, therefore, the "Infallible
Judgment from the Spirit of God" would inevitably occur, but
"either in one or other, few or more
For
Barclay, then, infallibility was a mark of the church in time of crisis. But
infallibility was not fixed in any body or individual. Instead, it was found in
the person or group which most clearly manifested the signs of the Spirit's
presence. Barclay's infallibility, therefore, was reduced to an unobtrusive
minimum. It was only guaranteed to appear in a radical crisis of the church,
but in no predetermined place. Its presence would be discerned by the faithful,
whether the utterance was from a yearly meeting of ministers or an otherwise
undistinguished member of a local meeting. Barclay definitively freed Quakerism
from the taunts of such contemporary critics as William Allen who accused
Friends of "pretending to as much infallibility in your Body representative
in managing it, as the Papists do in reference to the Pope.
Having
eliminated infallibility as the source of authority of the various meetings,
Barclay justified the exercise of governmental authority on more
traditional ecclesiastical lines. Ordinarily, he
told us, those who had the
higher spiritual gifts, the
ministers and elders, were specially blessed with the Spirit's guidance, but
not inevitably. For the church's good order, these
people of known ability to
discern were to be encouraged by other members of the church to "instruct,
reprove, yea, and command in some cases "56
Thus,
the basis for decision making was effectively changed. Friends had always had
great respect for the opinions of such weighty members
as the travelling ministers. But now, with the
local communities' decisions
no longer infallibly
guaranteed by the gathered unity in which the decision was reached, authority
was prudently attributed by Friends to the
gatherings which were blessed with the presence
of the largest number of ministers and elders. Quarterly and especially yearly
meeting decisions thus afforded far more respect than those of the local
meeting. Having thus established the authority of the new superstructure,
33
Barclay went on to establish
the limited but real power of church government. The needs of the community
required the conformity of its members when the issue involved
"fundamental Principles and Doctrines of Faith;' and even in some
secondary matters (Barclay referred to the circumcision controversy in Acts
15), there was to be unity without such uniformity that individual gifts and
needs were slighted.57 Although the forms of government Fox had set
up and which Barclay justified were not really as sensitive to individual gifts
as Barclay hoped, Barclay succeeded in giving a presumption of correctness to
the decisions of the community, especially to the decisions of the ministers
gathered in yearly meeting, but without claiming infallibility for them. No longer
did the individual Friend obey a decision because he or she had participated in
the decision making process and had felt the presence of the Spirit. Instead,
individuals accepted the decision on faith that the elders and ministers,
gathered in a meeting he or she did not attend, had been spiritually led to
this decision.
In the
past, advisories from such nonlocal gatherings got their power from the local
meeting's religious experience at the time it considered them. This is why
Fox's presence in each local meeting, not the authority of the writers, was
needed to gain acceptance for the 1666 ministers' letter against Perrot's
group. Now, though local meetings would still go through the form of accepting
the "advice" of the yearly meeting, Barclay had succeeded
in transferring the real
authority to the presumed spiritual insight of the remote regional or national
assembly.
Barclay's
desire to protect Friends against meetings claiming the automatic infallibility
which Friends had previously claimed for themselves as individuals was
certainly prescient. Already in 1680, a group of eighty-two Friends in
Barbados—where Perrotism and the Wilkinson-Story movements had both been very
active—attempted to escape some of the excess individualism within these two groups
by swinging too far the other way. They subscribed to the following statement:
I desire to give up my whole
concern, if required, both spiritual and temporal, unto the judgment of the
Spirit of God in the Men and Women's Meetings, as believing it to be more
according to the universal wisdom of God than any particular measure, in myself
or any particulars [i.e., individuals], with which the Men and Women's Meetings
have not unity58
Fox and
two other notables, George Whitehead and Alexander Parker, wrote to request
that the statement be dropped since it overstated the role of the meeting and
would be a ball for the Wilkinson-Story cannon.
The movement to accentuate
the authority of the meeting finally reached its extreme expression in George
Keith, a noted Quaker intellectual and polemicist. His explicit claim that
"all decisions of meetings for discipline should be regarded as infallibly
determined by the Holy Spirit" led to confrontation and, finally,
expulsion (disownment) by the yearly meeting in 1695.
Robert Barclay and the Apology, 1676
Barclay's
skill as a polemecist quickly made him emerge as a prime spokesman for the
pro-Fox group during the Wilkinson-Story dispute. At the conclusion of that
struggle, Barclay issued his master work, the Apology. This extensive
justification of Quaker belief was eloquently enunciated in the combination of
Cartesian and scholastic language then in vogue. Widely accepted by Friends
from the very beginning, the Apology became a mainstay not only of
external polemics but, more importantly, of Quaker self-understanding.6°
Because
the Apology was so widely consulted by Friends, one should not be overly
surprised to see it blamed for the rigidities which became apparent in
Quakerism in the years after its publication. Rufus M. Jones was particularly
strong in this judgment at the turn of the present century. Jones' own
reputation among Friends has been so hallowed that his assessment of Barclay
has received less challenge than it deserves.
Jones
tells us that Quakerism shifted from the "dynamic affirmation mysticism of
the first period (1648-1676) to a passive and negative type'—the quietism of
eighteenth century Quakerism—because of Barclay's theology in which "every
spiritual action is miraculous' Thus, man initiates nothing, he merely waits
for God to actP1
Barclay,
according to Jones, tied Friends' "fresh discovery of spiritual
truth" to the "ancient dogmatic theory of 'man "Rufus Jones
writes further that "what I regret most is that the early formulation of
Quakerism should have been made as an adjustment with the Augustinian and
Calvinistic system instead of following the fresh and transforming path which
the spiritual reformers, the real forerunners and progenitors of 'the Children
of the Light' had discovered."
At the
root of Barclay's error, charges Jones, is his acceptance of the Calvinist
doctrine of original sin and corrupt human nature. Jones becomes somewhat
emotional in his appeal to personal experience: "No attempt is made to
sound the deeps of human experience itself. It does not occur to [Barclay] that
this is a question to be settled by the testimony of the soul, and that first
of all one ought to investigate actual human life as it
is and
to build the theory on facts of experience.
Building from this base, Jones goes on to contend
that Barclay's quietism, like all quietism, gives no criteria for
distinguishing true from false lights because the gap between supposedly
corrupt nature and divine grace makes it impossible for the "higher"
spiritual movements to be tested by the "lower" activity of human
reason. For Barclay, there was no test, no criterion of true leadings. For
Jones, inner experience of the divine is natural, not supernatural. Reason can
therefore be the test 3
Jones'
line of argument is by no means without its followers. This writer has often
encountered it when interviewing contemporary Friends. Such an estimable
authority as Arnold Lloyd adopted it in 1950: "[Barclay's] theory of the
divine in man cannot be reconciled with the original Quaker message. It was
widely read and was a considerable factor in the decline into quietism in the
eighteenth century. [Barclay] regarded the divine and the human as mutually
exclusive categories. "64
It is true, of course, that Barclay held a very
"Protestant" view of the degeneracy of man: "All Adam's Posterity.
. . is fallen, degenerated, and dead:' Unlike the Calvinists, however,
Barclay argued that the Inner Light or Divine Seed was a supernatural gift to every
man which opened to each the chance to achieve perfection. On the other
hand, Barclay did indeed argue that a Quaker should wait for the Lord's
initiative in worship and decisions about action instead of simply relying upon
his spontaneous inclination 5
But in
these arguments Barclay was not creating a new theory but expressing
traditional Quaker belief. In 1654, Francis Howgill and Edward
Burrough—outstanding among the earliest of the First Publishers—wrote to
Margaret Fell that they had argued against the magistrates of Bristol who "said
the light was natural and that every one had it not166 Had not Fox
declared in 1663 that the true Christian must necessarily "wait on God, in
his Light to receive his counsel; [for] how else do Friends differ from the
World?"67
Even Isaac Penington, an early Friend whose name
is often associated with those opposing the new structures of government, is
guilty of the basic distinction between natural and supernatural orders which
underlies the preceding quotations. William Braithwaite, after lauding
Penington, concludes that "he was fettered by the dualistic thought of the
age, which put the natural and the Divine in two separate compartments, and
accordingly he fails, like others of the early Friends, to reach a unified
conception either of human personality or of the person of Christ. 1168
In
short, if Fox and his earliest brethren believed that the saving action of
Christ could raise them back to the "state of Adam before he fell;' a
fortiori they held that there was need of such elevation. Therefore, Fox's man
was by nature a sinnerP9
It
seems safe to conclude, then, that Barclay was not the source of the cleavage
between natural and supernatural in man nor of the passive quietism that called
Quakers to wait for the Lord's initiatives. Barclay was simply a faithful and
clear expositor of the great bulk of what beliefs Friends already held. Dean
Freiday, editor of the most recent edition of the Apology, criticizes
Barclay for underplaying the "confessional and practical significance (so
important for Fox) [of Christ] the Cornerstone:' But Freiday also emphasizes
that the "Quaker doctrine of the supernatural Inward Light of Christ"
is "beautifully developed by Barclay" in a "systematic
presentation of what Fox was trying to say170
In a
limited sense, of course, there is truth in Jones' allegation. Barclay wrote
clearly and authoritatively, and was republished by Quaker leaders with
enthusiasm. For the first time, Friends had a source book to which they could
turn when in doubt about what Fox and his early followers had taught. This
meant that Fox's thought suddenly became more effective in unifying Quaker
practice simply because it was suddenly so readily available. Fox's skepticism
about human reason and his quietism in the face of human dilemmas were now
expressed in Barclay's clear language for every Friend to ponder. In short,
Barclay did not present a doctrine which could not "be reconciled with the
original Quaker message. `171 Barclay presented, in clear and distinct terms,
that very message. The one thing in Barclay's writings not found in the
earliest Quaker sources is his justification of the new governing structures
which Fox had done so much to establish. Insofar as these new structures would
eventually weaken the life of the local meetings, Barclay can be criticized;
but even here he shares the blame with Fox.
The British myth that the king can do no wrong
has led Englishmen to blame the royal advisors for regal blunders. So, too,
Catholics have wagged their tongues about the evil men of the Roman Curia who
were supposedly "holding back" information from the ever-benevolent
Pope. Perhaps, Rufus Jones was guilty of a similar fallacy when he attacked
Barclay for creating detrimental doctrines that in fact originated with George
Fox. If Barclay sinned, it could only have been in saying clearly in one tract
what Fox had put forward in an unsystematic variety of utterances.
The
Gradual Ascendance of Central Hegemony, 1676-1736
With
the successful exclusion of the lack of structure proposed by Wilkinson and
Story, the rise of central predominance was only a matter of time. Let us
quickly sketch the way the development occurred.
The Meeting for Sufferings
as Lobby and Legal Aid Society
The key
to Quaker government became the Meeting for Sufferings, established by the
Yearly Meeting of 1675 to act on its behalf when it was not in session. As the
name implies, the Meeting for Sufferings had as its first duty the alleviation
of misery for those Friends who were feeling the heavy sting of persecution.
The body met weekly from 1676 onwards "that the cruelty and opressions
(which also under pretence of Law are committed) tending to the ruine of
Innocent families may not be hid but be laid before those in power to
redress them."77 At its first meeting, in October 1675, the
Meeting for Sufferings quickly agreed "that Friends' sufferings be layd
upon those in power" and appointed a subcommittee to "draw up some
instances of most gross sufferings to be presented to the Parliament.1173
The
whole network of quarterly meetings was marshaled to achieve a change in the
Recusancy Laws so that Friends might not suffer so cruelly. Each quarter
(county quarterly meeting) appointed one Friend to come up to London at the
beginning of parliamentary sessions to lobby the local member of parliament
under the coordinating guidance of the Meeting for Sufferings. In 1676,
arrangement was made for regular correspondence between the Meeting for
Sufferings and each quarterly meeting. From this base an effective series of
letters, personal presentations and printed propaganda was put together, and
Quakers were deprived of changes in the law in 1679 and 1681 only because of
untimely royal dissolutions of parliamentary sessions. By 1679, the Meeting for
Sufferings was using its county network to organize the Quaker vote in an
effort to ensure the return of those members of parliament who favored Friends.
The
period from 1681 to 1688 saw a temporary end to Friends' parliamentary lobbying
for the simple reason that Parliament was for the most part out of session. A
smooth switch of tactics led the Meeting for Sufferings to private
interventions with influential judges, bishops, ex-members of parliament, and
peers as persecution continued on an even harsher basis than while Parliament
was in session.
After
the Glorious Revolution of 1688-1689 installed William and Mary, the Toleration
Act gave basic freedom of public worship to Friends.
38
However, the new religious
toleration made no provision for many Friends' practices, including their
objections to taking oaths and paying tithes. The Meeting for Sufferings
returned to its previous pattern of political lobbying, although on a more
intense and coordinated pattern. At the same time, it found itself relaying to
the quarterly and monthly meetings not only all the latest actions of
Parliament touching Friends, but also the successful strategies used to defend
Friends in court. So complete was the coordination that N.C. Hunt remarks,
"In this respect the Meeting for Sufferings, linked as it was with the
country-wide Quaker network, was obviously ensuring by action in the Courts
that the law as enacted by Parliament was being applied correctly in regard to
detail throughout the length and breadth of the country:174
The Meeting
for Sufferings continued its campaigns on behalf of Friends. Because it was on
the scene in London, its advice came to be obeyed without challenge by the less
well-informed quarterly and monthly meetings. Hunt goes on to describe in
detail the four major campaigns between 1696 and 1736 which were conducted by
the Meeting for Sufferings to repeal those laws which restricted Friends75
The growth of the authority of the Meeting for Sufferings was in large measure
a natural outgrowth of the need for centralized coordination if the campaigns
to influence legislation were to succeed.
The
Affirmation Act of 1696 allowed Friends to "declare in the presence of
Almighty God" instead of swearing. But some Friends found this still too
much like an oath to satisfy their reading of the Matthean injunction to
"swear not at all '76 The Yearly Meeting of 1702 allowed those
who were dissatisfied with the wording to organize their own campaign for new
legislation. Their efforts, not abetted by the Meeting for Sufferings, produced
only successive failures which culminated in 1712 when the unofficial campaign
to reword the affirmation ran counter to efforts by the Meeting for Sufferings
to obtain renewal of the about-to-expire 1696 Act. The divided loyalty of
members of parliament who were sympathetic to Friends spelled defeat for both
campaigns. In 1715, the next occasion for seeking parliamentary action, the
Meeting for Sufferings co-opted the unofficial campaigners. First, it promised
to make "sincere endeavours" to get a wording acceptable to the
unhappy Friends. If that proved impossible, they promised to take care that
"the present affirmation not be lost ''
The
sincere endeavours turned out to be an unenthusiastic presentation of new
wording which was rejected by the Commons on the same
39
day it was proposed. The
token attempt now complete, the serious campaign which had been shrewdly
pushed all along moved into high gear. The original Affirmation Act of 1696
quickly was elevated to a permanent place in the Statute Book. In the process,
the Meeting for Sufferings moved subtly into the position of becoming the
Society of Friends' sole contact with Parliament.78
The
extent of the Meeting for Sufferings' growing hegemony in this area is
illustrated by a 1735 incident. In that year, York Quarterly Meeting decided to
write some members of parliament asking for a tithe bill to include a clause
enabling Quakers to serve as sheriffs, aldermen, and jurors. The Meeting for
Sufferings was aghast by the action since it had its own strategy which called
for no such additions to the bill. It arranged to admonish the York Friends for
"this independent and irresponsible action *1179
The
point is not that the Meeting for Sufferings was being unreasonable or
usurping power. However, if it was to lobby effectively for Friends, it had to
assume central supervision of all Quaker action which could affect the
attitudes of members of parliament. But there was no avoiding the basic tension
this central power created. Gradually, bit by bit, the local meetings lost
their sovereignty. Quakerism was saved from further persecution by a central
institution whose very existence was in conflict with the founding Quaker
principle that decisions were based on local experience in common with God's
leadings.
The Meeting for Sufferings
as Arbiter of the Externals of Life
It
would be naive, perhaps, to think that structure so effective in marshaling
Friends' political life could be limited to political endeavors alone. After
all, the success of Friends in influencing Parliament depended on their
reputation throughout the country. Anything that could damage that reputation
was therefore appropriate matter for central concern. All externals soon
become grist for the central mill. William Braithwaite observed that "the
new instrument of Church government was a ready means for retrenching
extravagances which gave insidious entrance to the spirit of the world; and
zealous Friends did not see that they were substituting legalism for liberty,
the control of the form for the control of the Spirit.80
Before
long, Quakers—even as they entered the economic middle class—took on the
separateness of dress and life-style that would characterize them well into the
nineteenth century. Already in 1700, George Fox's widow, Margaret Fell, would
write an epistle of pained exasperation as she watched Friends transformed.
For it is now gone
forty-seven years since we owned the Truth, and all things has gone well till
now of late that this narrowness and strictness is entering in, that cannot
tell what to do or not do. Our Monthly and Quarterly Meetings were set up for
reproving and looking into suspicious and disorderly walking . . . and not
[for] private persons to take upon them to make order and say, This must be
done and the other must be done. Christ Jesus saith, That we must take no
thought what we shall eat or what we shall drink but bids us consider the
lilies, howe they grow in more royalty than Solomon. But contrary to this, we
must not look at no colours, nor make anything that is changeable colours, as
the hills are, nor sell them, nor wear them. But we must be all in one dress
and one colour. This is a silly poor gospel.81
But
Margaret Fell's warning went unheeded. Friends won political liberty at the
price of personal and local religious autonomy. The personally-felt leadings of
the Spirit, whether experienced in private or in the local meeting, were
supplemented and, to a large extent, supplanted by the directions received from
higher structural entities.
Of
interest to the general study of organizations is the curious way in which
Quaker experience in the period we have traced both confirms and denies the
Contingency Theory approach of Paul R. Lawrence and Jay W. Lorsch. In
Contingency Theory, the future of an organization is not significantly
determined by the long-term directions its managers give it. Instead, what is
critical is "the interplay between any major part of an organization and
its relevant external environment1,82 This interplay, quite
independent of the decision makers' intent, determines the directions the
organization will take in
its development.
Assessed
on these terms, Quaker growth exemplifies the Lawrence-Lorsch thesis admirably.
Here is an organizational entity with a radical commitment to local autonomy—a
commitment to the authority of religious experience which is clearly far
more fundamental than the structural orientations normally found in
organizations. If any organization is unlikely to change its structures under
external pressure, it is Quakerism, because of its extreme decentralization.
Yet Quakerism does change; the fundamental autonomy of the local meeting
becomes a formality as the community's innate drive for survival overcomes even
its foundation in
religious experience.
Building
on research by Lawrence E. Fouraker, Lawrence and Lorsch differentiate type
"T" groups from type "U' The former are marked by independent
members, responsive leaders, little hierarchy, and commit‑
tee decisions. The contrasting
"L" groups present responsive members, autocratic leaders, much
hierarchy, and decisions which are made high in the hierarchy and passed down.
"L" groups function best when there is some external threat, test, or
competition against which the group must work.83 Earliest Quaker
meetings were clearly, of the "T" group variety. The shift to an
"L" type structure in face of external threat fits the
Lawrence-Lorsch general hypothesis very nicely.
On a
more specific level, however, the fit between Quaker history and Contingency
Theory is not as tight as one might wish. Lawrence and Lorsch add to Fouraker
the supposition that "L" groups cannot handle rapid environmental
change with the adaptive abilities evidenced by "T" group04
In the case of Friends, we have discovered that "T" groups were
incapable of the effective and united inner discipline which persecution made
necessary. The "L" organization pattern made survival possible.
A
closer look at Quaker roots suggests that the Lawrence-Lorsch generalization
that "T" groups are superior to '1" groups in adaptation to
external threats is at least partially true. In the first ten years, when
persecution itself was spasmodic and localized, Quakers seemed quite able to
cope on a local level. The Quaker superstructure developed in response to
persecution on a national level which was marked by uniform enforcement
procedures. In light of the general principle that organizational development
depends upon the interplay between organization and relevant external environment,
one should not be surprised to discover that an environment of local and
unsystematic persecution calls for the quick local adaptability of the
"T" style group while an environment of systematic national
persecution requires the disciplined and coordinated adaptation of the
"L" type structure. A major change in the relevant external environment
demands a major change in the corresponding internal structures for dealing
with that environment.
A Look Ahead
We have
now come to the end of the historical section of this study. Pursuit of the
origins and development of Quaker decision making has revealed how the decision
process evolved and how external pressures produced a structure contrary to the
local experiential base of early Friends.
The
chapters which follow focus on decision making by American Friends today. The
method of study shifts. The object of attention becomes once more the
"T" type structure of local entities which, in the United States
where there was no such external threat as persecution, have re- tamed their
autonomy and guard it jealously against incursions from such higher bodies as
the yearly meeting!35
The
chapters ahead will explore Quaker decision making in much more concrete detail
than was necessary in these historical chapters. These introductory chapters
now stand simply as a historical backdrop for examination of contemporary
decision making practices of Quakers in Philadelphia Yearly Meeting.
======[wk 3]
PART II Contemporary
Chapter I An Overview of Current Quaker Decision
Making
Prescriptions
for Good Quaker Practice
By now
the reader is familiar with the general procedures for decision making which
characterize Quaker practice. Concretely, what is that method like today? This
introduction offers an overview of the rules observed as they might be
discovered by someone reading standard Quaker sources. Subsequent chapters
flesh out this skeleton on the basis of 150 interviews with anonymous Friends,
personal observations, and further written materials. First, then, some excerpts
from Quaker texts.
True to
tradition, contemporary Friends are chary of "binding the Spirit" by
supplying ironclad regulations. The official Book of Discipline of
today's yearly meetings typically begins with a citation from the letter written
in 1656 by the Quaker Elders of Balby, the citation setting the tone of the
book as advice rather than regulation.
Dearly beloved Friends,
these things we do not lay upon you as a rule or form to walk by, but that all
with the measure of light which is pure and holy may be guided, and so in the
light walking and abiding these may be fulfilled by the Spirit—not from the
letter, for the letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life'
The 1972
Book of Discipline of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting* explains the
process simply:
Meetings for the transaction
of business are conducted in the same expectant waiting for the guidance of
the Spirit as is the meeting for wor‑
* Held for one week each
spring; all Friends in the Philadelphia area are invited to attend and to
participate in area-wide decisions.
47
ship. Periods of worship,
especially at the beginning and end, lift hearts and minds out of self-centered
desires into an openness to seek the common good under the leadership of the
Spirit of Christ. All matters are considered thoughtfully, with due respect to
every point of view presented. When a course of action receives the general,
though not necessarily unanimous, approval of the group, the presiding clerk
formulates the sense of the meeting and it is recorded in the minutes. No vote
is taken; there is no decision made by a majority, who override opposition.
Action is taken only when the group can proceed in substantial unity?
A
typical set of suggestions for good procedure comes from London Yearly
Meeting's 1960 Book of Discipline:
As it is our hope that in
our Meetings for Discipline the will of God shall prevail rather than the
desires of men, we do not set great store by rhetoric or clever argument. The
mere gaining of debating points is found to be unhelpful and alien to the
spirit of worship which should govern the rightly ordered Meeting. Instead of
rising hastily to reply to another, it is better to give time for what has
been said to make its own appeal, and to take its right place in the mind of
the Meeting.
We
ought ever to be ready to give unhurried, weighty and truly sympathetic
consideration to proposals brought forward from whatever part of the Meeting,
believing that what is said rises from the depths of a Friend's experience, and
is sincerely offered for the guidance of the Meeting, and the forwarding of the
work of the Church. We should neither be hindered from making experiments by
fear or undue caution, nor prompted by novel suggestions to ill-considered
courses.
Neither
a majority nor a minority should allow itself in any way to overbear or to
obstruct a meeting for church affairs in its course towards a decision. We are
unlikely to reach either truth or wisdom if one section imposes its will on
another. We deprecate division in our Meetings and desire unanimity. It is in
the unity of common fellowship, we believe, that we shall most surely learn the
will of God. We cherish, therefore, the tradition which excludes voting from
our meetings, and trust that clerks and Friends generally will observe the
spirit of it, not permitting themselves to be influenced in their judgment
either by mere numbers or by persistence. The clerks should be content to wait
upon God with the Meeting, as long as may be necessary for the emergence of a
decision which clearly commends itself to the heart and mind of the Meeting as
the right one
Individual
writers concur with this picture of decision making. They expand upon the
expectation that a final decision often is superior to the
reflections of any individual in the group. James
Walker, for example, tells us:
The business meeting is an
occasion to use insight, and not an occasion for debate. After the facts of a
situation are given and there has been time for consideration, members should
try to state their judgment concisely and clearly. As this is done, new
insights may come, and hopefully the final outcome will represent a group
judgment superior to that of any one individual. Partiality has no place;
rather we seek a decision that is right in the light of God's wisdom. After an
individual has stated his own insight, his responsibility is over. Whether the
meeting accepts or rejects the idea as given, the responsibility is on the
group. If the group has reacted unfavorably, it will then endeavor to find a more
creative approach
Thomas
S. Brown, former clerk of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, urges Friends to avoid
"delivering remarks the meeting has heard many times before' One should
ask oneself, Is this repetition from frailty or from God?"
Brown
urges that, instead of wasting the meeting's time with the polishing of the
minutes which express the meeting's agreements, this editorial power should be
entrusted to a committee, "for the Kingdom of God does not come minute by
polished minute."
In a
similar desire to keep the proceedings efficient, Brown urges careful
preparation of the agenda by the clerk and respectful adherence to the agenda
by participants in the meeting:
For the right holding of
Meetings it is important for Clerks to have the known business meticulously
prepared in advance of the session. Matters carried over from previous
sessions should be noted and the persons who have been asked to take some
action or to make a report should be reminded of the service expected. Members
who wish to bring concerns before the Meeting should be urged to inform the
Clerk in advance, and to have all possible relevant material in hand and to
make their remarks brief and recommendations clear. If any member feels moved
to rise in the Meeting to raise a major new concern, he should ask himself
whether this matter might not better wait to receive the preliminary sifting
of other Friends.5
The
sweep of advice on how to participate, then, runs from mystical suggestions
that one let God's promptings determine whether it is time to speak, to some
very practical admonitions on the careful preparation of an agenda.
Meeting for business always begins with silence
and closes in silence—a clear reminder that an atmosphere of worshipfully
seeking God's will is to mark the gathering. Douglas Steere puts it well:
"The Quaker meeting for business opens with an unhurried period of waiting
silence, and if the meeting is properly carried
through, there emerges something of this mood of openness not to my wishes and
my designs and my surface preferences but openness to the deeper levels where
the Guide's bidding may have its way and where the problem may be resolved in
quite a different way than had ever occurred to me, 11'6
Examples
of the Process
Even in
such an atmosphere, differences of opinion may make agreement very difficult.
In that case, no change is made until agreement is reached. An example is
provided by Elton Trueblood using the apparently trivial conflict which arose
over the enlargement of a burial ground:
[T]he old burial ground in
the meeting house yard was filled. Strong sentiment was expressed, when the
matter was first discussed, both for and against the enlargement. Those in
favor of enlargement pointed out the fact that many families could not be given
space for burial without increasing the size of the plot and that failure to
give space was unfair discrimination between families. Those opposed to
enlargement showed that the proposed action would limit the playground of the
school, situated on the same grounds, and that it made the section less
desirable for residences. It must be understood that this subject was one on
which many felt deeply. Those whose loved ones were buried in the tiny space
allotted could not consider anything in connection with it dispassionately and
it is not surprising that they could not. Others were equally unable to
consider dispassionately anything affecting the life of the school children. To
them it was a matter of interests of the dead against the interests of the
living.
Since a
decision seemed impossible on the first evening, the clerk made no minute and
the problem was allowed to rest a month. It was not until six months later,
however, that the question was settled and settled in a satisfactory manner.
The strong emotional tone wore off, and several tempered their former
statements, until at last it was decided to make a sufficient enlargement of
the grounds to care for those now in membership and to make other arrangements
for the future so that the question would not again arise. This small
enlargement was made in such a way as to do no harm to the playground, and all
seemed to approve of the clerk's estimate of the sense of the meeting. Best of
all the members did not feel that a weak compromise had been made, but rather
that the very best plan had been followed.7
Nor is
use of the method limited to exclusively Quaker groups. Burton R. Clark's
description of faculty meetings at Quaker-sponsored Swarthmore College reveals
the successful use of the method by a largely non-Quaker faculty:
The chairman would not commonly
ask for a vote on an issue, and no one would rise from the floor to demand a
count of hands or the use of a ballot. The expectation was that a common
solution would arise through rational discussion, with each person first
accepting for himself the rightness or appropriateness of a particular
position. While the chairman and everyone else waited, there would be a search
for the consensus; as the drift of opinion became clear, minority points of
view often faded. The minority would see that the agreement necessary for
policy and action lay in another direction, and if that direction seemed
reasonable, they would go along with it. But a strong minority view that would
not dissolve was taken seriously. Rather than vote it down, participants would
continue the discussion or would table the issue so that further thought,
discussion, and persuasion could take place outside the meeting room in the
ensuing days and weeks. The matter might then be raised again at a subsequent
meeting or, if a consensus was still missing, dropped.8
From
the preceding citations, it is not difficult to detect a number of factors
which seem characteristic of Quaker decision making. Stuart Chase9
suggests nine such principles:
1.unanimous decisions—no voting;
2.silent periods—at start of meeting and when
conflict arises;
3.moratorium—when agreement cannot be reached;
4.participation by all with ideas on the subject;
5.learning to listen—not going to meeting with mind
made up;
6.absence of leaders—the clerk steers but does not
dominate;
7.nobody outranks anybody;
8.factual-focus—emotions kept to a minimum; and
9.small meetings—typically limited numbers.
But
which of these principles are fundamental and which derivative? Does Quaker
unanimity entail the universal endorsement of decisions which it appears to?
What goes on in the silences? Are all participants truly equal or only
nominally so? Are emotions simply suppressed? To what extent does the method
depend on the religious vision of Friends? Is a Quaker meeting for business
really the leaderless body it appears?
In the chapters which follow we shall explore
each of these questions in an attempt to bring the reader beyond the
superficial comprehension which is the fruit of most of the descriptions one
finds in print. Thus prepared, one should be able to attend Quaker business
meetings with some sensitivity to the dynamics which are not otherwise obvious.
Perhaps even some members of the Religious Society of Friends may find in these
pages an occasional light on how his or her own -meeting for business proceeds.
The sequence of topics deserves explanation. The
writer has decided not to arrange all the important topics first (or last),
with secondary mat-ters placed in secondary positions. Instead, the focus is
upon two central and subtle matters: the nature of unity in a decision and the
systems of belief which seem to underlie successful use of the method.. All
other topics are introduced at points where they seem most apt for clarifying
or being, clarified by these central issues. For example, Chapter One discusses
the atmosphere expected at a Quaker business meeting. This prepares the reader
for an assessment of a primary issue, the nature of unity, which will be
discussed in Chapter Two.
Chapter II The Atmosphere of Confidence
Why Quakers Expect to Go
Beyond Compromise
In the previous chapter, Elton Trueblood outlined
the prolonged con¬flict within a monthly meeting over whether to expand the
cemetery. He concluded his remarks with the observation that "best of all,
the members did not feel that a weak compromise had been made, but rather that
the very best plan had been followed."" A point of pride about Quaker
deci¬sions is that they occasion the emergence of such a higher synthesis of
individual ideas. "The final result;' comments S. B. Laughlin, "is
not a compromise of conflicting views but a synthesis of the best thought of
all—a case where two and two make five' Referring to Trueblood's deci¬sion
about the cemetery, Stuart Chase explains, "The issue was not com¬promised
but moved up to another level where a new plan was evolved—a plan in nobody's
mind at the beginning of the discussion `12
An example may prove helpful. In 1967, a Quaker
visiting a Philadel¬phia suburb made a public and fervent plea for a prompt end
to the Viet¬nam War. In reaction, the local Quaker meeting house was defaced.
At the meeting for business called to discuss the situation, many Friends
thought that newspaper publicity should be sought; one felt strongly opposed. A
number of prolonged silences followed. Finally, the Friend who had opposed the
publicity suggested using the press to ask that area churches join a
"paint-in" at the meeting house. This sort of publicity was readily endorsed
by all?52 53
In his 1952 study of a Quaker meeting in Chicago,
Glenn Bartoo states flatly, "In our experience compromise has never been
resorted to:'4 Bar-too is, perhaps, a bit generous. This writer
would rather say that compro‑
mise is the occasional exception to the rule.
Sometimes group pressure leads an individual to
sacrifice what is best in favor of what is less embarrassing. As one Friend
explained:
The pressures on the
dissenter are usually very strong; holding out takes great commitment. At our
monthly meeting, the peace committee once wanted to put a picture in the paper
of a previous vigil we had held against the Vietnam War. After three sessions,
finally a compromise was accepted mainly because it was less offensive to those
who were uneasy with opposition to the war. The compromise was just not as
effective as the original proposal would have been.5
More
generally, another Philadelphia Quaker commented, "There is the common
tendency to turn to the lowest common denominator for a
solution:'
Friends sometimes, too, see a higher synthesis in
outcomes where in fact neither side has been willing to budge. Burton Clark
observes that the founders of Swarthmore were divided over whether it should be
a college or a preparatory school. Instead of reaching a true higher synthesis,
they agreed to open an institution that was both college and prep school, thus
forcing the early educators to struggle over the question of priorities for a
number of years .6
Granted
the occasional failures, this observer was struck again and again by the
efforts made in monthly meetings, at Philadelphia Yearly Meeting and
Philadelphia Representative Meeting* to find solutions that
would
rise above the lowest denominator. This is as it should be. The goals of Quaker
decision making are basically different from those of majority rule, a process
to which most Americans are conditioned. The proposals made at the beginning of
a discussion are thus usually seen by participants as starting points, not as
finished products unsusceptible to modification.
At Representative Meeting, the spokesman for a
committee making recommendations for remodeling an ancient building smiled at
the end of his report and said: "Of course that's how we think it
might be done. It might just be that Friends will have other ideas:' For twenty
minutes the meeting then discussed the pros and cons of the committee's suggestions
with the committee's spokesman cheerfully revising the proposal
*
Composed of individuals appointed by each monthly meeting to make decisions for
the yearly meeting in months when the yearly meeting is not in session.
when the group moved towards
options his committee had not presented7
Our
point here is that the attitude with which Friends approach a decision is different
from that which prevails in the context of majority rule. In Quaker decision
making, it generally is presumed that each participant seeks the best
solution; it is also generally presumed that the group, by searching together,
can reach such a correct solution. We shall see later how behavior which
evidences attitudes contrary to this searching together suffers subtle but
sharp sanctions. As a result, the common search for the best solution which is
dismissed as pious rhetoric in the context of majority rule becomes an
effective norm in the voteless Quaker world.
The
attitude demanded of Friends is one of openness to one another's ideas—the
ability to put aside pet notions in favor of the next person's insight.
Francis, Beatrice, and Robert Pollard, writing in Democracy and
Quaker Method, comment:
It is true that such methods
make great demands on those who practise them, and we must acknowledge that
Friends sometimes take refuge from these demands in solutions which are little
more than a mere shelving of them. The temptation to do this is the inevitable
defect of the method's qualities. In experimenting with Quaker methods it would
be necessary to understand this. The remedy is a deeper appreciation of the
method. Those who dread the effects of candour in a Meeting are not giving that
Meeting the opportunity which it needs to realise all the possibilities of its
group life. Such a feeling is often an inverted fear of something within
oneself, and the Meeting which is fully trusted by its members can do much to
release them from that feat8
Why
There Are Few Shy Quakers
Release
from fear, from shyness, from reluctance to express one's ideas is thus given
high priority by Friends. In a sense, the conclusion reached by the assembly is
a musical composition, and each participant has one note to contribute; if very
many notes are missing, the theme loses its beauty and perhaps even becomes
unrecognizable. In a very brief pamphlet on procedures at Quaker meetings,
Thomas S. Brown still takes time to remark that "it is also of great
importance that those Friends who feel they cannot speak acceptably and who are
diffident about the significance of their share in the Meeting be encouraged to
say what they can, remembering that the concerns they feel they present so
haltingly may in fact point to issues needing the Meeting's considerationY
James
Walker urges the more vocal Friends to temper their remarks in order to
encourage reluctant speakers: "Vocal members who tend to
make up their minds quickly
should make a special effort at self-restraint. Too frequently the leaders of
the meeting seem to be making the decision
without carrying with them
the rank and file, who find it difficult to offer vocal opposition. Sometimes
the quiet ones accept an unpalatable action because they have been unwilling to
speak up. Under such circumstances they must accept at least part of the blame'10
One interview subject summed up his feelings this
way: "With Friends, I know from experience that, even if I should say
something foolish, nobody would make me feel embarrassed or think the less of
me:'
One of the quiet but constant reminders that this
atmosphere will prevail is the Quaker style of discussion. We have seen a
statement of London Yearly Meeting which counsels: "We do not set great
store by rhetoric or clever argument. The mere gaining of debating points is
found to be unhelpful and alien:'11
Howard
Brinton explains: "Eloquence which appeals to emotion is out of place.
Those who come to the meeting not so much to discover Truth as to win
acceptance of their opinions may find that their views carry little weight.
Opinions should always be expressed humbly and tentatively in the realization
that no one person sees the whole truth and that the whole meeting can see more
of Truth than can any part of it."12
Public
American rhetorical style in our own era is superficially similar to Quaker
public speech—informal, devoid of oratorical flourishes, chary of blatant
appeals to emotion—but one need only sit a short time in a Quaker meeting for
business to recognize a deeper quality. Tentativeness and an artless
willingness to face the weaknesses in one's position rather than to paper them
over with distracting allusions are outstanding differences.
Sanctions
against unacceptable rhetoric are subtle but effective. On the rare occasions
when such speech happens, no comment is normally made; instead the discussion
continues, the following speakers pointedly ignoring the offender's remarks.
In the coffee break which next occurs, one is likely to overhear such wisps of
conversation as, "John should know better than to speak like that;' or,
"If there's one thing that winds me down, it's the way Susan tries to get
us all wound up:' This is one form of the social sanctioning wryly described by
Quakers as the "Philadelphia Treatment:'
The
Philadelphia Treatment also works in reverse. A Friend whose halting delivery
or poor choice of words suggests that he or she is shy before groups will often
find his or her theme picked up by one of the meeting's more respected and
experienced members. In the coffee break or after the meeting, various Friends
will stop the shy Friend to thank him or her for the insight. The shy Friend's
contribution has thus been endorsed in public and in private. At the next
meeting, the Friend is likely to be more confident.
Having
made the above point, we feel duty bound to temper it a bit. The extent of
shyness varies from one monthly meeting to the next. In one monthly meeting,
the "old guard" may not be receptive to newcomers. In another, the
"social activists" may be less than enthusiastic about the
contributions of members who are "inadequately sensitive" to social
issues. A dominant personality in yet a third meeting may keep would-be contributors
from speaking their minds. Granted such failures, it is clear that Friends
typically emphasize the importance of encouraging every participant in a
meeting to feel that his or her contribution will be received with
appreciation.
On
Keeping Emotion in Its Place
Friends
do have a problem when it comes to the expression of emotions. "Quakers
hold back their emotions more than most people;' volunteered one interview
subject—an observation in which this observer would heartily concur. Because
appeals to emotion are so out of place, Friends sometimes find it inappropriate
to reveal their own inner feelings or to seek out ways of speaking which will
let people know—in a non-rhetorical manner—the depth of their feelings. As a
result, the emotional dimensions of topics sometimes do not get the frank
attention they deserve because emotions are considered unworthy.
For
example, a member of the Board of Directors of the American Friends Service
Committee threw unexpected light on just this point. When asked whether a
decision by the Service Committee to violate federal law and risk loss of tax
exemption by shipping penicillin to the North Vietnamese was a good example of
Quaker decision making, the following reply was made: "The penicillin
decision was a good example of Quaker decision making. . . . But it's
interesting that the decisions over which we have the most trouble are more
'average' issues: property, budgets, graveyards. On these matters, feelings are
high. . . ."
In
practice, Friends seem to have a scale for judging just how much personal
feelings may be revealed. If an individual is generally quite cerebral and
self-controlled, an occasional manifestation of personal feelings is accepted
sympathetically. For example, a woman whose style of
speech—in
and out of meeting for business—was thoughtful and pleasantly off-handed,
stood to complain that Quaker peace-promotion teams were
being excluded from area high schools although
army recruiters were welcomed with fanfare. She mentioned the pressures this
put on young boys, her son among them. Her voice revealed deep grief and, on
the verge of tears, she sat. A respectful silence was finally broken by
speakers voicing agreement and offering practical steps the meeting might
take.13
In this
case, emotion seemed acceptable because it was rare. Clearly it was not the
speaker's custom to speak this way—and because the emo‑
tions
were not a substitute for reasonableness—even without her expression of
feelings, the woman's concern was clearly in keeping with the Quaker commitment
to peace education.
Three
other members of the same meeting also spoke emotionally from time to time. In
these cases, the contributions were received with limited
sympathy. The remarks of the speakers who
immediately followed the
emotional
contributions, the observations of Friends interviewed just after the meeting,
and the examples cited during formal interviews when this
problem was raised all indicated that sympathy
was, at best, minimal. One person complained that such an individual got
carried away all the time but just didn't "carry me along:' The complaints
seemed to focus on frequency and a tendency to let emotion obscure the issues.
It
should also be noted that Friends seem to accept readily the simple statement
that "this moves me deeply" as adding a factor of weight to
an
individual's remarks. This suggests once again that Friends are not opposed to
emotions, not opposed to their having an important bearing on decisions. What
seems important to Friends is that emotions be both deep and frankly recognized
as emotions. Infrequency is a very handy measure of depth—hence the aversion to
one who speaks this way all the time. But recognition is also important: I must
know what my emotions are if I am to cope with them. So, too, must a group be
aware of the feelings of its members. Hence, Friends are open to statements
such as "I find this decision by the city makes me very angry," and
to displays of emotion in which the feelings are revealed but kept under
control of reason. In both situations, the emotions are recognized and can be
dealt with thoughtfully. Although many Friends do seem to stifle their
feelings, then, the mores of the meeting urge them to channel these emotions
rather than to suppress them.
For
those Friends who are aficionados of the "let it all hang out" school
of human interaction—an approach somewhat popular among young adults in the
community—the normal Quaker structure of channeled emotion seems stilted and
even dishonest at times. However, all the Friends interviewed on this topic
indicated a general sense of confidence in the meeting's willingness to
sympathize with their own deep concerns.
This
openness to deeply felt emotions is one more indicator of the warm subculture that
seems to mark Quaker meetings. In order to foster that warmth, Howard Brinton
suggests that a conscious effort be made at developing a real affection within
the group, using any devices that will help it "become as much of a
genuine unit, economically, socially, and in every other way, as its members
desire"' Quakers strive for increased "social solidarity:' They
lament the loss of such stimuli to fellowship as the old holiday week of yearly
meeting which was held just before the plowing season so farm families could
lodge in the homes of their Philadelphia brethren for seven full days, the
latter closing their small shops for the duration.14
When
Confidence Fails
The
atmosphere of respectful openness to one another is an essential element which
is taken for granted by all the Quaker sources this writer has consulted. An
example or two of what Quaker decisions are like without this atmosphere may be
instructive.
Pendle
Hill is a residential study center for adults—Friends and
non-Friends—interested in thoughtful pursuit of social and religious questions
traditionally explored by Quakers. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, even this
institution was struck by the unrest common on campuses whose clientele were
much younger. A member of the Pendle Hill Board of Directors describes the
situation:
For about five terribly
difficult years, students—who are present from ten to twelve weeks—and
staff—one year usually—demanded the right to participate in Board and
Executive Committee decisions. The two bodies resented accepting them because
the motivation was so clearly lack of trust, suspicion, desire of power. One
man urged that there was no incongruity in disbanding Pendle Hill if some
group there for twelve weeks should so conclude. They were finally allowed to
be present in limited numbers—two staff, two students—and often revealed an
inquisitorial belligerence. I recall one fellow's challenge of the treasurer.
The treasurer finally was able to show him what the entries in the accounts
stood for and he backed down, letting the atmosphere change.
And
splits do exist within the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. We shall discuss these
in some detail later. For the moment, a single example may
suffice.
Especially troublesome is the case of inactive Friends from old Quaker families
who are drawn to meeting for business on the occasion of some controversial
issue—for example, contributing funds to a Black group which is demanding
reparations, or removing the wall surrounding the cemetery where six
generations of their ancestors are buried.
In such
a situation this interviewer has had instances described where inactive
Friends, rusty in Quaker methods, tend to become judgmental about the
"insensitive" proposals of some of the meeting's active members. The
latter are described (in private) as novices unused to Quaker ways. The active
members, on their side, see a lack of commitment, a selfish prejudice in their
normally inactive brethren. In such a situation, the externals of Quaker
decision making may be observed, but our conversations with participants
support our impression at such sessions that the dynamic of seeking a higher
unity through receptiveness to that of God in the other was only minimally at
work.
At
times when such conflicts are especially vivid, some Friends find that the
Quaker method is better used at the American Friends Service Committee—where
the majority of employees who participate in decisions are usually
non-Quakers—than at gatherings where all participants are Quakers but where
genuine receptiveness to others is not achieved:
I'd much rather work through
a problem at the Service Committee than in a monthly meeting. I worry about the
"sense of the meeting" approach in the Society of Friends. So often,
the people making decisions don't have a lot in common—outlook, the endeavors
in which they spend most of their time, etc. My monthly meeting suffered a
shattering experience over the Black separatist groups. Lots of people came out
of the woodwork who hadn't ever worshipped there. At AFSC, there are many viewpoints,
but at least there is a context of effort to bring about improvement in the
status of the neighbor and real interaction among the decision makers. You
know this guy well enough to give serious hearing to his "far out"
idea. Because of personal experience, we take one another seriously. My own
ideas have changed on social issues because I've been nudged by
colleagues with whom I interact so much.
The
need for openness has some direct corollaries. Friends agree that their method
is hamstrung whenever participants cannot be face-to-face: "On not really
important issues, I admit that the phone or even correspondence may have to be
used. But basically you need to look people in the eye to be sensitive to
them"
Another
corollary is that the topics with which a group can successfully deal are
normally limited by the strength of the bonds of respect for one another which
prevail within the community. We shall see more of this when we explore the
role of the clerk in judging what items are ripe for the agenda.
But the
purpose of this chapter is not so much to spell out details of Quaker procedure
as to make clear to the reader the atmosphere that prevails in those situations
where the Quaker method seems to work well. The emphasis is on acceptance of
one another, mutual respect, avoidance of the manipulative conduct which
rhetorical style often hides, a sense of the partiality of one's own insights,
and one's dependence on searching together with the group for better
conclusions than anyone alone could have attained.
With
some notion of the general atmosphere as prelude, we are now in a position to
explore one of our main topics, the nature of the unity involved in a decision.
Chapter III No Decisions Without Unity
One major difficulty in assessing Quaker procedure is that no conventional
term adequately expresses the phenomenon of decisional agreement in a Quaker
meeting. Some people describe all decisions as unanimous on the grounds that
any objecting member could prevent action. But this is a misnomer because it
implies that all participants are satisfied when a decision is reached—a point
hardly true of many Quaker decisions. Other people speak of consensus, thereby
underscoring that the bulk of those present agree even if one or two objectors
remain. But this, too, is misleading. Quakers are simply not satisfied to know
that even the overwhelming majority are in agreement.'
Given this verbal difficulty, many
Friends adhere carefully to the term "unity" rather than
"unanimity" or "consensus." This term, too, can be
misleading if one makes it a synonym for unanimity. Unity, however, has the
advantage of being widely used among Friends and has historical roots in the
understanding that the one Spirit of Truth leads all to unite in what the
Spirit reveals.2 Hence, the common expression, "I can unite
with what Friend Smith has said."
Another early Quaker term was "concord." Edward Burrough
exhorted his brethren in 1662 "to determine of things by a general mutual
concord, in assenting together as one man in the spirit of truth and equity,
and by the authority thereof.1,13 The Oxford English
Dictionary defines concordance in this same sense of harmonizing various
accounts.4
The melodic
image is useful. It suggests that the sort of agreement
63
found in Quaker decisions is not an
identity of view such that every participant ends up on the same note.
Instead, they remain on different notes but blend them as the pianist blends
conpiementary notes into a chord.
Although this writer's preferred term would be concord, modern Quaker
usage demands unity, a term of clear meaning to the Friend but open to
misunderstanding by the outsider. However, the writer bows to current Friendly
custom and speaks of Quaker unity in the discussion which follows.
Preliminary
Discussion
In many
Quaker decisions there are at least two stages of discussion. The preliminary
stage follows initial presentation of both the problem and its possible
solutions. At this point, participants often ask questions of the person who
has made the presentation, offer tentative alternatives to the proposal, and
even find themselves more in the posture of brainstorming than of making
serious judgments. Remarks contrary to the proposal at such a time are taken to
be exploratory. If the speaker decides to offer them seriously, he or she will
have to raise them when the discussion gets to the more serious phase which
precedes the declaration of unity by the clerk.
Transition
from the preliminary to the serious phase is normally informal. An individual
will begin to speak in a less tentative tone and others will follow this
invitation and speak from their considered judgments rather than in an
exploratory fashion.
At the
time of transition, trial balloons are sometimes floated. An individual will
offer a suggestion—perhaps a rejection of the basic proposal for a novel
reason—and then sit back to see what response the idea draws from the group.
Such a statement does not involve personal commitment to the idea one
enunciates, although the neophyte observer could easily mistake the remark for
a seriously-held objection. This observer did just that on a few occasions,
only to discover in conversations after the session that the participants had
generally read the remark as a testing of the waters.
The
ability to differentiate tentative from serious remarks is important for all
participants in the discussion, but especially for the clerk, whose duty it is
to read the group and decide whether there is serious objection to the general
direction in which discussion is moving.
Serious
Discussion
As Friends begin to speak their serious
conclusions, the tide will build.
Speakers will piggyback on
the ideas of their predecessors. Listeners who find a speaker's remarks match
their own feelings will follow his or her words with a chorus of "I
agree" or "I can unite with that" or "that speaks my
mind."
But
sometimes several currents are running in the tide, pulling the meeting in two
or more directions. Or there may be no tide or current at all: even after
discussion, the participants may find that no option draws them into unison. In
either of these situations, discussion continues until a dominant position
emerges or until, at the suggestion of the clerk or some other participant,
there is agreement that no conclusion can be reached for now. In this case, the
matter is postponed: "It is the clerk's task within the plexus of this
corporate exercise either to find a resolution with which the assembled Friends
can largely agree or to follow the Quaker rule, 'when in doubt, wait In the
latter case the minute might read: 'Friends could not reach clarity on a
resolution of the issue in this meeting and it was agreed to postpone that
matter until the following monthly meeting' ."5
If,
however, the tide is running in a particular direction, the clerk is expected
to make a judgment that the group is now ready for agreement and to propose a
tentative minute embodying the agreement as the clerk understands it from
listening to the discussion.
Dissent
from a Proposed Minute
When
the clerk proposes a minute, each member of the assemblage has two quite
different questions to ask. First, does the proposed minute catch the drift of
discussion? If the answer is no, someone can be expected to object. One
occasionally hears such a paradoxical remark as: "If it please the clerk!
Although the minute pleases me, I suspect it says a bit more than Friends are
willing to say." More typically, the objection will be phrased; Well I,
for one, would be uncomfortable with such a minute. And, from what I've heard,
many others in the room would be uncomfortable, too."
Discussion
follows such an objection, with various Friends stating how they respond to the
minute as an expression of the group's will. The clerk rephrases or withdraws
the minute if need be.
If the
clerk is adept at chairing the meeting—more on this in a later chapter—such
misreading of the group's leanings is relatively rare. Under an experienced
clerk, therefore, each participant is much more likely to move to a second
question. Although the minute reflects the trend of the
group, is each member
comfortable with that trend? If the answer is no, one may choose to rise in
order to speak against the minute. Perhaps the group has not considered
adequately a point which has hidden import. After one speaks, others will agree
or disagree and, once any new discussion has run its course, the clerk will
either again propose the original minute or offer a substitute depending on
whether the discussion revealed a shift in preferences. It is often the case that
one person's statement of misgivings leads others to reassess their judgments,
giving more prominence to matters they had initially dismissed.
But
suppose the group remains unmoved by one person's uneasiness. Given the
folklore of Quaker dissent, the answer is simple: if the person can't agree,
the group is unable to proceed. The realities, fortunately, are much more
subtly adapted to the complexities of human disagreement. For example,
opposition to an advertisement in the New York Times calling for the
impeachment of the President is quite a different category from opposition to
starting a cleanup project at 9A.M. instead of 9:30 A.M. on Saturday. In Quaker
decision making, a whole spectrum of dissent is available. The paragraphs which
follow indicate some typical points on the spectrum.
"I Disagree but Do Not
Wish to Stand in the Way"
In many
instances the point of disagreement, for one reason or another, is not strong
enough to merit standing in the way of the decision. For religious reasons, a
person may prefer the judgment of the group as "sincere seekers after the
divine leading" to that person's individual judgment. In more secular
terms, an individual may recognize the possibility that everyone else is right,
or that an important principle is or is not involved.6
This is
the level at which, in practice, most dissent is expressed. The meeting is left
aware of the dissenter's opinion, yet the dissenter has indicated a wish not
to keep the matter from moving forward? Equivalently, the objector has thus
endorsed the action of the group by implying that in his or her own judgment
the objection is not serious enough to prevent action.8
The
dissenter has thus put him or herself in a psychologically peculiar but
liberating situation. The individual can leave the meeting with a sense
of integrity ("I never
approved the proposal. There was no compromise of my own belief, my own
leaning:') because he or she did not, after all, pretend to endorse the group's
choice. But at the same time, the individual also feels some sense of
responsibility because, "I could have stopped or
at least delayed the action, but I didn't:'
Therefore, the individual tends to take some responsibility for the decision,
even to feel some obligation for making it work out well in practice. We shall
explore this matter in more depth later on.
In
Quaker decisions, this moment of withdrawing one's opposition—though not one's
disagreement—so the meeting may proceed is a very important way of preventing
polarization; and its exercise, therefore, is virtually an art form of
graciousness. Paradoxically, some Friends make a point of being especially
strong in their criticism of a proposal because they know that, if the proposal
is accepted by the group, they will have this moment to withdraw their
opposition and therefore to prevent their harsh statements from working
permanent division into the community. Here is an example which indicates the
importance of the withdrawal.
At the
1975 session of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, a major bone of contention was the
size of the budget for the Yearly Meeting staff in the year ahead. A small but
vocal group from a monthly meeting claimed to be dissatisfied with the emphasis
of the Yearly Meeting staff on social work in the Philadelphia metropolitan
area—work of little service to meetings like their own outside the metropolitan
area. The treasurer of the group complained that the budget for the Yearly
Meeting had been enlarged every year for the last ten years and that it would
be necessary to fire the monthly meeting's one full-time employee to meet
their proportional share of the proposed Yearly Meeting budget. Prolonged
discussion revealed that the bulk of the speakers did not concur with the
monthly meeting's desire to cut the Yearly Meeting's budget.
The
evening was wearing on. The clerk reminded all of the shortness of time. Then
he picked up an earlier suggestion that it might be possible for financially
strong monthly meetings to absorb a larger proportion of the increased budget than
financially weak meetings. He remarked that it was clear the budget had been
approved but also that the Yearly Meeting had a responsibility to be concerned
about the unhappiness of displeased meetings and that therefore a meeting
ought be held later on to decide whether costs could be partly absorbed by
meetings which felt they were financially stronger.
From the floor came the cry, "I fail to see
how the Yearly Meeting has approved the budget when a number of us do not
approve the budget."
The clerk replied that, in the judgment of the
clerk, the only major point of contention was that of distributing the
financial burden. Since this would now be put off until a later meeting for
settlement, the matter
of the
budget was in fact settled; the matter of its mode of appropriation would be
settled at a subsequent meeting.
For the
moment, the clerk's reply silenced, although it did not satisfy, the objector.
The objecting Friends had been as much upset about the way Yearly Meeting
expenditures were focused on social projects in Philadel‑
phia as over the added financial burden, and the
clerk's declaration seemed to ignore this concern.9
Conversations
with those present cast light on Quaker custom. One man of many years'
experience indicated that the clerk had clearly been
right in saying that the general feeling was in
favor of the budget, but that the clerk seemed to have stretched his role as
far as you can take it in
moving things too rapidly to a conclusion before
the dissatisfied members had withdrawn their objection. A number concurred in
the observation that the size of the assembly—several hundred people—and the
lateness of the hour had led the clerk to move too fast. A few—one on the floor
of the meeting the next day—complained that the clerk was misapplying Quaker
procedures.
In
interviews some weeks later, however, individuals who had initially objected
to the budget felt "very content with the outcome" They didn't really
want to block the budget; they wanted to serve notice of its questionable
dimensions for the monthly meetings. The monthly meeting the objection came
from was "rather suspect among Friends anyway" and thus drew little
real sympathy for its objections. One observer commented:
The clerk read the mood of
the house perfectly well. If he made any mistake at all, it was in letting the
press of time short circuit the normal procedure. He might better have declared
that "Friends seem to be at an impasse" and asked for a few moments
of silence. Or he could have indicated he was unable to make a minute and asked
whether the Meeting wished to drop the next day's agenda until this matter
might be resolved. In either case, the objecting Friends, having made their
point, would have indicated a desire not to stand in the way. But he moved too
quickly and took away their chance to withdraw their objections.
The
clerk's speed thus seemed to lead to a sense of polarization in the group by
depriving the dissidents of their moment of reconciliation. Given the number of
Friends with strong opinions on the subject even months after this event, it
would seem that the ramifications were not ephemeral.1° Withdrawal
of objections is far more than a ritual; it truly liberates the meeting to go
forward and prevents the polarization that normally arises at the moment of
voting when one side becomes victor, the other vanquished. In the Quaker
system, such a moment does not normally arise because those who have been
unable to sway the group have the opportunity to join it. In joining the group,
they truly do free it to act.
"Please Minute Me as
Opposed"
One
step further along the spectrum of dissent is a practice much less common among
Friends—and therefore much more significant—the request that one can be "minuted
as opposed:' In this case, the objector wishes that the minute expressing the
sense of the meeting should note his or her disagreement. Although fairly
common in the past, the procedure is unfamiliar to many Quakers today. Its use
leaves the meeting free to proceed but also tends to make the group more
reluctant than if the objector had stopped short of asking to be listed in the
minute as opposed. An example from the Board of Directors of Pendle Hill, the
Quaker adult education facility outside Philadelphia, may be helpful:
We had a problem at Pendle
Hill over whether to permit cohabitation of unmarried students and/or faculty.
In both cases, remember, we are talking of people older than college age. After
lengthy consideration, the Board settled on a policy in which we did not
approve such cohabitation but did give the administration discretion in
exceptional cases to allow it.
One
Board member wanted his name recorded in dissent in the minute. It was
necessary for the clerk to explain to some Friends that such was an appropriate
procedure. Four more Friends then asked that their names be added to his. This
was a sizable number; yet none desired to prevent the movement forward.
The
decision drew wide notice among Philadelphia area Friends. The notations of
dissent made the action seem experimental, tentative, hesitant. Curiously, the
action did not stir the amount of criticism among Quakers one might have
expected, perhaps precisely because its painful uncertainty was so clearly
underscored.11
Depending
upon the circumstances, the request that one be "minuted as not
united" with the decision can make a group much more hesitant to go
forward than the mere withdrawal of objection. In both cases, however, the
objector explicitly indicates that the objection should not stand in the
way.
"I Am Unable to Unite
with the Proposal"
Next on the spectrum is a situation in which a
person is simply "unable to unite" with a proposal in such a basic
way that he or she is unwilling to stand aside and let the meeting move
forward. In such a situation, the normal procedure is to delay action until a
later time. If time is short or
the objection seems
frivolous, the clerk or another Friend may appeal to the objector to withdraw
the objection or to consent to be minuted as opposed 12
If
there is a delay, all take time to reflect again on their positions.
Discussions may also occur among those who participated in the recent meeting.
The clerk and those highly respected by the objector may make strong efforts to
understand the roots of the objection. This is one form of what Quakers call
"laboring with Friend X'
At the
meeting which follows, very often agreement is possible. The objector's problem
has been traced to something nonessential in the proposal and the proposal has
been adjusted accordingly. Or the objector has come to see that his or her
unhappiness is not so profound as originally thought and is now willing to
stand aside. Often, too, the objector is now able to stand aside because he or
she is confident that trusted members of the meeting have understood his or her
point of view and, having thought it through conscientiously, still do not
agree. The individual's respect for their judgments makes it easier to let the
decision go forward. The person can, of course, still choose not to unite with
the decision, although the social pressure to unite grows with each delay and
each discussion with a respected Friend. If the individual does not unite, the
group may continue to delay or, thinking the objections frivolous, proceed
anyway. Delay is the much more likely course. Many an interview subject has
summed up the likely outcome of a conflict within his or her meeting with the
remark, "We won't solve this one until we have a good Quaker funeral or
two:'
Absence
Our
spectrum is complicated by the Friend who does not attend a meeting at all. The
cause is normally no more than disinterest or the press of other
responsibilites. But a Friend who is regularly a member of the group but
absents him or herself at a time of critical decision becomes conspicuous. A
Friend absented herself from a Quaker school's board meeting where she knew it
would be decided to invite parents of non-Quaker students to join the Board.
"If I had gone;' she confided to another board member, "I would have
just had to object. So I didn't go." Her absence was felt by all. But the
Board went ahead with its decision. Deliberate absence can, then, have multiple
meanings. Even when it signifies deep disagreement with a proposal, it does not
necessarily block action.
Intangible
Factors Affecting the Impact of Dissent
It
might be helpful here to return to the spectrum of possible modes of dissent
and indicate likely outcomes. Basically, the group can be expected to go ahead
at once if the objector follows the typical approach of stating his or her
unease but affirming a desire not to stand in the way. The same is true even if
he or she asks to be minuted as opposed, although it seems that the group will
proceed in much more chary fashion. (This is based on sparse evidence; current
cases are extremely rare.) If the individual feels simply unable to unite, the
group will normally delay action.
But for
how many meetings will the group delay action on one subject? To answer this
question, we must introduce a new and complicated set of factors. In practice,
the group's willingness to delay is a function of the apparent importance of
the objector's objection—how deeply a matter of principle is it? The group's
readiness to delay also depends on its respect for the objector. What is the
individual's reputation for wisdom or spiritual sensitivity or expertise in the
area under consideration? Yet a third factor is time. The more urgent the
matter, the more highly regarded the objector needs to be.13 And, of
course, how many objectors are there? Fifteen out of 100, even if they do not
carry much weight as individuals, form a significant group.
In a
sense, these factors are a social scientist's nightmare. The relative
significance of each factor depends in each situation upon the entire set of
relationships existing at a given moment within the group under consideration.
Any single factor—size of the minority, reputation of the ob-jector(s),
pressure of time, importance of the issue to the objector(s), importance of
the issue to the most respected spokesmen for the dominant side—can be
significant enough to control the outcome in one situation, but unimportant in
the next.
======[wk 4]
Chapter IV Belief Systems
Underlying Quaker Decision Making
Myth
from a Social Scientific Viewpoint
Quaker
understanding of how unity is reached and the significance of Friends'
decisions can be confusing. One says the group has reached Truth, meaning Truth
is the guiding light of Jesus Christ. Another finds in Truth the best
aspirations of man but dismisses references to Christ as "baggage from
another age" when people didn't know better. If four Quakers agree that
Christ is the Truth which guides Friends, then for one this means that Christ
is the historic Jesus, for another a name for the Creator, for the third an
impersonal force, and for the fourth a euphemism for the relief one feels when
one has tried hard to be honest in making a choice.
No
matter how contradictory the language sounds at first, it all points to a
mutually-shared event: Friends experience something special and invoke some
privileged explanation to indicate why their type of decision is different from
ordinary ones. They find an authenticating dimension outside the mechanics of
the process. One Friend, a professional political scientist himself, commented:
"I doubt that a common goal plus acceptance of the rules is enough. . . .
There is need of a bona fide religious myth, a mysticism, to which people
really feel subordinate'
Before we explore the alternative Quaker myths,
perhaps it would be helpful to explain our use of the term myth. A myth, as
defined by Karl Rahner and Herbert Vorgrimler, is "an intellectual
construction that fuses concept and emotion into an image."' The myths
with which we are con‑
73
cerned are "collective
representations112 rather than the product of a single mind.
Explaining religious myth, Rahner comments:
If we assume that every
concept bearing upon a metaphysical or religious reality, remote from direct
experience, must work with a sensible image
·. . which is not the original phenomenal form of
that reality but is arrived at from elsewhere; if we further assume that this.
image. . is not• a static "picture" but a dramatic representation—an
event—or can be developed into one, and that such a thing can then be called a
mythical representation: then every metaphysical or religious utterance is a
mythical one or can be interpreted in mythical terms
In our
usage, a myth is a concrete embodiment of beliefs which makes sense out of
religious phenomena for a group of believers. Myths can convey truth or
falsehood or both. They are worth studying because they can help explain why
those who hold them act as they do.
Let us now look at the
second principal topic of this essay, the major
competing Quaker myths, and
see how they buttress Quaker meetings for worship and meetings for business.
As a
prelude, we should underscore that the following are pure positions. They were
distilled from many interviews with people who
tended to hold positions
like these or combinations of these or, in some cases, to shift positions
according to the situation.
Christocentrism
The
Christocentric Quaker is easiest for typical Americans to understand. He or
she shares with most American Protestants a conviction that the historical
Jesus was in some way the Son of God, that the Gospels express his teaching in
a privileged fashion, and that he is active in our world today as its Lords To
be sure, the Gospels are only one channel to that Lord and cannot supersede his
present revelation in individual prayer and the meeting's worship. For the same
Spirit of Jesus the Inner Light is found in both. Decisions reached in the Life
are guaranteed by the promised guidance of Jesus: "Where two or three are
gathered in my name, there am Tin the midst" (Matthew 18:20). Beneath the
mutual trust at a Friends meeting is the conviction that each person present is
"indwelt by the spirit of 'God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ'"
(Ephesians 1:3).
Christocentric Quakers can be readily divided
into two subgroups. The first tend to be fundamentalist in their theology. They
take Scripture literally: creation was in six days; Jesus uttered each saying
attributed to him exactly as recorded; and the details of each miracle in
Scripture are
74
historically precise.
Although all age groups are represented here, many adults among these
individuals tend to have been uninfluenced by the science versus the Bible
dispute of their college days and are unaware of modern biblical research.
The
second subgroup of Christocentric Quakers tends to hold theological positions
in keeping with modern mainstream Protestantism and Catholicism. For such a
Quaker, the Jesus of history is the same person as the Inner Light of today, but
the literal acceptance of events and statements in Scripture must be modified
by understanding the literary genres employed in each passage, ancient notions
of history, et cetera. In practice, although Scripture and present revelation
are both channels to God, the latter are often much more reliable indicators of
divine guidance than Scripture.
This
subgroup seems to include few young adults and few elderly adults. At this 1983
writing, members appear in the thirty-five to sixty-five age range, given our
interviews and observations of references to God in meetings for worship and
meetings for business. The group is more in touch with modern scholarship than
either its fundamentalist or its universalist confreres.6
Universalism
Universalist
Quakers seem by far the majority group in Philadelphia Yearly Meeting. They,
too, can be subdivided into two groups. The first subgroup would include all
those who hold for some exterior guiding principle —the "Other"
beyond man's life. Jesus was an especially great man, an exemplar for us of
devotion to God. But he was not God and his death was not salvific. Man is good
by nature; he needs divine guidance but not redemption from a state of sin.
The
divine Other—be it personal or impersonal7—does indeed afford
guidance to those who truly seek it. Such guidance is received in private
reflection and in meeting. Said one Friend, "The assumption among Quakers
is that there's something more than mankind—call it God, ultimate reality or
whatever else—a something deeper than man which does guide if we're open to
it." For such a Quaker, Christian language is bound up in time. That is,
traditional Quaker formulas reflect the naively literalist vocabulary of the
age in which Fox emerged and therefore the terminology in which he had to
speak.8 Thus, the Society of Friends is Christian by accident.9
In
spite of the chasm of belief between this subgroup and the holders of a
Christocentric position, these universalists share with their Christocen‑
75
tric brethren a willingness
to see in the experience of the Inner Light a manifestation of a divine
guidance which claims allegiance. Decisions reached in an atmosphere of worship
are just as preferable to these Friends as to the Christocentric sort; their
sense of a special obligation to obey such religiously achieved decisions
appears equally strong.
A
second subgroup under the universalist banner might well be labelled
humanists. These are people who tend to translate all "God talk" into
elevated allusions to the fundamental aspirations and potential of
human-beings-at-their-best. As Stanley Ellin wrote in a letter to the Friends
Journal, "Where most Christians would interpret the message, 'I and
the Father are one; as defining the nature of Jesus, for us it expresses the
divine potential in all men'10 To these Friends, religious language
is appropriate for enshrining human potential so long as it is not taken
literally. Here are two examples:
What it is important to
emphasize is the . . . desire [of all Friends] to meet on every occasion in a
spirit which seeks conclusions that are constructive, wise and loving, or as
some would prefer to say, that are consistent with the will of God.11
One of
the immediate and important objects of a Quaker meeting for worship is to create
a Christian fellowship.....the Quaker meeting never produced any other results
save those arising from an increase in human fellowship, the meeting would be
justified j2
Numbered
among these universalist Friends are Jewish agnostics, Buddhists, and Hindus
who find in Quakerism "no religion at all, but a form of humanism
concerned with ethics and the improvement of the human lot'13
Of all
the groupings, this humanitarian-universalist type is the most elusive to
categorize. The experience of being gathered, for example, is deeply meaningful
to some humanitarian-universalists—a moment when each is in touch with his or
her "best self' For such people, decisions taken in a gathered
condition carry a heavy sense of obligation without the impairment of
individual freedom since—shades of Rousseau—each individual is only obeying his
or her best self or obeying a higher standard which the group finds rather
than creates. Writes Glenn Bartoo: "The goals are above the group
as well as above the individual. Hence, individuals don't perceive the
group as interfering with their individual freedom'14 Friends the
writer has interviewed who expressed leanings in this direction seemed
emphatic about having an obligation to carry out group decisions reached in
the Life. Although this observer does not have enough information to indicate
with confidence whether their sense of obligation matches that of those of
Christocentric or Other-oriented Friends, the sense of obligation appears less
strong.
For a
second subgroup in this humanitarian-universalist category, the experience of
being gathered is obviously much less significant. Some avow that they find it
a curious group phenomenon and suggest telepathy, extrasensory perception, or
other psychic phenomena as the explanation.15 When asked about a
sense of obligation to obey a group decision, they allude to common sense and a
desire to trust the corporate wisdom, but not to a special binding character
the decision may carry, even if reached in a deeply religious atmosphere.
People with this leaning tend to emphasize that gathered meetings for worship
are very uncommon. One, a Friend for only three years, said she had never
experienced such a meeting. As for the gathered meeting for business, such
Friends are likely to remark that it happens so infrequently that one need not
bother to worry about it.
The
universalist Quaker, whether Other-centered or humanitarian, can be of any age.
People in middle and old age of this persuasion often indicate a knowledge of
the old science versus the Bible disputes. Typically college-educated, they
find Quaker universalism a "haven for the doubting Thomases of a
scientific age116 One Christocentric Friend explained: "The
triumvirate of Darwin, Marx, and Freud led Quakers in the 40's, 50's and 60's
to favor more a psychological than a 'divine inspiration' explanation of the
deep experiences of Quakers. Now, with discovery that it's safe, respectable
again to be a believer, there's a new turn to explicit faith especially among
Friends who stay in touch with the educational scene' 1117
One must be careful not to imply that Quaker
universalism is a relatively recent phenomenon. Elias Hicks, leader of one
party in the great Quaker schism of 1827, seemed committed to an Other-centered
universalism'8 However, the Orthodox party of that same schism fell
under universalist influence at the turn of the present century under the
inspiration of the Quaker philosopher-historian Rufus Jones. Interview subjects
in their seventies and eighties spoke of a personal commitment to universalism
going back to their childhood.
Superficially, at least, the most senior and the
newest adherents to Quaker universalism are much alike. Both believe in a
divine dimension of life but without attributing much reality to traditionally
Christian Quaker language. But the similarity is not complete. Middle-aged and
elderly Friends show an optimism about the human condition and the world's
future which their younger
coreligionists do not share: An experienced clerk commented:
In the young Friends and attenders*
nowadays you find a distinctive cast of mind. Many are radically pessimistic:
man isn't good. This is very different from traditional Quaker optimism; it
seems to come from the experience of the Viet Nam War. For these young
Friends, Christianity is seen in a very negative light: Christianity is
divisive, . . . has occasioned many wars, has led to persecutions, has kept
well-intentioned men apart. These younger folks are reluctant to take the
Christocentric path. Universalism seems much more appropriate to them.
Social
Activism
Although
it would be convenient if we could limit Quaker myths to the
Christocentric-universalist spectrum, neither our interviews nor written
materials will allow for such clean categories neatly grouped around the
question, Who is God? Among Friends there is a sizable group which is more
concerned with healing God's children than with who God is. Said one woman:
"I find I'm more interested in justice than in beliefs. My 'worship' is
more in service than in the meeting house' Walter Rauschenbush's Social Gospel
movement, emanating from the University of Chicago in the 1920s and 1930s, was
a significant support of this trend among Quakers. More recently, many in this
group have joined Friends
after being attracted to
nonviolent Quaker practice through the American Friends Service Committee.
We
repeat that we are talking of pure types here and that Friends who are social
activists also belong somewhere on the Christocentric-universalist
spectrum. But the social activist myth itself is important because it uses
Quaker decision making without recourse to any of the more formally theological
positions. Quakers who emphasize this social activist understanding of their
religion tend to be much more pragmatic about the significance of Quaker
decisions. One Friend commented, "Seeking unity because you make a bigger
impact if you all go at something
together" is quite
different from seeking unity because divine guidance can be found there.
The
social activist type lacks much of the sense of the authority of decisions
which we saw in the Christocentric or the universalist Other-centered type.
With the universalist-humanist type is shared a desire to trust the group's
insight or to increase impact through acting in a united
* Attenders are individuals
who come to a Friends meeting but have not become formal members.
fashion. But the specially binding character of
the decision reached in a religious atmosphere is not significant for such a
Friend. Interestingly, a number of interview subjects indicated that decisions
regarding social action tend to be less frequently reached in a religious
atmosphere in their own monthly meetings, sometimes with the rather feeble
excuse that "social issues seem too complex for divine guidance' The
writer did not observe this at meetings he attended. However, the
attitude if true may reflect the needs of the social activists who become
prominent in these decisions and see no value in moving to a religious level.
Democracy
For
years, Quakers have prided themselves on having a system of "radical
democracy"19 in the sense that all present are of equal worth
in the eyes of God and have an equal right to participate. This love for
democracy has been carefully balanced with a disclaimer such as this one
provided by Howard Brinton: "In the voting method of 'one man, one
vote" the opinion of the foolish or indifferent counts for as much as that
of the wise, interested, or responsible. In the Quaker meeting for business,
wise and foolish are both listened to, but the contribution of each to the
final judgment has at least an opportunity to be gauged in proportion to its
wisdom'2°
The
American democratic myth has had its impact on Quaker practice, however. Some
Friends bridle at the very notion that one participant ought to have more
influence than the next. Others point out that some of their weaknesses in
effectively using Quaker decision making processes arise because of the
American political heritage: "Most of us in this meeting are convinced
Friends. We were not born as Quakers but joined as adults. We don't leave it
all behind when we become Friends'
Democracy, when carried to the full, can
radically change the meaning of the Quaker decision. A Quaker social scientist
who is now disaffected from Friends and sees in their process "nothing
special" asserted: "The idea that we can find a specific choice which
all can accept is akin to the majority rule premise that the decision will not
be so repugnant that the losing voters will have to withdraw" He indicated
that Quaker decisions contrary to his leaning drew from him the same kind of
acceptance as majority rule decisions: "If a system is fair, I am bound
by its outcomes."
Such an
individual has little motivation to put aside personal preference in favor of
the group's leading or to make an enthusiastic con‑
tribution to a decision which he had not favored.
Comments one Friend:
Some Friends seem to see
democracy as the hallmark of Friends decision making. They hold for the
"one-man-one-vote" principle. Their use of "democracy" is a
substitution of equal political power for the Quaker fundamental insight that
God can speak in anyone. It's easy to fall into this trap. After all, democracy
is an "in" word. Surely we don't want people to think of us as
"antidemocratic"! But the person who sees our method as "pure
democracy" has missed its root principle. At root, we are involved in an
exercise of obedience, of denial of self-will, of seeking truth in
contradistinction to our own personal or group interest.
It is
this writer's impression that the democratic myth among Friends is generally
undeveloped, unreflective, and an often unrecognized symptom of the ambient
political culture. As such it rarely reaches the conscious expression of the
Quaker social scientist quoted just above. Instead, it tends to coexist with
one of the other self-understandings discussed in this chapter and to emerge
spontaneously, for example, when an individual finds that his or her opinion
seems to merit less consideration than that of another.
Ambiguity
We have
mentioned that each of the above self-understandings is a pure position. For
any given individual, a combination of positions is very likely. With some,
even prolonged interviews failed to reveal the particular meaning a Friend
assigned to such common Quaker terms as Inner Light or the divine.
Unwillingness to share deep personal experiences accounts for some of this lack
of clarity. One elderly Quaker was initially very strong in his assertion:
"I have never spoken in meeting under the 'leading' of the Spirit. All I
do is use my reason and speak what makes sense' A little later he suggested:
"It's funny; when I speak at meetings for worship, I always seem to just
find myself on my feet' Ten minutes later, when the interviewer asked about the
nature of a gathered meeting for worship, the Friend smiled and commented,
"Well, it sure seems the group is present to what people call the Spirit'
Interviews of this sort suggest not only the
superiority of the open-ended interview over the questionnaire for obtaining
certain information, but also the ambiguous, even contradictory quality of the
levels of understanding within a given individual.
Subtle shifts in use of language and concept are
common. Asked whether a person can be a Quaker and an atheist, one senior
Friend replied: "I wouldn't see the consistency, myself. But I'd also be
skeptical at face value about accepting a person's self-description as an
atheist. Of course, I'm not sure how many folks would accept my notion of God
as theism, either:'
Such
encounters reminded the interviewer of Thomas O'Dea's observation that the
Mormons, who like the Quakers of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting lack a
professional clergy, are thereby deprived of consistent theological language
which the education of clergy produces. Observed O'Dea, "In terms of
theology, the church is governed not only by laymen, but also by amateurs.
11'21
Quaker
Myths in Perspective: Primacy of the "Event"
One
evening, the writer was sharing supper with two Friends in their late
seventies. He mentioned he was curious about how Friends understood God. One of
his companions paused and remarked: "Well now, I guess I don't really
know. I know what I think." Then, turning to his comrade, he said:
"Thee and I have been worshipping together for almost fifty years. I don't
know what thee thinks about God. I don't think we've ever talked about it' The
other grave Friend agreed, adding: "I really don't think it matters much,
either. If thee shares the experience in the worship, it doesn't much matter
how thee puts it into words."
This
Friend's observation brings things into salutary focus. Quakerism has always
been a community without creed precisely because it did not need a creed.
Unlike other faiths, Quakerism builds all on the experience of the gathered
meeting. Together Friends experience something beyond themselves, superior to
the human pettiness that marks ordinary life. One may find in this experience
the Spirit of Christ, another the Divine Person, a third the force behind the
universe. No matter how they explain the experience to themselves, the event
which they share is paramount. They stand in awe before it, finding that it
dominates their conduct as they meet together to make a decision. And the event
demands that, in reaching that decision, they should sacrifice self-interest
and seek after a higher truth than what they have individually achieved.
The
whole emphasis of Quaker decision making as we have now sketched it draws upon
this experience. Because Friends differ in their understandings of the
experience, the devices used in the meetings are subtle invitations to reenter
the experience rather than formal reminders of Quaker belief. The opening and
closing silences and the moments of special reflection at times of impasse or
conflict all recall those present to the experience, each remaining free to
enter the experience through
his or her own understanding. Even such archaisms
as use of "thee"22 for "you" serve to remind the
participant that the context is a distinctively Quaker one, different from
worldly procedure. Quaker authors, whether they speak of spiritual empiricism
or practical mysticism, constantly emphasize the centrality of the religious
experience and disparage such appealing notions as democracy as threats to the
Quaker way?3
When
asked whether this sort of understanding is necessary to successful use of the
process, Friends point to the weakness of the process whenever participants are
permitted to hold out for their personal desires. A number of Friends active in
the American Friends Service Committee suggested, for example, that the process
becomes distorted at budget-making sessions when individuals tend to put
primacy on their own special area and hold out for full funding. "When a
lower-level AFSC committee starts to divvy up the financial pie, he who pushed
the hardest often gets his way:'24
Others discussed the difficulty that women's lib
absolutists and Black activists present to the Service Committee. Such
individuals sometimes want to caucus prior to meetings so they can plan
strategy. They "tend to resign from the Service Committee in
frustration" because the Committee doesn't "put their concern ahead
of everything else:' In short, they are committed to concrete goals and
unwilling to "put themselves under the discipline" of a community for
which "religious events;' not these goals, are normative.
This
writer found many Friends suggesting that people whose entry into the Quaker
community was occasioned by the Vietnam War and other issues of the late 1960s
will "either discover Friends' worship or leave:' Along this same line,
the researcher noted that interview subjects who came to Quakerism through the
AFSC and have remained for many years often speak strongly of the importance of
Quaker worship in their personal lives.
Levels
of Unity: A Religious Dimension Not Always Desirable
We have
previously noticed that the "meeting for business is, in essence, the
meeting for worship focused upon specific matters:125 The initial
and concluding moments of silent worship are reminders of this intent. Tied to
the worshipful atmosphere is an "expectation of corporate guidance:126
The
religious tone of a meeting for business can run a spectrum from the merest
formality to an extraordinary quality very significant to the deci sion being
taken. On the formalistic end of the spectrum, the initial silence seems about
as significant as the chaplain's invocation at the Democratic National
Convention?7 At the opposite pole, however, one thinks of occasional
meetings—or parts of meetings—when the comments of individual speakers were
followed by long spontaneous silences for prayer and the observer felt himself
drawn into the group's profoundly worshipful seeking. This gathered or
centered or covered condition has already been described as it appeared in its
more typical Quaker context, the meeting for worship.
Such a
worshipful situation is occasionally accompanied by surprising shifts of
position, either by individuals or by the entire group. An example from the
American Friends Service Committee may be helpful. In an interview, one former
AFSC staff member recalled:
In 1948, there were 750,000
refugees on the Gaza Strip; the new state of Israel had just been established.
The UN asked AFSC to take responsibility for feeding, housing, etc. At the
meeting of the AFSC Board of Directors, all speakers said the work needed
doing, but all agreed it was just too big for the Service Committee.
They counselled that we should say no, with regrets. Then the chairman called
for a period of silence, prayer, meditation. Ten or fifteen minutes went by in
which no one spoke. The chairman opened the discussion once again. The view
around the table was completely changed: "Of course, we have to do
it." There was complete unity.
Truly
worshipful decisions tend to occur in situations of high risk. Two examples
would be the American Friends Service Committee's decision to send medical
supplies to North Vietnam without a license and moments of high internal
conflict such as the 1971 session of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting when Black
militants seized the meeting house and demanded reparations. In neither of
these cases was dramatic change of group opinion the outcome, although in the
latter instance the initial anger among the assembled Friends was transformed
under the leadership of the clerk of Yearly Meeting into patient worship. Faced
with hundreds of silent worshippers, the militants soon gave up their angry
harangues, asked the clerk's advice about how to proceed, and then invited the
clerk to join their leader in chairing the meeting. Shortly thereafter, the
militants withdrew and those Friends favoring reparations and those opposed
were then able to agree to initiate an investment fund which would underwrite
Black business enterprises.
The
occasions when such dramatic religious depth is called for are not common. This
writer observed situations approaching such depth
three
or four times in a year of attending Quaker meetings for business. In any
matter of sufficient gravity that a Friend would be unwilling to step aside and
let the group proceed, however, recourse is had to this explicitly religious
level. The typical meeting oscillates between a superficial and a rather
profound religious tone depending upon the topic under discussion.
In
large measure, this oscillation is understandable. Only topics of import merit
the high seriousness of a religious level of reflection. There would be
something incongruous about deeply religious consideration of whether to have
the meeting's mail delivered to the clerk's home or the caretaker's mailbox8
As one Friend put it, "If you try to go to the religious level all the
time, you tend to strip that level of its meaning:'
One obvious significance of decisions at the
religious level is that they tend to draw greater acceptance from those
present. One Friend spoke for many: "If the group seemed moved to its
conclusion, yes, I'd feel much obligation. If the group didn't seem moved, then
I'd feel less obligation" Similarly, Friends who feel opposed to a
proposal on rational grounds tend to dismiss their opposition when they are
aware of a religious quality to the tide (ancient Friends called it the
"current of Life")29 they sense flowing in the opposite
direction.
Belief
that a decision is made under such divine auspices enlarges, as well, the type
of decision the group is capable of making. One Friend commented:
"Decisions based on human considerations are fine, but they're not enough
for sacrifices of really important things like family and friends and life
goals. When the North Carolina Quakers pulled up stakes and moved to Iowa
because they felt drawn to dissociate themselves from a context of slavery,
they were convinced it was a divine summons. Nothing.else would have been
enough to make them go:'
Conflicting
Myths and Fundamental Cleavages
The
interviewer was surprised, however, by the large number of Quakers who do not
seem to link the gathered situation of the meeting for worship with meeting for
business at all. Time and again, there would be polite explanation that
"gathered" or "covered" or "in the life" were
synonymous terms referring to the sense of presence and unity of the meeting
for worship, not the meeting for business. When pushed, these Friends would
acknowledge that "something like that" did occasionally happen at
meeting for business but that they had never thought it appropriate to use
such language for the business context. Such respondents typically tended to
lean towards the universalist-humanist end of the religious spectrum, or to be
devotees of the democratic or social activist Myths.
Further questions sometimes led to the
paradoxical discovery that,
for some of these Friends, the experience of
being gathered even in meeting for worship was more of a formal rather than an
experiential reality. For
some,
the fact that the group had sat quietly for twenty-five minutes was
itself identified as being gathered. For others,
the meeting was gathered if the remarks by Friends in the closing minutes of
the meeting were in‑
sightful. Along this same line, one helpful
subject who agreed that meeting
for
business could be as gathered as meeting for worship indicated: "You can
always tell whether a decision was taken in a gathered condition. Just
look at
the minute. If it's noted that a pause for reflection was made, the
meeting was gathered:' For these Friends, the
gathered or covered meeting, where the community feels drawn into the Life and
inspired by the Spirit,
seems
to be defined by externals. The American Friends Service Com‑
mittee's decision to send penicillin to the
National Liberation Front was remembered by one participant as not operative on
the religious level
because
there was no official call for silence. Others described the same
gathering as deeply in the Life: "No, there
was not a lot of pausing for prayer. But you could sense a general feeling of
the need of divine
guidance.
It showed in the remarks of some, the tone, the allusion to the Friends' ways
of acting, to a lot of history that long predates the American Friends Service
Committee:'
If the
latter speaker reflected the views of most of those present, still the puzzling
difference in perceptions on this occasion seemed compound‑
ed as the researcher attempted to discuss with
Friends their individual
understandings
of the religious significance of Quaker decisions. He soon found himself
enmeshed in a world where everybody seemed to use the
same vocabulary but with different meanings. For
a moment it appeared that Lewis Carroll's Humpty Dumpty was hiding in each one:
"When I use a word,.. . . it means just what I choose it to mean—neither
more nor less ."3°
If the researcher was to succumb to the all too
typical canons of social science, he would probably scratch his head a few
times at just this point,
note
that the ambiguity of Quaker expression makes accurate statistical evaluation
of Quaker beliefs almost impossible without investment of untold time and
effort, and move on to analysis of some less interesting but more manageable
object of study.
It is
true, after all, that Friends language is ambiguous. Moreover, the
understanding of many Quakers in what they believe seems to shift according to
the occasion or to be more inconsistent than they realize. The conflict between
democratic equality and the theory that God's voice, not the weight of numbers,
is to be followed by the meeting is just one clear example.
But to
move on to other matters more conducive to measurement is to allow the limits
of one's technology to control one's goals. In the best mystery stories of
one's youth, the hidden treasure was usually found in a dimly lit room. So,
too, the things most worth knowing are sometimes beyond the bright but
short-range lights of social science research methodology.
In
spite of preceding paragraphs, there is at least one major conclusion
suggested by our research in this area. For in the midst of all the ambiguity
involved in Quaker explanations of how their beliefs in a God, in social
activism, and in democracy influence their decisions, the general pattern of
their responses suggests a point which may be highly significant.
When
Friends reflect upon their beliefs, they often focus upon the obvious conflict
between Christocentric and universalist approaches.31 People who
feel strongly drawn to either camp often see the other position as a threat to
Quakerism itself. Universalists dismiss Christocentrics as fundamentalists.
Christocentrics suggest that the universalists have lost touch with the roots
of Quakerism by abandoning the centrality of Christ which so influenced George
Fox's philosophy.
For the
devotee of either position, the first response to the interviewer tends to be
that Quakerism has no formal doctrines and therefore the two groups live in
harmony. When the conversation has gotten beyond such "official"
responses, many a Friend has intimated being ill-at-ease with the other group.
When a Christocentric Friend stood at the 1975 Yearly Meeting to proclaim,
"I consider all of you my Friends, but many I cannot consider my
coreligionists,"32 his remark was generally greeted with
shocked dismay. But those individuals this reporter interviewed combined
concern over the inappropriateness of the remark with acknowledgement that the
point could not be ignored.
It
would appear, in short, that the cleavage is between Christocentric and
universalist Friends.
After
most interviews were completed, this reporter began to feel uneasy with this
understanding. True, Friends themselves are quite concerned over the
dichotomy. True, such a basic conflict in beliefs is a plausi ble explanation
for such Quaker difficulties as lack of growth and inability to hold new
members. But, when the reporter reflected on the atmosphere and the tone of
his interviews instead of the words that were exchanged, he began to find that
the Christocentrics and certain univer-salists shared a sort of profound reverence
for the gathered meeting for worship which was not readily found among other
Friends.
When
asked what they treasured most about Friends, Christocentrics and some
universalists would typically recall a meeting for worship conducted in the
Light. If asked to recall the business meeting decision that meant the most to
them, they would often describe how some incident led the group to a gathered
condition. Their words to explain the experience varied markedly, of course,
but for both groups, the experience itself was what counted.
Asked
the same questions, other universalists and Friends favoring what we have
called the social action and the democratic myths might recall the same
decision at a meeting for business or express their pride in a decision well
made, but would be apparently unaware of the special atmosphere experienced by
the others. Even when told directly that others in attendance reported a
special sense of being gathered, such individuals were likely to comment,
"That sort of thing doesn't much impress me;' or "Other people can
talk about their experience; I can only talk of mine'
Put
simply, the real cleavage among Friends is between those who experience the
gathered or covered condition and those who do not. The former can differ
markedly in the language they use to verbalize the event. For one, the group is
gathered in Christ; for the other, the force at the root of the universe or in
the depth of every human is expressing itself in the covered assemblage. In
either case, the words and concepts are secondary; the event, the experience,
is what counts.
Between
Friends who experience the covered condition and Friends who do not, there may
be little difference in language. Universalist humanism, for example, may be
intellectually satisfying to both. But the universalist humanism of the person
who experiences the covered condition will lead in a quite different direction
from the individual who does not have this experience. In the experience, the
former finds guidance, motivation to reconsider preferences, a sense of
obligation to the decision reached in this special atmosphere. None of these
factors directly affects the person who has identical belief but lacks the
experience. In this very important sense, those who share the experience, be they
Christocentric or universalist or whatever else, are the coreligionists. Those
who share
intellectual
understandings but do not share the experience are hardly co-religionists at
all.
If this
reporter's judgment of the cleavage point is accurate, then another factor
demands consideration. Time and again older Friends would comment that the
covered meeting is less common today than it was in their youth. To some
extent, this recollection can be dismissed as a tendency towards nostalgia or
as the memory's trick of recalling only the highlights of the past. Comparison
of contemporary experience to a few Quaker journals from years gone by,
however, suggests the decline is not merely a matter of faulty memory3
One learned Friend remarked that the covered meeting
is no rarer than the occasional sense of awe experienced at the most reverent
moments of the Catholic Eucharist. Catholics, however, consider that the event
of the Eucharist occurs whether the participants experience a sense of divine
presence or not. Rarity of such an experience for Catholics, then, is not of
central significance. Among Friends, where the experience has so much
centrality that expressions of belief are incidental, the community that rarely
prays in the Life has much more to fear.
It is
very difficult to be accurate in discussing the frequency of covered meetings
for worship. On a given occasion, the researcher may simply have been out of
touch with the experience of the bulk of the community with which he was
sharing worship. In checking his experience against that of others present, he
may have picked those few who were as inattentive as he that morning. Or
perhaps he simply frequented the wrong meetings for worship and business. (Of
the ninety-nine monthly meetings in Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, only about ten
were visited by the writer and some of these were visited only once.) For all
that, it seems safe to say, on the basis of interviews and personal experience,
that the great majority of worship sessions in the Yearly Meeting do not reach
the gathered condition.
If this
is so, could it be that the inclusion in the community of many who seem never
to experience the gathered state is part of the reason why it is difficult for
the community to achieve that condition? A racing shell wins few races if half
its crew is not interested in manning the oars.
The irony of such a situation is that the very
rarity of gathered meetings prevents those who are not oriented to such an
experience from recognizing the significance of what they are missing. Said
one Friend: "Why make such a big thing out of this gathered meeting
business? That's surely not what attracted me to Quakerism, and Quakers get
along by and large without it
As if in reply, a longtime Friend remarked:
We have gotten lots of new
members, especially in recent years, who are attracted by our
testimonies—peace, racial harmony, women's rights, and the like. But it seems
to me that most of these people will eventually leave us unless they become
turned on by our worship. If they don't find something very special there, they
will become impatient because we aren't so single-minded about such causes as
they are. They'll tire of our slowness and they'll leave. After all, we try to
base our actions on divine leadings. And that means we're more interested in
finding the divine than in any given cause taken by itself.
It
would be sad indeed if Friends who share the same experience but describe it in
conflicting ways were to see each other as more divided by their language than
united by their being gathered. So, too, it would be unfortunate if Friends who
happen to share the same God-talk but who differ over the experience were to
think that—in their religious heritage—the language is more uniting than the
experience.
Chapter V Quaker Leadership
Now that our essay has established
that individuals and even groups are quite capable of group-centered action and
has sketched the myths that support such a liberated action, it seems
appropriate to explore the high expectations Quakers have for their leaders. We
shall focus upon the one major official of Friends business meetings, the
clerk.
The
Clerk's Responsibilities: Devices for Hidden Control
Douglas
Steere defines the clerk as a person whose personal belief in Quaker
presuppositions expresses itself in some special qualities:
He or she is a good
listener, has a clear mind that can handle issues, has the gift of preparing a
written minute that can succinctly sum up the sense of the meeting, and is one
who has faith in the presuppositions that were mentioned earlier: faith in the
presence of a Guide; faith in the deep revelatory genius of such a meeting to
arrive at a decision that may break new ground and yet may in fresh ways be in
keeping with the Society of Friends' deepest testimonies; and faith in each of
those present being potentially the vehicle of the fresh resolving insight.
With all of this, a good clerk is a person who refuses to be hurried and can
weary out dissension with a patience borne of the confidence that there is a
way through, although the group may have to return again and again to the issue
before clearness comes and a proper decision is reached'
Let us
look at some of the clerk's ordinary duties and discover how they may also
become levers of power.
91
Agenda
On the face of it, the clerk's responsibilities
are extensive. The clerk prepares the agenda in advance. Although as one clerk
put it, "they [clerks] consult others if they have sensed the final agenda
is generally left to their judgment. The clerks sense of the gfoup may suggest
ordering items so that the assembly will not be tired out before considering an
issue of import, with less controversial matters saved until the end so that
they can be dealt with quickly and efficiently. Or, the clerk may order agenda
items so that an important topic upon which the group is likely to reach easy
agreement comes early in the meeting and establishes a sense of confidence for
dealing with a more difficult matter later in the session.
Stating the Questions and
General Neutrality
Clerks
will often be charged with summarizing a problem or framing a question as
prelude to discussion. They are trusted to outline the facts and sketch two or
three courses of action. They are expected to "be chary
·
of making known their own views" either initially or as discussion
progresses Says One Friend, because the clerk's role is to "point the mirror
[of the meeting] towards the Truth, he cannot try to be the source of the
light."4 This rule of neutrality is sometimes waived in very small,
intimate monthly meetings, but not in major matters.
Evoking Comments from the
Silent
The
clerk must be especially alert to silent Friends. One clerk comments:
"The clerk definitely should draw out those ill at ease. Even if you
suspect some are opposed because of their silence, you should make them know
their opinion is needed by the group." Another clerk tried to "draw
out the shy people" by calling on every speaker by name.
Particularly
in cases of hidden opposition, the clerk's action is important to the sense of
obligation which the decision is likely to bring: "The clerk's big job is
to look for the people who might remain silent now but will erupt after the
decision is taken and the session has ended." The Friend whose silence
allows him or her to withdraw feels less obligation to support the decision
than the Friend who spoke against the proposal but finally chose to step aside.
Because this individual participated and chose not to stand in the way, the
vocal Quaker speaks of being obliged to go along. The individual who chose not
to speak at the meeting may later talk after the event as if he or she had not
been present, had no voice, and therefore has no part in what "they"
did.
The positive side of this
same phenomenon is the clerk's ability to
92
build support for major decisions by polling the
participants. An exam-pie of this would be the manner in which a new executive
director was selected at Pendie Hill. After favorable discussion, the board
chairman announced that the sense of the meeting favored the hiring of a
particular individual. No one demurred. Then the clerk took the unusual step of
going round the room and asking each of the sixty board members if they
approved the action. Each responded affirmatively. The drama of the individual
assents heightened the awareness that each board member supported the
decision. Board members the writer spoke with later indicated a special sense
of obligation to aid the new executive director.
Discipline
It is
usually the clerk's responsibility to maintain discipline among the speakers.
The long-winded speaker may find the clerk intervening to remark, "I think
we've heard thy message." In recent years, the clerk of Philadelphia's
Representative Meeting took a leaf from London Yearly Meeting's custom book. If
a Friend was speaking too long, the clerk stood to signal that it was time to
stop. In London, at least, this movement is so much a part of Friends practice
that the offender who continues after the clerk rises is likely to hear,
"the clerk is standing." Such a remark is ignored at one's peril.
At times the clerk's personal reputation is so
highly regarded that such disciplinary powers give great control over the
proceedings. One participant in decisions at a Quaker college recalled,
"If X was in the clerk's chair and looked unhappy or suggested that the
point had already been made, the offender felt chastened." Such dominance
is, in the writer's experience, rare.
Diplomacy and "Acting
for the Uncomfortable Meeting"
The
clerk's skills as a diplomat are also relied upon on occasion. "Chronic
objectors must be dealt with considerately, even though their opinions may
carry little weight ."5 The writer came across one decision in
which a generally respected Friend seemed to object to every proposal on a
particular topic. The committee was generally stymied. After a few weeks, the
regular clerk returned from a trip and replaced his temporary substitute. In
the next meetings, the objector's unhappiness was considered, but without the
concern previously accorded it. The group moved forward quickly. Although the
point was never discussed in the meetings of the committee, the members were
aware that that objector's disagreement stemmed from a pet proposal the
committee had decided against.
93
Said
one participant, "The assistant clerk was just not up to coping with X'
Clearly, Friends expect much of their clerks. A clerk remarked: "When
faced with the chronic objector, the clerk must be gracious but firm. In a way,
the clerk is always in a bind between reverencing the objector's opinion and
acting for the uncomfortable meeting."
Clerks
differ over the extent to which they believe they should utilize this power
with which they are both entrusted and burdened. One respected clerk suggested
that, as a last resort, clerks should do what they can to let the objector feel
the weight of the meeting against the individual to make him or her feel
isolated. Others disagreed strongly: "The objector is a child of God.
Maybe in secular meetings you can operate this way. It just doesn't fit
Friends' basic view of man:' What impressed this observer was how consistently
the latter view prevailed.
Judging What Is Important
Some
clerks fear squelching any dissenter: "X sees the clerk as a servant who
listens and records. He lets us go on and on. We can never finish anything on
time:' Other clerks are much more aggressive. One, commenting on Yearly
Meeting sessions remarked: "I feel that if we delay a decision because we
haven't complete clarity, if we let it run over into next year's meeting, we
lose momentum, start next time from scratch and end up quitting again just
where we left off the previous year:'
We have
already observed how this pressure to conclude discussion can bring unfortunate
results when the sense of the meeting is announced before objectors have felt
ready to withdraw their opposition. This is usually more a problem of finding
a way to invite withdrawal than of anything more serious. However rare, real
abuse of power can occur as well. The schism of 1827 was partly occasioned by a
clerk of Yearly Meeting who called on Philadelphia Quaker businessmen far more
frequently than Friends from farm country because he felt the businessmen had
more significant things to say. Or more recently, a few years ago the clerk of
one monthly meeting apparently just did not like a highly respected Friend. The
clerk used his authority to weaken that Friend's positions by not calling on
him, passing by his suggestions, etc. If the observer is struck by how rarely this
sort of thing occurs, he also quickly realizes that the amount of judgment
allowed the clerk makes such abuses possible.
Another sign of this same power is the reply we
often received to questions about how a clerk ought to proceed if there is
clearly a united meeting with the exception of one or two people who refused to
stand aside for reasons the clerk has judged insignificant. One clerk spoke for
many: "It happens fairly often. If the time is available, hold it over. If
an immediate decision is needed, then I, as clerk, would ask, 'May we record
your objection and proceed?' If the person is in his right mind, he'll say
yes. If he is just plain unreasonable, then you make up your mind according to
the factors in that individual case:'
The writer
has observed this sort of acquiescence by individuals to the plea of the clerk.
Although the interchange was delicately polite, it seemed to boil down to a
judgment by the clerk that the objector really ought to stand aside. The
objector's acquiescence seemed to involve acceptance of the clerk's
objectivity of judgment, a willingness to trust the esteemed and dispassionate
observer.
Judging the Sense of the
Meeting
The
most important duty of the clerk is the clerk's responsibility to judge the
sense of the meeting. One aspect of that judgment, as defined by Howard
Brinton, is that "in gathering the sense of the meeting the clerk must
take into consideration that some Friends have more wisdom and experience than
others and their conviction should therefore carry greater weight. 116
In practice, this means that a judgment must
sometimes be made by the clerk about whether the support for a proposal
constitutes a valid sense of the meeting, or instead, that the weight of the
meeting is divided. Suppose fifteen people have spoken in favor of a proposal
and three have spoken against it. Forty more Friends have not spoken more than
an occasional "I agree" following one or other of a speaker's
points. In trying to judge the sense of the meeting, the clerk is likely to
consider the general reputation of the leading speakers for each viewpoint, the
extent of information and experience each brings to the topic, the apparent
conviction beneath a remark, and other intangible factors.
Just as
difficult, the clerk must also assess the silent forty. Which of them are
likely to have opinions on the matter? Are any of these likely to be opposed
but silent? If so, it will probably be important to draw them into the
discussion.
Such assessments by the clerk will determine
whether the clerk feels there is a general trend in favor of the proposal or
whether the discussion should continue. If the clerk feels there is a sense of
the meeting, the clerk will probably propose a minute because further
discussion would add nothing. On the other hand, the clerk may feel that the
trend in favor
of the proposal may not be
completely reliable, perhaps because a few Friends whose opinions have not yet
been heard may sway others. In this situation, it is better to delay offering a
minute until the clerk is confident that these silent individuals do not in
fact wish to speak.
The
opportunity to manipulate is obvious. Suppose a clerk personally favors a
proposal. A favorable early trend in discussion might provide the opportunity
for the clerk to announce the sense of the meeting before opposed members have
had a chance to speak. Such a premature announcement may lead to manipulation,
especially if individual participants do not know that others share their
misgivings. Instead, they may choose not to challenge the proposed minute,
judging instead that: "I must be the only one who feels this way. I
guess I won't bother to speak in opposition."
Again,
since it is the clerk's normal task to propose a minute which expresses the
sense of the meeting, one obvious way a clerk might influence an outcome is to
slant the minute towards the position the clerk personally favors. Friends have
developed protection against this weakness by urging that clerks take the time
to propose their precise minute immediately at the end of discussion rather
than to frame the minute vaguely and then wait until alter the meeting has
adjourned to express the decision exactly. London Yearly Meeting's book of
discipline notes that different people are present from meeting to meeting so
that a second meeting is often not in a position to challenge effectively the
clerk's faulty summary of the sense of the first meeting.7
There
are, of course, ways that the clerk can be kept honest. One Friend, asked how
he would react to a clerk's framing a misleading minute, volunteered that he
would withdraw confidence from the clerk and pro‑
pose his own minute. A
clerk, interviewed just after a meeting session commented:
There's no way to make sure
the clerk does everything perfectly. The behavior of the members can readily
act as control on the clerk, however. If someone of some significance mentions
from the floor that he doubts the minute was correct, the clerk may have reason
to take this as a warning shot across the bow! If things are wandering,
someone from the floor can encourage the clerk to give direction by asking the
clerk to suggest a minute. Today that happened to me. At the meeting just
concluded, others' questions obliged me as clerk to offer tentative minutes.
Superficially, the clerk can be seen as a Quaker
equivalent of the Speaker of the House of Commons: by the very structure of
British parliamentarism, the Speaker is an impartial servant of the House. The
Speaker's responsibility to
remain unbiased is enforced by the ability of the parties to expose any
inappropriate actions the Speaker might take. In the Quaker case, however, the
rules by which the meeting proceeds are much more informal, so that only gross
violations of equity can be challenged. And the areas in which the clerk is
expected to exercise judgment, especially the central responsibility of
declaring the sense of the meeting, are far broader than the circumscribed
powers allowed the Speaker.
Self-Restraint
The
clerk, then, is entrusted with an unusual amount of authority. Although there
are some checks on that authority, they are not especially forceful so long as
a clerk is circumspect in his or her manipulative efforts. If the formal
constraints are minimal, however, contemporary abuse of power seems curiously
rare.
One
cannot help being struck by the trust in the integrity of the clerk which is
typical of Quaker meetings, a trust so complete that clerks speak with
reverence of the duty the community asks them to perform. This simple trust
came home to the writer most forcefully one evening when a woman commented as
she exited the meeting room, "I really thought the sense of the meeting
was something completely different until the clerk voiced it' Clearly the woman
so trusted the clerk's judgment that she put aside her own evaluation without
hesitation. The observer, who also had read a different sense of the meeting
from that of the clerk, wondered how many others in the room had cheerfully
substituted the clerk's evaluation for their own.
In a
similar vein, the observer was struck by the frequent cases in which—in spite
of the wise advice that the clerk should present a full minute for approval at
the session—meetings would cheerfully trust the clerk to write a minute after
the meeting which reflected the nuances of their agreement. Part of this was
practical haste to cover the agenda by not wasting time over trifles like the
proper sequence of names on a flyer. Sometimes the matter was of more
consequence, as when a monthly meeting drew up guidelines for sensitively
contacting lapsed members prior to dropping them from membership.8
Especially in the more important matters, such trust indicated the meeting's
confidence in the clerk.
To the
observer, this attitude seems truly justified. One cannot help noticing the
scrupulous efforts of a typical clerk to draw into the discussion any
individuals who might help to bring clarity to an important issue.
A clerk who is unsure of the
discussion's trend will ask for help from the floor. Such conduct is hardly
suggestive of a desire to manipulate the deliberations.
When this reporter interviewed Friends of long
experience, he found that they talked freely of situations a generation or two
back when individual clerks controlled their meetings. But they contrasted
such control to the present situation.
The
great caution clerks feel about abuse of power came out frequently in
interviews. One respected clerk mentioned that sometimes a clerk frames a
"false" minute in hopes of alerting the meeting to the drift of its
discussion and jolting the participants in the process. If a meeting is
discussing civil rights and begins to trade stories of imprudent use of Quaker
seed money by certain black entrepreneurs, the clerk might suggest, "Friends
seem to feel that this fund has been ill-used and should therefore be
discontinued' The impact of the tentative minute, much akin to summary
statements by the therapist in nondirective counselling, may serve to force the
group to face its attitudes squarely.
When
asked whether this approach would be legitimate, clerks were of divided
opinion. One group objected to the strategy because the clerk's position was
too central to the meeting to permit proposing such a false minute. For these
clerks, any such conduct was dangerous manipulation which, if recognized, ought
to deprive the clerk of the respect of the group.
Another
group considered the advice legitimate but dangerous: "There's a great
tendency in our system to accept what the clerk offers. The suppositions all go
with the clerk. The false minute approach is too subtle, [and it] may just
stampede the meeting down a false road"
Both
groups revealed in their reluctance an impressive sensitivity to the clerk's
possible abuse of power. This sensitivity appeared again and again in their
interview comments, with the most experienced clerks appearing most chary of
abuse. One suspects that such is the case partly because the experienced clerk
has had more opportunity to observe the ramifications of even the slightest
excess in fulfilling the office and partly because longevity in clerking
implies that the individual has been asked time and again to assume this office
by nominating committees and constituencies that are especially attentive to
the person's past record of honest impartiality.
If one
adds to these factors the frequency with which clerks describe their role in
explicitly religious terms—clerks seemed much more comfortable with the
religious implications of Friends decision making than did nonclerks—one rounds
out the factors which are most prominent in the self-restraint clerks seem to
exercise. The "faith in the presence of a Guide [and] in the deep
revelatory genius of [the] meeting" which Douglas Steere outlined in the
first citation in this chapter is typical of a clerk's remarks. Since the clerk
is, of all the participants, the person most fully responsible for finding the
unity in which the Guide is revealed, it is not surprising that the clerk's
commitment to this fundamental Quaker belief tends to be a powerful protection
against temptations to indulge a desire to control the outcomes.
Quaker Leadership: Ability
to Read
Leadership
in the Religious Society of Friends demands the intertwining of traditional
basic leadership skills with a peculiar skill at reading the sense of the
meeting. The basis of this conclusion, and some of its implications, are
explored below.
Management Types
In his
now classic analysis, Douglas M. McGregor divides conceptions of management's
task into two widely accepted categories. The "theory X" manager
believes that he is responsible for modifying the behavior of his naturally
indolent, self-centered, gullible, and irresponsible subordinates so that
their behavior fits the needs of the organization. Whether his style is harsh
or gentle, his suppositions remain the same?
In
contrast, the "theory Y" manager believes that his subordinates are
concerned about organizational needs, capable of assuming responsibility, and
naturally well-motivated. The manager's task is to provide conditions that
promote the use of the potential in the people of the organization. The wise
manager realizes that the psychologist, Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of emergent
needs must be honored: it is not enough to satisfy physiological and safety
needs, for these are only prelude to the higher human needs the motivated
employee will seek to fulfill through his role in the organization°
On its
face, the theory X approach is inconsistent with Quaker decision making
because it places responsibility on the manager and Friends decisions are
supposed to emerge from the group. This is not to say, however, that there are
no theory X managers in the Religious Society of Friends. Admittedly, such
individuals seem rare among clerks of monthly and higher level meetings. But
they do tend to emerge in other roles in which their expertise makes their
"recommendations" unchallengeable by the meeting. One such person made
herself the unsurpassed expert
on the history of her
meeting's burial ground. Another, his meeting's treasurer, made the books so
complicated that only he could divine their true meaning. Occasionally, staff
employees of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting have been known to adopt a similar
tack in submitting proposals to supervising bodies whose judgment they did not
regard highly. Such individuals attempt to parlay their exclusive expertise
into control: over decisions touching their specialty.
It
would seem that their style imposes a fundamental limitation on these people.
Although "horror stories" of previous generations suggest that such
individuals did at times become clerks of meetings, the general abhorrence for
such domination in the present day seems to explain why the upward mobility of
the theory X manager is thwarted today.
The
theory Y approach to management is more congenial to Friends practice, for it
presumes that all the subordinates will be participants in the shaping of
policy. Of fundamental import, however, is the reality that Quaker theory sees
the -clerk or other leader as servant of the meeting, not its director. The
clerk does not collect ideas, then make a decision which incorporates as far as
possible the group's contributions. Although things may sometimes work in just
that way, the clerk's true role is to articulate the unity which he or she
discovers in the community and to facilitate the formation of that unity. But
the clerk is not to make the decision unilaterally:'1
The
Quaker leader, then, is not a practitioner of theory X. In the role of clerk,
he or she feels comfortable with the focus on the group of theory Y, but not
with its expectation that the leader is the decision maker. If we are to come
to real understanding of leadership as it occurs in the Religious Society of
Friends, we must move beyond these normal management categories.
Beyond
Type Y: The Leader As Reader
When
one questions experienced clerks and other seasoned Friends about the special
qualities they would like to see in a clerk, one finds a great unity in their
answers. One individual speaks of "artistry" in the "ability to
sense the right timing for a given group." Others remark upon the clerk's
"special gift" of sensing when the decision has been reached. This
"true gift" is so reliable that "the good clerk knows whether
people are saying what they really think:'
It is
interesting to see how often Friends resort to the language of "gift"
in describing the skill of the clerk. A listener with even minimal acquain
tance with traditional theological language is struck by the similarity between
what Quakers report they find in their best clerks and the New Testament notion
of the charisma or gratuitous gift given a believer to facilitate the public
life of the Church. Among the predominant forms of charismata in the ancient
Church were listed wisdom, knowledge, discernment of inner spiritual motions
in oneself and in others, and gifts of government'2 We discussed in
Part One the gift of discernment which George Fox claimed. It would appear
that, although modern Friends may be unaware of the theological language, their
experience points them to the event that language describes. For our own
purpose, in place of the theological language of charismata we will be content
to refer to the phenomenon as the ability to "read" the group.
We have
already given enough examples of this ability to read the unity of the group to
illustrate the clerk's role. Since this ability is not automatically limited
to those who are clerks, perhaps an example or two of nonclerks exercising this
sort of leadership would be helpful. One clerk, when asked whether she
sometimes erred in judging the sense of the meeting, replied: "Every once
in a while you get called fairly on a minute. I remember once a discussion on
whether to buy a bookkeeping machine. I declared that Friends didn't seem to
have reached unity and therefore the decision must be delayed. Then X rose and
suggested that Friends were really quite ready to buy the machine. This drew
general approval. He had just read the feeling of the meeting better than
1"
The
decision described above fits the pattern of a number we have observed, and the
dynamic is worthy of note. When the clerk announced that there had appeared to
be no unity, the bulk of the participants probably accepted her reading of the
situation without challenge. People who knew they themselves approved the
purchase did not question the clerk's judgment that approval was not universal.
Only the man with the ability to read the group well was ready to suggest that
the clerk's reading had been faulty: hesitancy expressed in previous speakers'
remarks was not as deep-seated as she had thought. The test of his assessment,
of course, was the immediate response of the individual members of the meeting.
Anyone who personally was unwilling to proceed with the purchase could have
stood and said so, and in that case, the clerk's reading would have been
confirmed.
Here is another example which combines ability to read a group with the
respect the group accords an individual blessed with the ability of reading
deeply. In November 1970, a special committee called "The 1970
Working Party" reported to Philadelphia Representative Meeting its
proposals for self-examination as a tool to discovering racism within the
Yearly Meeting. The Working Party asked authorization to contact all members of
the Yearly Meeting and all Yearly Meeting organizations in order to ask that
Friends look "to their possessions, practices, and relationships 'to try
whether the seeds of exploitation and oppression lie in them"13
Dis-. cussion was lively and much divided. Many felt comfortable with the
proposal; many others saw in it a document which could alienate Friends or
which falsely presumed that racism was deeply rooted with the Yearly Meeting.
Some feared that such self-examination was intended as a prelude to a call for
reparations to the black community. The issue so divided those present that
they agreed the next month's session would convene early to allow for an
hour's silent worship to let everyone think the document through deeply and, it
was hoped, find unity in the shared silence of the worship. In the interim, of
course, the Working Party's proposal would not be implemented.
The next month's session occurred as agreed. Silent worship was interspersed
with a few deeply-felt messages from individual worshipers who spoke of their
concerns on both sides of the issue. In the business session which followed,
the participants were asked to try to maintain the spirit of worship as they
discussed the issue. At this point, it was not at all clear that unity would
likely be reached. The clerk remarked that she saw no agreement.
At this juncture, a Friend known for his ability to read the community
stood to speak. He had been silent in the previous month's discussion and was
not predictably of either party in the present disagreement. He remarked simply
that, for the last month, he had kept the proposal of the Working Party on the
nightstand next to his bed along with his volume of the traditional testimonies
and concerns of the Religious Society of Friends. He had read the Working
Party's document many times. He was satisfied that not one word of it was in
conflict with the traditions of Friends.
The whole discussion changed. People who had been opposed spoke of how to
temper any possible misunderstandings of the proposal. Attention focused on
how best to present the document so that it would have fullest effect. The
Working Party's proposal was approved and forwarded to the monthly meetings.'4
Almost five years later, the writer interviewed the Friend whose remarks
had been so significant in the decision. Early in the discussion, he seemed ill
at ease, even suspicious of what underlay the interviewer's interest. But when
the incident in question was mentioned, his tone changed entirely to one of
serious reverence. In reflecting on the event he remarked:
Sometimes there is not the time for a large number to speak, and slowly,
slowly for an acceptable solution to emerge. Or perhaps there is no desire by
many to speak even though they are not satisfied with the proposal on the
floor.
So we need leadership. It seems contrary to Friends theory, doesn't it?
Perhaps it's a weakness, given our theory, that leadership is still needed.
Within our groups, certain people will be followed when they speak. Typically,
there's lots of discussion until one person—often a person with skill at doing
it, skill that's soon recognized by the group and expected to emerge at
critical times—stands up and proposes what all can buy. The great arguer isn't
this sort of person. It's not that type of leadership. Personally, I try to see
both sides, make myself keep quiet until I understand the whole question. And
then, sometimes, I feel moved to speak.
The case illustrates a number of factors common to this sort of situation.
The group feared disunity, and was attempting to conduct itself in a prayerful,
even a gathered atmosphere. The speaker himself felt moved to speak. The
speaker's remarks were so deeply consistent with the atmosphere of united,
reverent searching that he seemed to speak in a divinely authenticated way j5
Here, then, is a combination of ability to read the community's
at-titiides and to lead the community to a new unity. The speaker is doing two
things at once. The two cannot be separated. Because he knows the extent of
their unity of desire, he is able to call them to a unity of commitment to a
course of action. The latter unity does not exist before he calls them. This
ability to judge not only the unity that is real but also the unity that is
now possible is in the deepest sense the charisma which marks Quaker
leadership.
This is the quality that Friends look for when they are selecting clerks.
It should be no surprise to the reader that the man who spoke up at the
critical moment concerning the Working Party's proposal is the same person
that suggested the clerk was in error about the business machine. A few years
later he was selected to be clerk of the Yearly Meeting.
Some
Weaknesses of Friends Leadership
Every
machine breaks down. Every system of government has its flaws. The Quaker form
of leadership provides a great support to the goal of
reaching unity on divisive questions. But that
form of leadership, too, has weaknesses.
Lack of Congruence Between
Gifts
The
most obvious problem is that there is no guarantee that individuals with the
ability to read the community accurately will also excel in the basic
organizational skills required for running a meeting. Nor are all those who
know how to keep a meeting moving at an effective pace capable of reading the
leanings of the members. Then again, there are some Friends able to read groups
but not especially patient when asked to clerk a meeting. Some monthly meetings
and other Quaker groups find themselves with clerks who are selected because of
their strength in one area in spite of weakness in another. Where basic
organizational skills are lacking, one notes severe disorganization of
meetings. Where the clerk combines excellent perception of trends with
impatience, one finds meetings which feel cowed by the dominance of the clerk
who announces agreement before some participants are ready to acknowledge—even
to themselves—that they have in fact changed their opinion. Given this spectrum
of possible combinations of strengths and weaknesses, the visitor should not be
too surprised to discover quite different styles and emphases in various Quaker
groups using the same fundamental procedures.
Abdication of Responsibility
by "Ungifted" Quakers
We have
already mentioned the woman who thought the sense of the meeting was completely
different until the clerk voiced it. Friends who are timid or hesitant to take
stands will sometimes sit back and leave it to the clerk and other vocal
leaders to thrash out the pros and cons of an issue and reach a conclusion. The
display of special gifts by these leaders seems to provide a justification for
the "ungifted" to refuse to enter into the process. Although Quaker
theory holds firmly that the community needs to hear that of God in every one,
the presence of individuals of special skill seems to make it easier for more
ordinary people to excuse themselves from participation. In conversations
during coffee breaks and after meetings, this writer was often struck by the
phenomenon of people who had remained silent but who now went out of their way
to exclaim over how lucky the meeting was to have one of the more gifted vocal
participants.
Overmuch Influence by the
Readers at Critical Junctures
The sort of abuse we are about to discuss is one
against which Quaker method has little defense. We raise this point with some
hesitancy. However, the abuse can be very significant. The efforts made by
Quaker leaders to avoid abuse are impressive, yet their very sensitivity to the
matter indicates how dangerous it can be. We refer to the ability of readers
to use their special status in the community to lead the group to their
personal preference under guise of identifying an as yet unrecognized area of
unity.
The
clerk or the nonclerk who has demonstrated the ability to read the meeting is
accorded high regard because of his or her skill. Theologically, this role is
heightened because Friends consider unity a sign of divine guidance. The
individual who can discern the unity is thus a seer.
Such a
person quickly exercises an influence that is subtle and pervasive. The
supposed agreement that the reader enunciates—because the reader has enunciated
it—has innate authority. Individuals in the group who had not thought of the
position offered by the reader are highly receptive to it because, coming from
this person, it probably is right for the group. Individuals explicitly opposed
to the position tend to reconsider their position, sometimes squelching their
doubts on the grounds that the gifted person probably is reading the group
correctly even if their own reading of the group had been just the opposite.
Add to
this the ordinary dynamic of group action that potential solutions are usually
accepted more readily when the group has discussed long enough to feel
frustration and to fear that no decision will be reached, and you suddenly
discover that the theologically right moment to speak up is often the psychologically
right moment. Thus, the person who comes to the meeting with a solution in his
back pocket might wait until the group seems ripe for the idea instead of
proposing it at the outset. In Quakerism, this ploy may become wrapped in the
garb of inspiration as the group confuses the speaker's prepared in advance
suggestion for an inspired reading of the present level of agreement of the
assembly.
The
writer recalls a casual conversation with a woman who sat next to him at a
meeting for business. She mentioned what she thought would be the best approach
to an issue dividing the community. The visitor asked whether she would suggest
her solution as soon as the topic came to the floor. "No," she said,
"I doubt they'd be ready for it. You have to wait for the right
moment."
The
topic was introduced. She waited. Discussion revealed the main pros and cons.
She waited. Discussion became involved and repetitious. After about five more
minutes, she stood to offer her solution. It was
received with gratitude, discussed briefly, then
approved.
This apparent manipulation is not a simple
matter. Perhaps the woman in question had been thinking the matter through
prayerfully and had felt led the day before to offer this solution. If so,
should she have offered it at a psychologically inappropriate moment? Clearly,
if her message was from the Lord she was not given it for use at any moment
except the one when it would do the most good.
Or
perhaps she had no particular feeling that her solution was from the Lord. She
still felt it was a good solution. Why shouldn't she wait until the time when
the group would be most receptive?
Certainly,
had she wrapped her suggestion in the trappings of revelation by calling for
her listeners to center down, and appearing to speak out of her present
religious leadings, she would have been guilty of manipulation. Since she did
not do that, was it her fault that some in the community might take her
suggestion as a reading of the group's hidden potential for unity when she was
in fact only gauging whether the group was frustrated and confused enough to be
ripe for her ready-made solution? Such a person has read the groups confusion,
not its unity.
We do not wish to place overmuch emphasis upon
this matter. Suffice it to say that Quaker suppositions can sometimes elevate
a contribution that is merely a timely offering of a preset position into a
spontaneous insight by a speaker. Thus, a tactical measure can be elevated to a
religious revelation, and the individual reputed to be a reader holds dangerous
power to sway the community.
The
writer has been sure he was dealing with such a situation only on the one
occasion already cited. At many another time, however, it struck this observer
that the situation was ripe for such manipulation or that there was no
conceivable way to determine whether a proposal of possible unity which the
community then accepted was in fact the product of insight or of prior
planning. It is good that Friends noted for the ability to read are so aware of
the obligation they bear to self-discipline in use of their special gift. For
the community has little defense against such a gift should it be carefully
misused. Only the teetotaler is a safe guard for the liquor.
=====[wk 5]
Conclusion
106
Conclusion
This
conclusion explores three topics. First, a theme which emerged in the
historical section but which was not a prime focus for the contemporary study
is completed. Secondly, the writer attempts some unabashed speculation on the
negative implications of American society for the future of Quakerism. And
thirdly, he reflects upon Quakerism's possible significance for the future of
American society.
Completing
a Theme: Local Autonomy Versus Central Hegemony Today
The
historical chapters of this study traced out a surprising tendency for central
control to supersede the sovereignty of the monthly meeting. This accretion was
unexpected, given the core Quaker idea that divine guidance is found in the
religious experience of the gathered local community. Our historical pages
limited their attention to early growth in England. Are there any resonances of
tension between local and central authority to be found in contemporary
American Quakerism?
There
are resonances. The best way to understand them is to recall that, unlike
British Friends, American Quakers did not suffer widespread persecution in
their early years. Hence, they felt little pressure to establish a
superstructure as a defense against the government. The American version of
London Meeting for Sufferings began only in the 1750s and never wielded the
power of its much earlier British counterpart. There was no yearly meeting
bureaucracy, no paid staff until well into the twentieth century.
Since
the historical English pressures toward central leadership were lacking, the
emergence of centripetal tendencies had to await the develop‑
109
ment of the twentieth
century yearly meeting bureaucracy. The greater efficiency and impact of
central preparation of religious books and central coordination of social
welfare programs and protest in contemporary American society has meant growth
of the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting budget to something over one million dollars
per year.' Friends with special interest in the matters covered by the Yearly
Meeting budget gravitate towards yearly meeting committees and projects and
spend proportionately less time on their own monthly meetings. This emphasis
leads to cleavage. One Friend explains:
Interest turns someone into
what we call a "Yearly Meeting Friend:' Volunteers and employees of Yearly
Meeting tend, therefore, to be the most committed, the most "far out"
on issues. Their commitment makes them strong on leadership. The real tension
between their actions and the more conservative leanings of many monthly
meetings, where less socially aware Friends tend to be found, comes to be a
sore point.
In
practice, complaints from monthly meetings often concentrate upon the autonomy
of the Yearly Meeting staff and its apparent lack of sensitivity to the
reluctance of monthly meetings to endorse its acts. Unhappy Friends also claim
that the large Yearly Meeting budget for social welfare programs drains local
money to the Yearly Meeting with the result that the local projects of monthly
meetings are often overshadowed. (Those who are interested in social welfare
matters often tend to follow the money to the Yearly Meeting where others of
like conviction are already gathered.) One of the modes of making this local
unhappiness felt is annual foot-dragging over increases in the Yearly Meeting budget.
As a
balance to this dissatisfaction, even Friends who are saddened by expansion and
tendencies of what they term the "Philadelphia Vatican" comment upon
the value to all meetings of the central services provided. First Day school
materials and media coverage of Friends public testimonies at the Yearly
Meeting level are common instances of this counterweight.
Yearly
Meeting leaders, sensitive to the delicacy of the balance, have made notable
efforts to meet valid criticism by adjusting central procedures. Public actions
by the spirited members of the Peace Committee have been kept under tighter
rein in response to local criticisms. For example, letters of complaint to
foreign heads of state must now be approved by Representative Meeting or its
Executive Committee before they can be dispatched. Yearly Meeting staff members
have become more alert to the need to prepare the way for programs they are
interested in by visiting monthly meetings, informing them of their intended
activities, and obtaining their blessing. However, in spite of many such
efforts to temper central
110
autonomy in recent years,
unhappiness in monthly meetings continues.
In sum,
the centrifugal genius of Quaker tradition is in tension with the centripetal
force of central effectiveness. But the tension seems a healthy one which
increases central accountability, expands communication, and keeps individual
monthly meetings from gradually drifting into an isolation which could weaken
the cohesion of the Religious Society of Friends. At least for the moment,
there is a dynamic tension which bodes well for the Quaker future.
Speculation:
The Future of Quakerism
A topic
of serious concern among members of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting is the
significant decline in the number of adult members. In the twenty years between
1960 and 1980, the community lost adult members at a rather steady annual rate
just under one-half percent a year—a decline of almost ten percent over twenty
years. When Friends add to this decrease the problem that many of the 11,000
adult members in 1980 neither attended meeting for worship nor responded to
monthly meeting requests for financial support, they become fearful that the
Society of Friends in the Philadelphia region is in an unhealthy condition.2
Friends wonder why.
Our
visits to meeting for business at various monthly meetings frequently made us
ask whether we had selected a bad night. Attendance of even 10 percent of the
members of the meeting began to seem quite acceptable after a few such visits.
A number of Friends volunteered that they were disturbed by the paucity of
participants in local meetings for business. This attendance record contrasted
vividly with that of Representative Meeting where at least 70 percent of the
members could be relied upon to be present each month.
In
reflecting on possible explanations for the contrasting attendance of these two
groups, we found our thoughts moving paradoxically towards the great strengths
of Quaker decision making. We have already noted that out of a united decision
also comes a high degree of obligation to
carry out the decision and
make it work. Every participant either actively favored the proposal or, at
least, could have stopped the action but did
not. The price one pays for
attending a meeting for business is that one leaves with new obligations. The
individual cannot claim to be merely a disinterested observer.
If one
adds to this obligation the presupposition in Quaker decisions that each
participant is willing to start from the viewpoint of the group's
111
good and not from a personal
perspective, one suddenly comes face-to-face with an even broader price
demanded of the participant. Each person must make a fundamental shift from
the atomic individuality which marks American society and embrace a
communitarian starting point.
Could
it not be that Quakerism is a victim of the general culture? People socialized
into the atomism (or individualism) which has been fundamental to Western
thought since the rise of liberalism need special abilities if they are
successfully to shift into a subculture which expects a communitarian
self-understanding. The Quaker who mistakenly reduces Friends decision making
to democracy sees no advantage in the extra time taken by "quaint"
procedures. "Why not just vote and get it over with?" is the sort of
question sometimes asked. The individual who must ask this sort of question is
approaching Quakerism from the outside, from a thought-world alien to its very
foundations.
Such a
person neither accepts the communitarian self-understanding nor the
obligations which the decisions of the meeting for business place upon the
individual. The best way to avoid the obligations is by avoiding the meetings.
The absent Friend does not incur the burden of the Friend who is present and
who therefore is personally responsible for the decision.
An
individual opting for absence has plenty of support from social trends. Fewer
Friends are self-employed and more women have full-time positions in the
workforce in addition to family responsibilities. Families move frequently and
tend to be less interested in any communities larger than their own family
unit. In other words, the economic and social trends in our individual-centered
society provide a constant, pervasive impetus towards thinking of a
communitarian woridview as an impossible burden.
If our
speculation is right, it explains why we found the Quaker business procedure so
effectively utilized in most of the meetings we visited. Those in attendance
were generally capable of entering the com-munitarian thought-world and
accepting the obligations the meeting was to impose. Friends unable to shift
into that world and to bear its burdens tended not to come. Put another way,
one reason the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting faces declining membership
statistics is that it is faithful to its heritage, a heritage that more and
more of its members are incapable of sharing.
Such an
explanation fits rather well with the responses we received in casual
encounters with individuals who had given up their Quakerism. These people
consistently spoke highly of the social testimonies of Friends and of Quaker
tolerance for diversity of belief within the community. But they revealed
puzzlement, boredom, and irritation when the conversation turned to the
"peculiar" Quaker approach to decision making.
Supposing
for the moment that our analysis is correct, the avenues open to Friends are
rather limited. First, they could take the tack followed by groups like the Old
Colony Mennonites who, when their culture was being eroded by the world,
required members to divorce themselves from contact with worldly life and to
immerse themselves instead in the Mennonite community Given the Quaker genius
for full involvement in American life, such a prospect of segregation seems out
of the question.
A
second approach might be to emphasize, in the education of both adult members
and of the children of members, the possibility of "nonatomic"
starting points for human life. Instead of focusing on themselves as individual
atoms, as units basically separate from the world about them, Friends would be
taught to see themselves fundamentally as participants in larger communities,
and only secondarily as atomic individuals. Friends grammar and high schools,
study groups, and First Day schools are all obvious places for explicitly
exploring the implications for human life of a communitarian
self-understanding. Surely a religious society which includes in its
membership a notable percentage of people committed to counterculture
lifestyles should find it easy to carry its critical analysis of American
society to a level deep enough for the limitations of atomic self-understanding
to be perceived. In contrast, the Quaker com-munitarian presuppositions might
be offered as a sound alternative world view.
A third
mode of confronting the problem might be to reemphasize the importance of
religious experience in Quaker life. The gathered meeting for worship could be
cultivated once again through special attention in Quaker magazines, more
emphasis upon religious retreats where private and group worship might be
deepened, and other attempts at consciousness raising.
Simultaneously,
Friends charged with interviewing applicants for monthly meeting membership
might become much more sensitive as to whether the candidate values the
religious experience in Quaker life and can understand and rate highly the
gathered condition of a meeting. All too often, such matters may be considered
inappropriate areas for inquiry; and committees which screen applicants may
content themselves with the assumption that the prospective Friend finds Quaker
social testimony or fellowship attractive.
Similar
questions might also be asked in making decisions about whether to retain
inactive resident members on the rolls of the monthly meeting. Retaining as
members virtually all who have not explicitly asked that their names be removed
from the list—the practice of many monthly meetings—tends to reduce membership
to a meaningless level; one can remain a Friend even if one's participation in
the community's life is limited to occasional inquiries into the state of one's
grandfather's grave. Honestly recognizing that such individuals are not full
members might underscore the importance for Quaker life of the shared religious
experience which gathers individual members beyond atomic existence into a
unity. Once again, the experiential root of Quakerism might receive the
prominence it deserves.
Speculation:
Quakerism's Message for the American Future
A
number of the writer's confreres in graduate school, upon hearing that this
study dealt with Quaker decision making, presumed that he would find the Quaker
process to be a variant on the unanimous consent of the United States Senate or
the tendency of United Nations committee chairmen to declare that "there
being no objection, the committee approves the following:' Some Friends suggested
the same conclusions, often pointing to the United Nations in particular as a
secular example of Quaker method.
The
author's research has convinced him that almost exactly the opposite is true.
In the United States Senate, unanimous consent is typically a device for
approving matters which arouse no one's opposition and is used as a method of
expedition. Unanimity thus means that the matter is trivial or
noncontroversial. The members of the Senate are not called upon to change from
the atomic vantage point of their own and their constituents' interests to a
community-based perspective. They simply affirm that the matter does not
adversely affect their set of interests.
In the
United Nations, unanimous consent is very frequently a way for nations to avoid
going on record. By making arrangements behind the scenes, nations reach a
compromise inconsistent with the official formulations of their individual
foreign policies but seen as advantageous, here and now, to their national
interests. By the subterfuge of failure to vote, they can preserve their
officially formulated positions, yet serve their immediate national needs.
Such a procedure may imitate some aspects of Quaker decision making, but it
lacks both the change from national to community interest and the commitment to
participate in achieving the agreed goal which are central to the Friends
process
Another
area suggested from time to time as an instance of the Friends style of
decision is the deliberations of the corporate board. Although we do not wish
to argue that such instances never occur, we must suggest that many apparent
similarities between the Quaker style of decision making and those of the
board room are only coincidental. We recall a Friend who commented
enthusiastically about a Philadelphia corporation he
knew which reached unanimous
decisions at its board meetings with only rare exceptions. However, another
Friend, a member of a number of
corporate boards, remarked:
Sure, corporations' boards
of directors almost always agree. That's just good business. You pick a
management team and then you back them unanimously until some major segment of
the board is dissatisfied enough to want to replace the team. Until you want to
make that major change, you would only be weakening management unnecessarily by
voting no or no confidence. So, when you vote yes, it has little in common with
Quaker unity. This kind of yes just means you haven't enough votes to win yet.
In
short, apparent parallels to Friends decision making seem to fall far short
because they do not demand of the participant the characteristic Quaker change
of viewpoint or burden the individual with the Quaker sense of obligation to
make the decision work out successfully. In a fundamental sense, the supposed
parallels differ from Friends decisions because the former do not presuppose
that participants are in community.
Our
speculation thus raises a fundamental issue. Individualized, atomic man cries
out for community. He or she complains because of the inability to participate
in a satisfying way in decision making that affects his or her life.5
But individualized, atomic man is incapable of community because of the
inability to surrender the individual-focused starting point which has been
fundamental to Western culture since the begin-fling of liberalism.6
Therefore all attempts by a person whose socialization has been locked into
the atomic thought-world to achieve the community longed for are doomed to
fail, doomed to imitate the externals of a participation based upon communion
without ever quite attaining the communion itself that would transform those
externals into reality.
Roberto
Unger, Harvard political philosopher, argues forcefully that now is the time
for a "total criticism;' a critique of social theory which would not rest
content to challenge parts of the present thought-world but would attempt to
challenge that world's very roots. The outcome would
be a
turning away from liberalism's atomic man so that tomorrow's man could once
again escape the isolation of viewpoint basic to liberalism and find a fuller
identity as part of an "organic group" whose good and goals would be
the initial point of reference? Tomorrow's world of thought would go beyond
liberalism in order to embrace a new level of community.
Our
speculation leaves both Quakerism and the American future in doubt. If the
American society becomes even more deeply mired in an atomic world view, we can
expect the number of people capable of living in both an American and a Quaker
universe to diminish gradually and constantly. Eventually, this could spell the
end to such Quaker units as Philadelphia Yearly Meeting.
On the
other hand, if the hunger for community is strong and growing, might not the
number of Americans who are ready for a group such as Friends be expected to
increase? In that case, Friends would still face the great challenge of helping
these people to enter the Quaker experience deeply enough to be able to change
their basic thought-world from the atomic to the communitarian. But, if Friends
are successful, groups like the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting might be the
vanguard of a new revolution.
And so
we conclude with Quakerism in an ambiguous state. Will the Religious Society of
Friends become a victim of the atomic society or a beacon drawing that society
to the community which its members crave?
Alfred North Whitehead remarks: "Profound
flashes of insight remain ineffective for centuries, not because they are
unknown, but by reason of dominant interests which inhibit reaction to that
type of generality. The history of religion is the history of the countless
generations required for interest to attach itself to profound ideas18
Centuries
ago, George Fox found on Pendle Hill an experience that spoke to his condition.
Is it too much to suppose that modern seekers might find in the Religious
Society of Friends the religious experience and worldview that would speak to
theirs?
Appendix A, Appendix B, Notes,
Bibliography
Appendix
A The Christian Tradition of Divine Guidance
Many a
Quaker whom the author has interviewed during research for this book has
suggested that the Friends decision process is something doubly miraculous; not
only does it achieve harmony without resorting to voting, it was virtually
revealed to George Fox and is unheard of elsewhere in the Christian tradition.
The harmony derived from disparate opinions may indeed qualify at times for a
miraculous label. However it is the purpose of this appendix to demonstrate
that Friends decision making is not a process which abruptly began with the
inspirations of George Fox but, instead, is an important example of a rich
tradition which has marked the Christian community from the days of the
Apostles and which especially flourished at the time Fox founded his movement.
Where, then, did early Quakers get their
extraordinarily practical theology of divine guidance? One source is Scripture.
Acts 15 recounts a church council at Jerusalem in
which the Apostles and the elders decided to send a letter to the Gentile
Christians freeing them from the obligation of circumcision. The letter
included the clause, "it has seemed good to the Holy Ghost, . . . and to
us. . . . " Robert Barclay's Anarchy of the Ranters focused on this
episode to explain Quaker
practice.2 -
Did George Fox simply read the Book of Acts,
meditate on its implications, and create the Quaker process? Hardly. Fox's
procedure was not nearly as singular in the mid-seventeenth century as it may
seem in the late-twentieth. An overview of the precursors of the Quaker method
will reveal the extent to which Quaker procedures were already in the air.
Medieval
Catholic Practice
Medieval
Catholic procedure is helpful for indicating how widespread was the expectation
that the Holy Spirit would be active in directing the outcome of
ecclesiastical decision making. For example, bishops were elected by the clergy
assigned to each cathedral (the "cathedral chapter"). At times
factions would vie for a majority of votes in a manner
119
which,
to put it mildly, was unedifying. As a corrective, the Third Lateran Council
(1170) decreed that in all the world's dioceses, the electors more noted for
their virtue, zeal, and disinterestedness—the sanior pars—must all vote
with the majority if the election was to be valid. Unanimity of the san-ior
pars was taken as a sign of divine endorsement of the elected candidate.3
The
example illustrates the early theoretical conflict between modern majority rule
and the more primitive search for truths Canon law showed a dual allegiance. On
the one hand, everyone who was affected by a decision had a right to a voice
in its approval. This is the Justinian's maxim Quod omnes tangit ab omnibus
approbetur.5 Balancing this introduction of diverse interests
was an emphasis on the unity in truth which should prevail where the Spirit is
active. One device for fostering such unity without disenfranchising those with
a mere factional spirit was to demand that there be not merely a majority in
favor of a candidate, but a majority including all who constituted the sanior
pars.
The
same principle emerged elsewhere in canonical thought. When the well-being of
the whole diocesan corporation is in question, said the famous canonist
Zabarella (c. 1335-1417), the bishop cannot act alone; he must have
either the consent of the whole chapter or at least of its major et
sanior pars.6 This notion that God's will can be found in the
unanimity of the most upright members of a decision making body has been traced
through hundreds of years in the governance of the dioceses of Great Britain?
But the
flowering of medieval belief that the Spirit speaks in the unanimous actions of
a governing body is the theory of Church Councils. As medieval political
historian Brian Tierney has clearly demonstrated,8 the principles of
Conciliar theory in the fourteenth century derive directly from twelfth and
thirteenth century canon law. Nicholas of Cusa, a fifteenth century political
theorist and theologian, reflects the tension within that legal tradition
between majoritarian and unitarian approaches. On occasion, Cusa alleges that
the majority side always expresses the will of the SpiritY He, however, cannot
long remain satisfied with mere majority rule. In an attempted compromise of
systems, Cusa "insists that the minority formally endorse the decision of
the majority after the vote so as to produce the required unanimity especially
in the definition of doctrine "10
But then Cusa confronted a practical problem. He
was a member of the anti-papal Council of Basle (1431-1438). The majority voted
to hold a council of reunion with the Greeks at Avignon; but there was deep
disagreement by a minority of prelates (fifteen out of fifty-two present) whose
honest zeal for reunion made them, in Cusa's eyes, the sanior though far
minor pars.11 Cusa felt constrained to desert Basle and
endorse the papal side. The Council of Basle, in spite of its large majorities,
could not achieve the unity which is the mark of a true council. After all,
Cusa had written long before Basle that "on account of the unanimity on
which the authority of the acts of a council depends, we know that the Holy
Spirit, who is the spirit of union and harmony [concordantiae] has inspired
the council's decision.12 Conversely, "where there is dissent,
there is no council.
The
conciliar thought which Cusa enunciated so clearly, with its central emphasis
on how the will of God was to be found in the unity behind the decrees of
church councils, had direct impact on English parliamentary theory in the days
of Henry Viii's establishment of a national church. Parliament emerged as an
interim substitute for a worldwide church council and took on all the latter's
attributes. One of Henry's most prominent apologists, Christopher St. German,
wrote, "It cannot be thought that a Statute that is made by authority of
the whole Realm, as well as of the King and of the Lords Spiritual and
Temporal, as of all the commons, will recite a thing against the Truth:'14
Ecclesiastical historian George Hunston Williams sums up the argument:
"The nation ultimately, Parliament representatively, was in the Henrician
theory the King's body political and ecclesiastic as distinguished from
his body natural. St. German regarded Parliament so conceived as a national
mixed synod, guided by the Holy Spirit, and as such incapable of error, in
effect, infallible. The King in Parliament, as it were, can do no wrong."15
Because
of this approach, Anglicanism tended to consider Parliament as not only
national diet but national synod.16 One channel, therefore, by which
Catholic conciliar infallibility reached Fox's England would be the conciliar
rhetoric surrounding Parliament •17
The Anabaptist Tradition
An
altogether independent channel of transmission to Fox's England was the
nonmagisterial Protestant tradition, especially that of the Anabaptists.
Divine inspiration was introduced dramatically by Henry Pfeiffer and Thomas
Muntzer at Muhlhausen in 1525 when the two revolutionaries replaced the town
council with the so-called eternal council representative of the revolutionary
classes. Apparently, the people would elect pastors who in turn would
deliberate in a council. The council would express the truths the people held
but could not articulate.
This was to be an eschatological council, a Konzil
der Endzeit which would establish true church order as the final step prior
to the Second Coming of Christ. Although we do not know its decision making
procedures, it certainly was supposed to produce decisions guaranteed by the
Holy Spirit. Details are unclear since the eternal, council was overthrown after
only a few months and Muntzer and Pfeiffer, were beheaded by Landgrave Philip
of Hesse.
In
variant forms, the notion of an eschatological council continued to appear in
the Radical Reformation. In August 1527, two other Anabaptist leaders, John Hut
and John Denck, summoned a council (later termed the Martyrs' Synod) at
Augsburg to discuss immediate preparations for the Second Coming which they
hoped would occur on Pentecost Sunday the year following. Williams summed up
their expectations: "As once in the upper room in Jerusalem the first
apostolic council had convened and the flames of the Spirit had descended upon
the participants, so in the fullness of the dispensations, the Spirit would
come again in power, anointing the new apostles for the last days before the
millenium."18
Yet
another Anabaptist version of conciliar thought, exemplified by Baithasar Hubmaier
who taught at Nicolsburg in Moravia in 1527, was that individual local churches
may indeed err, but the universal church could not. Therefore he was ready to
submit to a truly universal council where the Spirit of God, which moved freely
in each redeemed person, could offset by its dynamic presence the partiality of
fleshly wills.
Finally,
we might note the principle of the Sitzerrecht or Lex Sedentium— the
belief much discussed among Anabaptists that the local community of the
faithful Christians would be inspired by the Holy Spirit when together its
members sought a common understanding of passages from Scripture.19
Interest in this approach to inspired interpretation of Scripture remained
alive in Anabaptist circles over the years.
We have
concentrated on Anabaptist traditions precisely because this is probably the
safest way to avoid being caught in a morass. The imme‑
diate origin of Quaker beliefs and practices has
been argued with much
vigor and little
satisfaction for generations. It is difficult to determine these origins just
because there are so many plausible candidates! Among
the
sects abounding in Britain just prior to Fox's time, a large number
reveal one or the other of the doctrines that
would appear in Quakerism. In general, what these sects have in common is that
they appealed to the
50 percent of the populace who could be labelled
masterless men and that they shared at least some Anabaptist roots, enough at
least so that the no‑
tion of divine inspiration
of the united community would be part of their religious world. In discussing
each group, we will emphasize the doctrines strongly affirmed by them which
were to become mainstays of Quaker belief.
Possible Anabaptist Channels
to Quaker Origins
Early Mystics
Quaker historians
have traced the list of the sixteenth century Anabaptist mystics who already
proclaimed the characteristic Quaker belief in direct inner communion of man
with God and used such "Quaker" terms as the Inward Light, Inward
Word, and Divine Seed° But they can allege no direct link between these writers
and George Fox. For example, William Braithwaite writes: "George Fox was
not a reader of books other than the Bible, nor a student of movements, and he
reveals in his writings very slight direct acquaintance with the formative
literature of mystical religion. This is true also of Dewsbury, Nayler, Howgil,
Burrough, and other early makers of Quakerism. 1121
Although
Rufus M. Jones has difficulty finding much evidence of direct influence in the
writings of these earliest Friends, it remains true that Judge Hotham, George
Fox's protector, wrote a life of Boehme. Hotham's brother Charles, also an
acquaintance of Fox, was Boehme's translator.
The Familists
A
second candidate for an Anabaptist channel to the Quakers is Henry Nicholas's
Family of Love or Familists. This group came to England late in the first half
of the sixteenth century and sprang momentarily into prominence again during
the Commonwealth. The community believed in an Inner Light and held strongly
that, contrary to Calvin and Luther, inner perfection could be attained by
every man. In addition to these central "Quaker" tenets, the
Familists foreshadowed Quakers in such particulars as their refusal to take
oaths, opposition to war and capital punishment, dislike of ceremonious
worship, preference for simple speaking, and marriage without an officiating
minister. Yet the Familists did practice water baptism and had a hierarchy of
rulers. Their exact mode of worship remains in doubt2
Although
many early Quaker recruits did in fact come from Familist backgrounds and some
unusual Familist doctrines (for example, the celestial flesh of Christ) appear
in the second generation of Quaker writing,
most of the beliefs Familists shared with Quakers
were also shared with General Baptists or with Seekers. There is no evidence
that George Fox had contact with Familists in the days of his own spiritual
searching but plenty of indication that his early spiritual homes were among
Baptists and Seekers. Church historian George Huntston Williams is certainly
right when he comments that morphologically the English Familists
represent a transitional stage between evangelical Anabaptism and the
completely nonsacramental Spiritualism of Quakerism." He may be overstating
his case, however, when he adds that "to a certain extent genetically"
the Familists led into Quakerism. William Braithwaite's observation that any
clear channel of Familist influence on Fox is "not yet discovered"
remains as true today as when Braithwaite wrote in 1912.23
The Seekers
A third
approach to Quaker genesis is that mysterious collection of silent worshippers
known as Seekers. Holding that no true Church existed in their age of
apostacy, they gathered to worship in silence and awaited new revelation. They
refused even the Anabaptist sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist until such
time as worthy ministers—men of apostolic calibre—should appear. There is
indication that some Seekers eventually doubted that the sacraments would be
needed even should the apostolic age be restored. Like other independent sects,
the Seekers opposed labelling the days of the week and months of the year by
their common names since these commemorated pagan deities. This, too, would
eventually be a Quaker testimony.
Further evidence of Seeker influence upon Quakers
is that the early name Friends took on themselves was Children of the Light, a
name in vogue among Seekers. Since George Fox spent much time among Seekers in
the period just before the foundation of Quakerism and gathered so many
converts from Seekers, it is not hard to see why Rufus Jones concludes that
Quaker worship procedures "apparently came from the societies of
Seekers—in the northern counties of England:' Arnold Lloyd goes further and
suggests that the probable source of the Quaker decision making process was
also a Seeker practice, although he provides no substantiation ?4
(General) Baptists,
Especially John Smyth
It is important to notice, however, that the
situation may not be as straightforward as it appears to be. The peculiar
title, Children of the Light, was not just a Seeker phrase; it also was in use
among Continental
124
Anabaptists. Thomas Edwards,
in his 1646 handbook of heresies, Gangraena, informed his readers that
in the years just after 1640, the "Seekers greatly increased, Independent
Baptists leaving their congregations; not only the people, but the
ministers:" Writing in the same year, Baillie affirmed that Spilsby, a
Baptist leader, "acknowledges, that many Baptists become Seekers. "125
Although it would appear that the misty origins of Seekerism were native
English, not Continental Baptist, by Fox's day the line between Baptist and
Seeker may have been very easy to cross. Both Seekers and Baptists held the
same doctrines, with the difference that Baptists practiced baptism and the
Lord's Supper, Seekers did without them at least until worthy apostles might be
raised up by God.
Such
similarities between the two sects explains why Fox found the soil so fertile
in both communities. His Journal records him preaching in 1647 and 1648
at various Baptist meetings. In 1649, he had a "loving" religious
discussion with the celebrated Baptist preacher Samuel Oates and others.
Steeplehouse—Fox's standard epithet for a church building—was not his own
invention but the common usage among Baptists prior to Fox. Appropriately,
William Braithwaite sees in the "broken" Baptist community at
Nottinghamshire which Fox encountered in 1647-48 "the channel along which
many of the Baptist influences which affected Quakerism probably came. "26
Rufus Jones urges that this same encounter "first supplied George Fox with
congenial religious fellowship and, under his leadership, developed into the
earliest Quaker congregation?7 In support of this view one can cite
such early sources as Ephraim Pagitt, Fox's contemporary, who wrote "the
Quaker is an upstart branch of the Anabaptists. 1128
It
would be good to underscore here that the (Ana)Baptists to which we have been
referring are the group known in England as General Baptists. They held the
Arminian notion that salvation was open to all men; opposing this view were the
Particular Baptists who maintained a true Calvinist notion of predestination:
only a few among earth's denizens were numbered among God's elect.
Nottinghamshire, where Fox made his first convert and formed his first
community, was the location of one of the two original communities of English
General Baptists, and the neighborhood was heavily blessed with Baptist
communities which owed their origins to the Baptist church founded by John
Smyth two generations previously or to churches in communion with Smyth's
group?9
John Smyth's Baptists are especially interesting.
They began in England, but persecution forced Smyth to lead part of the
community
125
from Gainsborough to
Amsterdam in 1607. His community, feeling very close in belief to Amsterdam's
Waterlander Mennonite Church, united with the Mennonites in 1615, although
maintaining separate services until 1639. This allegiance with the Mennonites
reinforced Smyth's own theological growth. A strongly spiritualist dimension of
the Waterlanders included disenchantment with prepared preaching baptism and
communion in favor of silent meditation together. Smyth's writings reveal the
language one would later find in Fox, that action was to be taken "for the
cleering of the truth" and "that the truth wee walk in may be
manifested' Worship was apparently to include much silence, spontaneous
speaking by any member when moved by the Spirit, the exclusion of
preestablished forms of worship such as reciting memorized prayers or even
reading Scripture as part of the service. Thus:
The Spirit is quenched by
silence when fit matter is revealed to one that sitteth by and he withholdeth
it in tyme of prophesying; the Spirit is quenched by sett formes of worship,
for therein the spirit is not at liberty to utter it self, but is bounded in.
. .; Saying set formes of worship by rote is quenching the Spirit; &
Reading sett formes or worship out of a book is quenching the Spirit; for in
the one the Spirit is not manifested but the strength of the memory, in the
other the matter is not brought out of the hart, but out of the book; & so
in neyther of them the Spirit is at liberty
The resemblance to a Quaker
meeting for worship is manifest.
Even
the mode of dealing with those who erred in their participation in the worship was
similar. In 1608 Smyth said, "If any thing doubtful or false be
delivered in tyme of spirituall worship it is to be examyned & censured
afterwards."30 Fox would write in 1659 "that no Friends
judge one another in meetings; but if any be moved to speak [to such,] to do it
after meeting in private."31
Smyth,
the father of English General Baptists, and his flock opposed going to law
against other members, opposed the taking of oaths, found the morality of war
dubious at best, urged the priority of the inward inspiration of God over the
outward scripture, and allowed that if any believed in Christ's "celestial
flesh," Smyth would not "refuse brotherhood with him.1132
This position by Smyth weakens considerably George Huntston Williams's argument
that the source of the spiritual flesh theology of Robert Barclay and George
Keith had to be the English Familists.33 In all these positions,
Smyth foreshadowed characteristic Quaker notions.
Even the idea that women
should be allowed to preach—a basic tenet
126
of Fox34—seems to
have started in the Baptist churches of Holland. It reached American Baptists
by 1636 and English Baptists by 1641
As far
as governance was concerned, Anabaptists generally believed in discipline
imposed by the community, for the community was a school where Christ was the
Master. In theory, at least, the Anabaptist pastors and other leaders were not
so powerful as officials of the magisterial reformation churches. Smyth added
a dimension, again important for Quakerism, that the hierarchical arrangement
of officers found among Presbyterians and other Amsterdam Baptists was dropped.
Instead, there were simply two kinds of officers: pastors—who could perform such
functions as teaching or governing—and deacons who worried about the practical
details of the church.
This
elimination of hierarchy among spiritual leaders had the practical effect of
giving the congregation (which elected them) true authority over its elders in
a way that had not been possible under a hierarchical structure ?6
English
Baptist communities added a variant to Smyth's two-level structure. Ministers
were not entrusted with the guidance of a single community but travelled
constantly. In practice, this seems to have diminished the authority of
ministers in local matters and enhanced the local deacons.
The
earliest Quaker communities of which we have clear record—those formed from
Westmoreland Seekers in 1652 and 1653—seem to have adopted the Baptist pattern.
Friends whose talent for preaching was singular were recognized and encouraged
to travel among the communities as unordained ministers; each local community
was governed by its own elders (overseers)7
Finally,
Barclay cites a tantalizing letter describing the business meeting as conducted
in Smyth's congregation. We learn that, although all those present "had
free liberty of voting decisively, and of debate;' yet "nothing must go by
number or plurality of voices, and there must be no moderator, or
prolocutor, for the order of their action. 1138 It would appear that
a meeting which proceeds without totalling the number of votes or seeking
pluralities is, in essence, following the Quaker procedure sketched in the
quotation at the head of this chapter. We may have in Smyth's practice
the genesis of Quaker decision making.
It
would be a great relief, of course, if we would now provide some document
enlarging on Smyth's decision making procedure, showing that it continued to be
in vogue among the General Baptists Fox met in 1647-48 or the Seekers in 1652,
and that Fox, recognizing its appropriateness,
127
adopted it. No such magic
document has been discovered. We are left with the possibility that Smyth's
procedure did influence Fox. To be sure, the channel of influence could have
been either the obvious one—through the Baptist communities Fox met—or the less
expected route—through the Seeker communities with their large membership of
former Baptists.
Uncertain
as we are about the method of transmission, we, can be more confident in
claiming that, at a minimum, Smyth's congregation was the principal medium
through which Continental Anabaptism was transferred into England. Part and
parcel of that Anabaptism was the belief in divine guidance of communities
seeking God's will together. George Fox and his early followers read little
other than their Bibles. Their doctrine came from beliefs that were in the air
and in the various religious communities which they visited. As Agnes Tierney
wrote, "Indeed, there was hardly a truth in the message of Fox that hadn't
been held by some sect either in England or on the Continent:'39 But
Fox "discovered" the truths he was to preach through the gradual
religious insights reported in his Journal. If today's scholar can
suggest possible sources for Fox's idea, there is no way to go beyond that and
certify the particular genesis of each of those ideas.
Rufus Jones is helpful on
this point:
It may be taken for granted,
I think, that Fox was unaware of his immense debt to the contemporary movements
and spiritual interpreters. The ideas and central truths which burst into his
consciousness as "openings;' "insights;' and "incursions"
were in the air. They were in books and were being preached in closets, if not
from house tops, but they were not real to Fox, and did not move him to action
until they surged up in him and were born of his flesh and blood.. . .
He did not originate the ideas which his movement incarnated, but he personally
discovered them, identified himself with them, poured his life through them. . .
A Divinely-Inspired Army:
The Putney Debates
As a
final illustration of the extent to which divine guarantees of decision making
were expected in the England of 1647, let us look at the advice offered by
Oliver Cromwell at points of disagreement during the Putney debates of his
Council of the Army.
The
participants in these debates included State Church Presbyterians, Independent
Congregationalists who shared much Presbyterian theology but advocated
toleration of all sects, and sectaries with Anabaptist and other separatist
allegiances who also sought toleration.
Cromwell
first proposed that a committee be formed of spokesmen for all viewpoints to
compare ideas "that we may understand really, as before God, the bottom of
our desires, and that we may seek God together, and see if God will give us an
uniting spirit:' He urged that they agree to this procedure, for "I doubt
not but, if in sincerity we are willing to submit to that light that God shall
cast in among us, God will unite us, and make us of one heart and one mind:'
Later
the same day in 1647, Cromwell returned to the point. The group should adjourn
"to seek the guidance of God, and to recover that presence of God that
seems to withdraw from us." The differing parties would gather again the
next afternoon "to see what God will direct you to say to us, that whilst
we are going one way, and you another, we be not both destroyed. This required
[guidance from the] Spirit:'
A few
days later, Cromwell opened the final Putney session by suggesting "that
everyone might speak their experiences as the issue of what God had given, in
answer to their prayers:' After many had spoken, he remarked:
Truly we have heard speaking
to us; and I cannot but think that in many of those things God hath spoke to
us. I cannot but think that in most that have spoke there hath been something
of God laid forth to us; and yet there have been several contradictions in what
hath been spoken. But certainly God is not the author of contradictions.
He
concluded his remarks with his own criteria for spiritual discernment.
I think that this law and
this [word] speaking [within us], which truly is in every man who hath the
Spirit of God, we are to have a regard to. And this to me seems to be very
clear, how we are to judge of the apprehension of men [as] to particular
cases, whether it be of God or no. When it doth not carry its evidence with it,
of the power of God to convince us clearly, our best way is to judge the
conformity or disformity of [it with] the law written within us, which is the
law of the Spirit of God, the mind of God, the mind of Christ.. . . I do not
know any outward evidence of what proceeds from the Spirit of God more clear
than this, the appearance of meekness and gentleness and mercy and patience and
forbearance and love, and a desire to do good to all, and to destroy none that
can be saved1
Indeed,
reliance on the Spirit for major decision making was in the air. Notice,
however, that Cromwell's procedure, although it seeks unity, does not require
it prior to taking action. Note, too, that Cromwell cannot simply state, as
would George Fox, that there is something of God speaking in every man; for
Cromwell, one should only listen to "every man who hath the Spirit'—which
is a more appropriately Calvinist turn of phrase
consistent with nonuniversal
predestination.
The criteria Cromwell offered for testing whether
an utterance was from God or not were highly vague: one judges the
"conformity or disfor-mity" of the utterance with "the law
written within us:' Then Cromwell quickly employed the gentle style of
speech as further gauge of whether the speech was true—a weak test indeed,
since one's style of speech can be mere affectation. As is noted in Part One of
this book, this ambiguity also plagued Fox and his coworkers.
Appendix
B A Quaker Glossary
Attender: Someone
who participates in Quaker worship but who has not yet sought and gained membership
in the meeting.
Centered: Condition of an individual or group in touch with
the divine presence.
Covered Meeting: Condition found in a worshiping group when an awareness and presence of
God is felt in its midst.
Clearness: Confidence that an action is consistent with the
divine will. Convinced Friend: A person who has been converted to
Quakerism.
Disorderly Walkers: Quakers whose conduct is contrary to the community's ethical standards.
Disownment: Excommunication; loss of membership in the
monthly meeting. First Day: Sunday.
First Publishers of Truth (Valiant Sixty): A group of sixty itinerant preachers who, with
George Fox, were the initial preachers of the Quaker gospel. Twelve of these
First Publishers were women.
Gathered Meeting: see Covered Meeting.
In the Lift: An insight or decision reached under the
influence of God. Inner Light: The presence of Christ (that of God) in
every person. Leadings: The sense of divine guidance or revelation in
any action.
Meeting House: The Quaker equivalent of a church building. The term is intended to be
suggestive of simplicity.
Meeting for Business: A gathering of Friends for the purpose of making business decisions.
Meeting for Sufferings: A body selected to do the work of London Yearly Meeting when the latter is
not in session.
Meeting for Worship: A gathering of Friends for the purpose of worship.
Minute: A summary
statement of an agreement reached in a meeting for business.
Monthly Meeting: A local community of Friends (akin to a parish) in which membership resides.
So named because, by custom, the community meets once a month to conduct a
meeting for business.
Opening: see Leading.
Quarterly Meeting: A regional unit, comprised of two or more monthly meetings, which meets on
a quarterly basis to conduct a meeting for business.
Representative Meeting: A body selected to do the work of a yearly meeting when the latter is not
in session; the American equivalent of London Yearly Meeting's Meeting for
Sufferings.
Sense of the Meeting: The harmony (union, unity) reached by participants in a business meeting.
Truth: A
synonym for Christ or the divine guide; the complex of Quaker ethical
traditions; the Quaker gospel.
Valiant Sixty: see First Publishers of Truth.
Yearly Meeting: An annual gathering for worship and business open to members of all
monthly meetings within a large region. This body is akin to a diocese in other
Christian communities, but with advisory rather than determinative authority
over smaller units. A yearly meeting may have a staff which provides services
to monthly and quarterly meetings, represents the yearly meeting to the general
public, and carries on the projects initiated by the annual meeting.
Yearly Meeting Friends: Quakers known for involvement at the yearly meeting level.
====
Notes
Part I
Chapter I
1. Rufus M. Jones, Mysticism and Democracy (Cambridge,
Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1932), p. 56.
2. George Fox, The Journal of George Fox, ed.
John L. Nickalls (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1952), p.
56.
3. William C. Braithwaite, The Beginnings of
Quakerism (London: Macmillan, 1912), p. 426. Christopher Hill, The
World Turned Upside Down (New York: Viking, 1973), pp. 33-34,
163.
4. Fox, Journal, p. 263.
5. Abram R. Barclay, Letters of Early Friends (London:
Harvey and Darton, 1841), pp. 310, 297. Burrough says he came to
London nine years previous (1653) and that the Meeting was established two
years later [Cf. William C. Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance in Quaker
Experience (London: Swarthmore Press, 1909) p. 64]. Braithwaite
claims the summer of 1656 for the establishment of the meeting in his The
Beginnings of Quakerism p. 320. Arnold Lloyd suggests 1652, but
with no documentation in his Quaker Social History, (New York: Longmans,
1950).
6. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
298.
7. Ibid., p. 305.
8. Ibid.
9. Quaker Strongholds (n.p., 1891), pp. 11-13, cited in
London Yearly Meeting, Christian Faith and Practice in the Experience of the
Society of Friends (Richmond, Indiana: Friends United Press, 1973), par.
80.
10.Robert Barclay, Barclay's Apology in Modern
English, ed. Dean Freiday
(Philadelphia: Friends Book Store, 1967), proposition 2, sec. 7, pp.
357, 355-356. In order to clarify Barclay's argument, we use Freiday's
excellent edition whenever possible. Propositions and sections are indicated
for the benefit of a reader using some other edition.
1. Fox, Journal, p. 145; see also pp. 179,
218, 224, 225.
Rufus
M. Jones, New Studies in Mystical Religion (New York: Macmillan, 1927), p.
170. Rufus M. Jones, Quakerism, A Spiritual Movement (Philadelphia:
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, 1963), p. 87.
Howard
H. Brinton, Friends for 300 Years (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1952),
pp. xiii, p. 63.
14. Quaker Fundamentals, p. 6, quoted in Henry Van Etten, George Fox and
the Quakers (New York: Harper Torchbooks, 1959), p. 164.
15. Robert Barclay, Apology, proposition 2,
sec. 7, p. 356. Italics in original.
14. Richard T. Vann, The Social Development of
English Quakerism 1655-1755 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1969) pp.
112413. The words in the second set of quotation marks are taken from the
minutes themselves.
London Yearly Meeting, Christian Life, Faith and Thought in the Society of
Friends (London: Friends Book
Centre, 1943). The quoted material from Besse's Sufferings (n.p. 1753),
vol. 2, pp. 201-202, was written in jail eight days prior to the
execution.
17. Fox, Journal, p. 27. Cf. Fox's
similar responses to a court in 1652 on p. 135.
18. Ibid., p. 27.
19. Hill, The World Turned, pp.
190-191, 47, 60, 163, 22.
20. London Yearly Meeting, Christian Life, p.
15.
21. Hill, World Turned, p. 200.
22. B. Nicholson, A Blast from the Lord (1653)
quoted by J. F. Maclear, "Quakerism and the End of the Interregnum," Church
History 19:245.
23. Francis Howgill, A Woe to Magistrates (1654)
quoted by Hill, World Turned, p. 196.
24. James Nayler, Wisdom from Beneath (1653)
quoted by Hill, World Turned, p. 196.
25. George Fox and James Nayler, Several Papers (1654),
p. 23; quoted by Hill, World Turned, p. 199.
26. Abram R. Barclay, Letters of Early Friends (London:
Harvey and Darton, 1841), p. 311. Fox is writing in 1689. The term,
"monthly meeting;' which refers to the special session for business held
each month by local Quaker communities, may be loose usage here as the
tradition of meeting monthly for business sessions may not have emerged in many
districts before Fox's 1654 campaign. Van Etten, for example, flatly asserts,
"There was no such thing as a form of organization among the children of
the Light, Fox's first followers:' (Van Etten, George Fox, pp.
77-78.) Robert Barclay, the historian, seems to claim that there were no such
sessions prior to 1652 at Sedberg. (Robert Barclay, The Inner Life of the
Religious Societies of the Commonwealth, 3rd ed. (London: Hodden and
Stoughton, 1879), p. 351.
27. Fox, Journal, pp. 107-109,
22-23.
28. Swarthmore MSS, 3, 19, cited in Arnold Lloyd, Quaker
Social History, (New York: Longmans, 1950), p. 2. Boswell
Middleton MS., p. 26; cited in Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p.
1.
29. Portfolio 36, p. 19, cited in Lloyd, Quaker
Social History, p. 2.
30. Vann, The Social Development, p.
138. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p. 298. Cf. Van Etten, George
Fox, p. 77.
31. Fox, Journal, p. 215.
32. Harold Loukes urges that such
"settling" probably meant establishing monthly meetings. The
Discovery of Quakerism (London: Harrop, 1960) p. 63. Cf. Fox, Journal,
p. 174.
33. William Wistar Comfort, William Penn's
Religious Background (Ambler, Pennsylvania: Upper Dublin United Monthly
Meeting, 1944), p. 12.
34. G. M. Trevelyan, English Social History, p.
267, cited by Taylor, Valiant Sixty, pp. 74-75.
35. Fox, Journal, p. 280.
36. Ibid., pp. 280-281.
37. Ibid., pp. 281-285.
38. William C. Braithwaite, The Beginnings, pp. 338-339.
39. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
284. Cf. Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p. 21.
40. Hill, World Turned, p. 279.
41. John Audland, The Innocent Delivered Out of
the Snare (n.p. 1658), p. 33, cited in Hill, World Turned, p.
196.
42. J. A. Atkinson, ed., Tracts Relating to the
Civil War in Cheshire (1641-1659) (n.p.: Chetham Society, 1909), p.
186, cited in Hill, World Turned, p. 280. Cf. p. 199 and Cf.
Hugh Barbour, The Quakers in Puritan England (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1964), pp. 199-206.
43. A. L. Morton, The World of the Ranters (London:
Lawrence and Wishart, 1970), pp.. 18-19.
44. Hill, World Turned, pp. 203,
283.
45. Twenty-one Quakers died from persecution before
April 1659; over three hundred died during the Restoration period. See
Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 465.
46. Fox, Journal, p. 398.
Braithwaite suggests the number 4,230 in The Second Period of Quakerism (London:
Macmillan, 1919), p. 9.
47. Fox, Journal, p. 399.
48. Hill, World Turned, p. 194.
49. Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
13.
14. Max Weber, From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, eds. H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1958).
19. Fox, Journal, pp. 285n, 372, See
Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 338.
14. Reliquiae Baxterianae, vol. 1, pp. 436-437, cited in Hill, World
Turned, p. 168. Cf. Brinton, Friends, p. 158.
21. Loukes treats the controversy as
"quaint" in Discovery, p. 63; Van Etten calls it
"quite unimportant" in George Fox, p. 76; even Fox's principal
contemporary defender admits to his own initial prejudice against Fox. Kenneth
E. Carroll, John Perrot: Early Quaker Schismatic (London: Friends
Historical Society, 1971), p. vii. Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 275.
22. Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 233.
23. Fox, Journal, p. 268.
24. Epistles and Advices of George Fox to Birmingham
Friends (n.p. 1681), cited in Lloyd,
Quaker Social History, pp. 178-179. See Braithwaite, Second Period, p 242.
25. John Bolton, Judas and His Treachery (London:
n.p., 1670), pp. 1849, cited in Carroll, Perrot, p. 61.
26. John Perrot, To All Simple, Honest-Intending and
Innocent People (London:
n.p., 1664), p. 6, cited in Carroll, Perrot, p.
78.
27. Carroll, Perrot, pp. 57-58, 55, 75, 60,
50. See Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 237.
28. Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
244.
29. Carroll, Perrot, pp. 64, 65.
See Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 235.
30. George Fox, The Spirit of Envy, Lying, and
Persecution Made Manifest (London: n.p., 1664), p. 13, quoted in
Carroll, Perrot, p. 65.
31. Carroll, Perrot, p. 77. See
Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 240.
Part I
Chapter II
1.Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
321. Carroll. Perrot, pp. 82, 91. See Lloyd, Quaker Social
History, p. 24.
2.Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
248.
3.Brinton, Friends, p. 101.
4.Kenneth Carroll lists twenty-one of the leading
supporters of Perrot in a catalog he describes as a "Quaker Who's Who:'
See Carroll, Perrot, pp. 87-89, 91.
5.Fox, Journal, pp. 510-511,
505-507, 510. It would appear that, in some areas, custom had changed during
the persecution to holding meeting for business only quarterly. See Brathwaite,
Second Period, p. 251.
6.Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
276.
7.Fox, Journal, p. 511. See Carroll,
Perrot, pp. 92-94.
8.Brinton, Friends, p. 101. See Vann, Social Development, p. 91.
1. Fox, Journal, p. xlvii. Edited
by John L. Nickalls (London Yearling Meeting).
Swarthmore Collection, vol. 5, p. 9,
quoted in Braithmore, Second Period, p. 280.
Fox, Journal, p. 20-21, 14.
Karl Rahner and Herbert Vorgrimler, Theological
Dictionary (New York: Seabury Press, 1965), p. 72.
4.Fox, Journal, p. 35.
1. Braithwaite, Beginnings, p.
26.
6.William Allen, The Danger of Enthusiasm
Discovered in an Epistle to the Quakers (London: Barbazon Aylmer, 1674), p. 12.
1. Ibid, p. 96.
Van Etten, George Fox, p. 14.
George Fox and Thomas Lawrence, Concerning
Marriage (n.p., 1663), p. 10, cited in J. William Frost, The
Quaker Family in Colonial America (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1973), p.
20.
8.Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance, p. 51.
9.Hill, World Turned, p. 225. He
went through the streets crying, "Woe unto the bloody Lichfield." See
Fox, Journal, p. 71.
10. Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance, pp.
40-41, 55.
11. For discussions of the dilemma, consult
Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 250 and Braithwaite, Beginnings,
p. 109.
23 Braithwaite, Beginnings, p.
147.
24. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, pp.
358, 355-356.
25. Barbour, Quakers in Puritan England, p.
119.
26. Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance, p. 57.
24. Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 150. See
Roland H. Bainton, The Travail of Religious Liberty (Philadelphia:
Westminster Press, 1951), p. 128.
Vernon
Noble, The Man in Leather Breeches (New York: Philosophical Library,
1953), p. 79.
Braithwaite,
Second Period, p. 339. Christopher Hill, a non-Quaker student
of the period, reassures us that, when Quakers "went naked for a sign;'
they wore "only a loincloth about their middles for decency:'
Unfortunately, Hill does not document his assertion. See Hill, World Turned,
p. 256.
Bainton,
Travail, p. 128.
For
examples, the reader might well skim I Corinthians and II Corinthians.
Frost, Quaker
Family, p. 24; see Genesis. 6:1-4, 24:4, 26:35.
Ibid, p.
34, 40, 33.
27. Gospel-Truth, pp. 131, 138, quoted in Hill, World Turned, pp.
212-213.
24. Robert Barclay, Apology, proposition 3,
sec. 7, p. 62. Italics in original.
Carroll,
Perrot, p. 85. See Frost. Quaker Family, p. 25.
ARBARC./73,
Warmsworth, Oct. 13, 1659, cited in Barbour, Quakers in Puritan England, p.
120.
Robert
Barclay, The Anarchy of the Ranters (Philadelphia: Joseph Crukshank,
1770), p. 72. Brinton, Friends, p. 49. Galatians, 5:22.
Abram R. Barclay, Letters, pp. 336, 341, 403-404. Henry Cadbury, George
Fox's Book of Miracles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912), pp.
112414.
Robert
Barclay, Apology, proposition 2, sec. 12, p. 370, sec. 10, p. 366.
Italics.
Fox, Journal,
p. xliii.
Frost, Quaker
Family, p. 13. For Braithwaite's confirming judgment, see Spiritual
Guidance, p. 52.
Jacques
Guillet et al., Discernment of Spirits (Collegeville, Minnesota:
Liturgical Press, 1970).
Ignatius
Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises, trans. Louis J. Puhl, S. J.
(Westminster, Maryland:
Newman Press, 1951), nos. 176, 313-336, 170.
44. John Carroll Futrell, Making an Apostolic
Community of Love (St. Louis, Missouri: Institute of Jesuit Sources, 1970), PP.
193494.
45. Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance, p.
66; See Van Etten, George Fox, p. 77.
44. The Spirit of the Hat (n.p., 1673), cited in Braithwaite, Second
Period, pp. 292, 293.
47. Braithwaite, Second Period, pp.
294, 297-298.
48. "Meetings for Discipline" in MS
"Books of Extracts;' quoted in Ibid., p. 348.
44. Yearly Meeting Printed Epistles, vol. 1 (1681-1769), pp. li-lvi, printed in Ibid.,
p. 309.
49. MS "Christian and Brotherly Advices;' p.
105, cited in Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p. 28.
50. MS. "Minutes of the Yearly Meeting;' vol. 1,
p. 66, quoted in Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p. 28.
51. Works, p. 238, cited in Braithwaite, Second
Period, p. 340.
52. Lloyd, Quaker Social History, pp. 26, 27.
53. Robert Barclay, Anarchy, pp. 84-89, 98,
102, 105, 109.
54. Allen, Danger, p. 91.
55. Robert Barclay, Anarchy, p. 91, 24-25.
56. Ibid. pp. 58-64, 21, 65-68, 74.
44. Thomas Crisp, The First Part of Babel's Builders
Unmasking Themselves (1682), cited in Braithwaite, Second Period, p. 349.
51. Yearly Meeting Minutes, 17.iii.1695 and George
Keith, The Plea of the Innocent (n.p., 1692); both cited in Lloyd, Quaker
Social History, p. 137.
52. Braithwaite, Second Period, pp. xxxi, 386.
53. Ibid, p. xli. Jones divides the blame
somewhat: Continental Quietism later reinforces the damage Barclay does. See
Jones, Spiritual Movement, p. 156.
54. Braithwaite, Second Period, p. xxxvi, xlv,
xxxv.
55. Braithwaite, Second Period, p. xliv. See
Jones, Spiritual Movement, pp. 158-159.
44. Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p. 123.
53. Robert Barclay, Apology, proposition 4,
sec. 4, p. 94; proposition 6, sec. 24,
p. 176 and proposition 5,
sec. 21, p. 162; proposition 11, pp. 348-409 passim.
54. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
219.
55. Fox and Lawrence, Concerning Marriage, p.
12, cited in Frost, Quaker Family
p. 14.
55. Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
383.
56. Fox, Journal, p. 27. See
Braithwaite, Spiritual Guidance, p. 35.
57. Dean Freiday, "Not a Steeple, a Steeple, a
Steeple," Friends' Quarterly, 18 (October 1974): 380-381.
58. Lloyd, Quaker Social History, p. 123.
59. Minutes of Yearly Meeting, vol. 1, 4th, 4th mo.,
1675, cited in N.C. Hunt, Two Early Political Associations (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1961), p. 3.
60. Minutes of Meeting for Sufferings, vol. 1, 18th,
8th mo., 1675, cited in Ibid., p. 3.
61. Ibid., p. 26, Cf. pp. 4,
7-10, 12, 15.
62. Ibid., chaps. 3-6.
63. Matthew 5:34. Minutes of Meeting for Sufferings,
vol. 10, 12th, 12th mo., 1695/6, cited in Ibid, p. 50.
64. Minutes of Meeting for Sufferings, vol. 21, 4th,
3rd mo., 1715, cited in Ibid., p. 52.
65. Ibid., p. 53.
66. Minutes of Meeting for Sufferings, vol. 26, 17th,
1st mo., 1735/6, cited in Ibid., p. 90.
67. Braithwaite, Second Period, p.
516.
68. Ibid.
69. Paul R. Lawrence and Jay W. Lorsch, Organization
and Environment (Boston: Harvard University Press, 1967), p.
209. See p. 185.
70. Ibid., pp. 192-193.
71. Ibid., p. 194.
72. For the early history of Quakerism in the
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting area, the reader might consult Friends in the
Delaware Valley, ed. John M. Moore (Haver-ford, Pennsylvania: Friends
Historical Association, 1981).
Part II
Chapter I
1.London Yearly Meeting, Christian Faith and
Practice in the Experience of the Society of Friends (Richmond, Indiana:
Friends United Press, 1973), frontispiece. Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, Faith
and Practice (Philadelphia: Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, 1972),
frontispiece.
2.Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, Faith and
Practice, 1972, pp. 17-18.
3.London Yearly Meeting, Christian Faith and
Practice, 1960, par. 353.
4.James F. Walker, "The Quaker Meeting for
Business;' Pendle Hill Bulletin 190 (April 1967):1-3. Cf. London Yearly
Meeting, Church Government (London: Friends Book Centre, 1968), par.
716.
5.Thomas S. Brown, When Friends Attend to
Business (Philadelphia: Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, n.d.), unpaginated.
Cf. Douglas V. Steere, "The Quaker Decisionmaking Process;' paper
presented to Guilford College faculty, 12 February, 1975.
6.Steere, "Quaker Decisionmaking Process;' p.
3. Cf. London Yearly Meeting, Church Government, par. 715.
7.D. Elton Trueblood, "The Quaker Method of
Reaching Decisions;' in Beyond Dilemmas, ed. S. B. Laughlin (New York:
Lippincott, 1937), pp. 122-123.
8.Burton R. Clark, The Distinctive College:
Antioch, Reed, and Swarthmore (Chicago, Aldine, 1970), p. 214.
7. Stuart Chase, Roads to Agreement (New
York: Harper, 1951) pp. 51-52.
Part II
Chapter II
1.Trueblood, "Quaker Method;' p.
123.
2.Chase, Roads, p. 49. See London
Yearly Meeting, Church Government, par.
7201.
1. Margaret H. Bacon, The
Quiet Rebels (New York: Basic Books, 1969), p. 174.
Glenn
Bartoo, "Quaker Decisions;' (Masters Dissertation, University of Chicago,
1952), p. 101.
To
protect confidentiality, all quotations from interviews will appear in
quotation marks, but without attribution.
3.Clark, Distinctive College, p. 173.
1. Representative Meeting, 24th, 4th mo. 1975.
Francis
Pollard, Beatrice Pollard, and Robert Pollard, Democracy and the Quaker
Method (London: Bannisdale Press, 1949), p. 62.
Brown, When
Friends, unpaginated.
Walker,
"Quaker Meeting for Business;' unpaginated.
London
Yearly Meeting, Christian Faith and Practice, par. 353.
5.Howard Haines Brinton, Reaching Decisions: The
Quaker Method (Wallingford,
Pa.: Pendle Hill, n.d.), p. 17.
1. Representative Meeting, 27th, 2nd mo., 1975.
Howard
H. Brinton, Creative Worship (Wallingford, Pa.: Pendle Hill, 1963), pp.
93-94. Cf. Pollard, Democracy, p. 52. For remnants of that earlier
atmosphere, see Bacon, Quiet Rebels, pp. 203-205.
Part II
Chapter III
1.Cf. Bartoo, "Quaker Decisions;' pp.
113, 114.
2.AR Barc.173, Warmsworth, October 13, 1659, cited
in Barbour, Quakers in Puritan England, p. 120. See I. Milton
Yinger, The Scientific Study of Religion (New York: Macmillan, 1970), p.
104.
3.Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
305. Much earlier, Nicholas of Cusa had singled out that the Holy Spirit,
"who is the spirit of union and concord" led church councils to
agreement without dissent. De Concordantia Catholica, 2.15.170. Cf. Paul
F. Sigmund, Nicholas of Cusa and Medieval Political Thought (Cambridge,
Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1963), p. 227.
4.Oxford English Dictionary, 1971, ed., s.v.,
"concordance." Steere, "Quaker Decisionmaking;' p. 4.
5.Bartoo, "Quaker Decisions;' p.
67.
6.G. Von Schulze Gaevernitz, Democracy and
Religion (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1930), p. 24.
7.A phenomenon common in groups which operate by
voting seems to apply here as well, but with somewhat less significance. The
individual who withdraws his objection or merely remains silent on a proposal
he is known to oppose can expect that those now on the dominant side will do
the same in his favor some day when they are in the minority on an issue. They
owe him a debt for his cooperation. Thus, the individual who is weighing his
leverage over the group might accede to the majority on a series of minor
issues in order to build up enough debts to force the group to go in his
direction on some matter of great importance to him.
Our
observations lead us to conclude that such conduct goes on informally in
matters of little moment: I agree to your committee's proposal for a picnic and
I expect you to endorse my committee's proposal that the monthly meeting join
the local ministerial alliance.
Major
issues are another matter. Here Friends report that such a procedure-clearly
opposed to the principle of selflessly seeking the Truth in the alternatives
offered the group-would be most inappropriate. The decisions this writer has
observed over many sessions of the same meetings, e.g., Representative Meeting
from October 1974 to May 1975, give no reason to believe that such behavior is
at all common.
1. Philadelphia Yearly Meeting,
Sessions Six and Seven, 28th, 3rd mo., 1975.
After
his personal observations of Friends came to an end, the writer was informed
that the incident's outcomes were more significant than had appeared at first.
At the subsequent meeting to decide on allotment of the budget quota among the
monthly meetings, the objectors from the dissatisfied meeting continued their
fight. Eventually, the "slighted" meeting refused to pay its share of
the Yearly Meeting budget. One ought not think that the clerk's speed caused
this major conflict within the community. Rather, the clerk's action merely of‑
fered the occasion for
transition from an ongoing but informal conflict of philosophy to a public
dispute. The sense of "failure of due process" seems to
have contributed to the
unhappy meeting's feeling of justification in refusing to accept the decision
of the subsequent meeting called to distribute shares of the financial burden
according to each meeting's ability to pay.
1. The passage of time often mellows memories and
invites wit. One of the participants commented years later that it is amazing
how "the topic of cohabitation can make estranged bedfellows of a body of
Quakers."
Cf.
Howard H. Brinton, Guide to Quaker Practice (Wallingford, Pa.: Pendle
Hill, 1946), pp. 37-38.
Brinton,
Creative Worship, p. 91.
Part II
Chapter IV
1.Cp. Karl Rahner and Herbert Vorgrimler, Theological
Dictionary (New York: Seabury, 1973), P. 303.
2.Henry Nash Smith, Virgin Land (New York:
Vintage, 1950), p. v. 3 Rahner and Vorgrimler, Theological Dictionary, p 303
3.Stanley Ellin, "An Open Letter to All
Friends;' Friends Journal (January 1, 1976), p. 10. Cf. Henry
I. Cadbury, The Character of a Quaker (Wallingford, Pa.: Pen-die
Hill, 1959), p. 24.
4.Bartoo, "Quaker Decisions;' p.
62.
5.Blanche W. Shaffer, ed., No Time But This
Present (Birmingham: Friends World Committee for Consultation, 1965), pp.
88-89.
6.L. Hugh Doncaster, The Quaker Message; A Personal
Affirmation (Wallingford,
Pa.: Pendle Hill, 1972), p. 5.
4. See the case of the Jewish Quaker in Bacon, Quiet
Rebels, p. 207.
Shaffer,
No Time, p. 48.
Ellin,
"An Open Letter," p. 10.
7.Kathleen M. Slack, Constancy and Change in the
Society of Friends (London: Friends Home Service Committee, 1967), pp. 43-44.
4. Howard E. Collier, The Quaker Meeting (Wallingford,
Pa.: Pendle Hill, 1944), pp. 43-44.
Shaffer,
No Time, p. 83.
Bartoo,
"Quaker Decisions;' p. 63. Italics in original.
Many
allude to the Pollards' book as "worth reading along this line:' See
Pollard, Democracy, pp. 148-149 and 152-154.
9.Slack, Constancy and Change, p. 45.
4. Whether this Friend is right in discerning a
shift to "explicit faith" is unclear.
Certainly the Christocentric
approach is generally respected among today's
Friends if one uses the
prominence of Christocentric Quakers in Philadelphia
Yearly Meeting committees as
a yardstick. This researcher was struck, however, by the number of universalist
Friends who revealed little appreciation of recent developments in biblical
research and therefore were unaware of the "passe" character of the
science versus the Bible dispute. To such Friends, all Christocen-trics tend to
be lumped as benighted fundamentalists.
4. Rufus M. Jones, Later Periods of Quakerism, 2
vols. (London: Macmillan, 1921), 1:445.
Trueblood,
"Quaker Method;' p. 115.
Brinton,
Guide, p. 41.
Thomas
F. O'Dea, The Mormons (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957)
p. 86.
4. Philadelphia Friends use
"thee" for nominative as well as accusative case.
13.Trueblood, "Quaker Method;' p.
107. Rufus M. Jones, Mysticism and
142
Democracy (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University
Press, 1932), p. 32. James D. Wilson, "Quakerism and the
Democratic Process;' Quaker Life, May, 1973, p. 27.
14. The speaker distinguished lower-level groups
where the majority of participants are often not Quakers from higher more
flexible units like the Board of Directors, all of whose members are by statute
Friends. This observer noted a similar flexibility among monthly meetings and
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting committees; in most cases a turn to silent
reflection or a "delay until everybody's comfortable" produced a
tempering of individual priorities even among those Friends most heavily
committed to their own special interest.
15. Brown, When Friends, unpaginated.
16. Trueblood, "Quaker Method;' p.
113.
17. Atypical but interesting was the gentleman of
mature years who sat next to this observer during a session of 1975 Yearly
Meeting. At the clerk's call for silent reflection, my neighbor picked up the Philadelphia
Bulletin and read the comic strips until the day's business began.
18. Princeton Monthly Meeting, Meeting for Business,
4th, 5th mo., 1975.
19. Pollard, Democracy, p. 127.
20. Lewis Carroll, The Annotated Alice, ed.
Martin Gardner (New York: Clarkson N. Potter, 1960), p. 269.
21. For example, Ellin, "Open Letter:' An
attempt to reconcile the two groups is T. Canby Jones, ed., Quaker
Understanding of Christ and of Authority (Philadelphia: Friends World
Committee for Consultation, 1974).
22. Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, Session 1, 21st, 3rd
mo., 1975.
23. For example, Elias Hicks, Journal of the Life and
Religious Labours of Elias Hicks (New York: Isaac T. Hooper, 1832).
Part II
Chapter V
1.Steere, "Quaker Decisionmaking," p.
4. The reader should note Steere's use of "he or she." Women
frequently serve as clerks and are often noted for the sensitivity with which
they carry out the task.
2.The clerk of Yearly Meeting and clerk of
Representative Meeting prepare agenda with their Planning Committee and
Executive Committee respectively. In monthly meeting, the clerk consults the
overseers, sometimes in only an informal manner. In less regular meetings,
consultation is less likely.
3.London Yearly Meeting, Church Government, par.
726.
4.Bartoo, "Quaker Decisions," p. 35.
1. Brinton, Guide, p. 37.
Brinton,
Guide, p. 37.
London
Yearly Meeting, Church Government, par. 726.
Princeton
Monthly Meeting, Meeting for Business, 2nd, 2nd mo., 1975.
143
9.Douglas M. McGregor, "The Human Side of
Enterprise" in Organizational Behavior and Management, eds, Donald
E. Porter and Philip B. Applewhite. (Scranton: International Textbook Company,
1964), pp. 453 and 454.
10. Ibid., pp. 455, 459-460.
11. London Yearly Meeting, Church Government, par.
721. Cf. Robert K. Greenleaf, Servant Leadership (Ramsey, New Jersey:
Paulist Press, 1977).
12. I Cor. 12-14 and Rahner and Vorgrimler, Theological
Dictionary, p. 72.
13. Minutes of Representative Meeting for 22nd, 10th
mo., 1970: Minute 11.
14. Minutes of Representative Meeting for 3rd, 12th mo.,
1970 and Interview.
15. Friends who explicitly accept either a
Christological or a universalist understanding of the special quality of the
gathered meeting have no difficulty verbalizing their religious acceptance of a
decision made under the circumstances we describe here. Others whose
membership in Friends does not seem to include the experiential quality of
Friends worship are sometimes hard-pressed to deal with the sort of event we
are discussing. Said one, "I don't go in much for that stuff; but you sure
have to admit something odd is happening."
Conclusion
1. "Report of Representative Meeting to Clerks
of Monthly Meetings," 3rd, 2nd mo., 1977.
2. Proceedings of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, 1981
(Philadelphia: Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, 1981). [The decline continued, even
accelerating slightly, from 1980 to 1994. (1994-1995 Yearbook Philadelphia:
Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, 1994, p. 28.)
3. Calvin Wall Redekop, The Old Colony Mennonites:
Dilemmas of Ethnic Minority Lift (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1969).
1. Richard A. Falk, Future
Worlds (New York: Foreign Policy Association, 1976),
p. 7. For a sketch of how
the national viewpoints would have to be changed, see pp. 47-54.
1. Warren C. Bennis and Philip E. Slater, The
Temporary Society (New York: Harper and Row, 1968).
Roberto
Mangabeira Unger, Knowledge and Politics (New York: Free Press, 1975),
p. 19.
Ibid.,
pp. 15, 21-24.
Alfred
North Whitehead, Adventures of Ideas (New York: Free Press, 1933),
p. 171.
Appendix
A
1. Acts 15:25, 28 (King James).
2.Robert Barclay, Anarchy, p. 21.
1. Joseph A. McCallin, "The Development of a
Legal Theory of Majority Rule in Elections;' Saint Louis University Law
Journal 16 (Fall 1971): 1-10.
144
4.Paul F. Sigmund, Nicholas of Cusa, p. 146.
5.Gaines Post, Studies in Medieval Legal Thought
(Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1964), chap. 4.
6.Lectura ad III. 7. 15 fol. 414b; cited in Brian Tierney, Foundations
of the Conciliar Theory (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Cambridge University
Press, 1955), p. 116.
7.For practical English applications of this
principle, see Kathleen Edwards, The English Secular Cathedrals in the
Middle Ages (Manchester: n.p., 1949), pp. 97-135, cited in Tierney, Conciliar
Theory, p. 112.
8.Tierney, Conciliar Theory, pp. 220-237.
9.De Concordantia Catholica, 1.8.63: "Quare corpus sacerdotale, licet
caducum et mortale at deviabile in memberis, non tamen in toto, quando semper
major pars in fide et lege Christi permaneat ......cited in Sigmund, Nicholas,
p. 146.
10.De Concordantia Catholica, 2.15.170, cited in Sigmund, Nicholas, p. 147.
11.Sigmund, Nicholas, pp. 224, 228.
12.De Concordantia Catholica, 2.10.138, cited in Ibid:, p. 227.
13."Qui enim sibi dissentiunt, non agunt
concilium' De Concordantia, Catholica, 2.1.93, cited in Sigmund, Nicholas,
p. 145.
14.Christopher St. German, The Power of the
Clergy, ch. 6, cited by Franklin Le Van Baumer, "Christopher St.
German;' American Historical Review 62 (1936/7):646, noted in George
Huntston Williams, "The Religious Background of the Idea of a Loyal
Opposition" in Voluntary Associations, ed. D. B. Robertson
(Richmond, Va.: John Knox Press, 1966), p. 62.
15.Williams, "Loyal Opposition;' p. 62. Italics
in original.
16.George Huntston Williams, The Radical
Reformation (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1962), p. xxvii.
17.Williams notes that a similar theory evolved
among magisterial reformers who sometimes sought "parliamentary
quasi-conciliar enactment of the royal headship of a national church."
Ibid., p. 235.
18.Ibid., p. 176, Cf. pp.
48-49, 77, 78.
19.Ibid., pp. 223, 829.
20.Cadbury, Book of Miracles, pp. x-xi. For
Boehme, see Jones, Mysticism and Democracy, p. 140.
21.Braithwaite, Beginnings, pp. xxv-xxvi.
22.Vernon Noble, The Man in Leather Breeches (New
York: Philosophical Library, 1953). p. 45. See Jones, Mysticism
and Democracy, pp. 137-138.
23.Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 24. Williams, Radical
Reformation, pp. 789, 778, 790n. Fox, Journal, pp. 30-44.
24.Lloyd, Quaker Social History, pp. 24, 1. Jones, Mysticism and Democracy, pp. 56,
70-71. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, p. 175. Ephraim Pagitt, Heresiography,
Sixth ed. (London: William Lee, 1662),pp. 101, 233. Cf. added page facing
title page. Pagitt inserts Quakers immediately after Seekers, evidently because
the two are so closely allied. See also Rufus M. Jones, Studies in Mystical
Religion (London: Macmillan, 1909), p. 456.
145
25. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, p. 173.
Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 45.
26. Braithwaite, Beginnings, PP.
44-45. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, pp. 273, 255, 175. Fox, Journal,
pp. 30-46. Jones, Mysticism and Democracy, pp. 72-73, 75.
27. Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. 12.
28. Pagitt, Heresiography, p. 244.
29. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, pp.
248-249. Fox, Journal, pp. 9, 19-20. Jones, Mystical
Religion, pp. 411, 414.
30. John Smyth, Works, ed. W. T. Whitley
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1915), pp. 275, 277, 271,
269. Williams, Radical Reformation, p. 777. William I. Hull, The
Rise of Quakerism in Amsterdam (Swarthmore, Pennsylvania: Swarthmore
Monograph Series, 1938), pp. 12, 3.
31. Abram R. Barclay, Letters, p.
285. See also Fox's Letter of 1656 to Friends cited in Fox, Journal, p.
282.
32. Smyth, pp. 759, 743-744, 749. Robert
Barclay, Inner Life, p. 117. Williams, Radical
Reformation, P. 788.
33. Cf. Williams, Radical Reformation, p. 790.
34. "May not the spirit of Christ speak in the
female as well as in the male?" George Fox, Gospel-Truth (n.p.,
1656), p. 81, cited in Hill, World Turned, p. 251.
35. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, p.
156.
36. John Smyth, Works, pp. lxxix-lc;
lxxxvii-lxxxix. John Aron Toews, Sebastian Franck: Friend and Critic of Early
Anabaptism: (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Minnesota, 1964), p.
184.
37. Lloyd, Quaker Social History, pp. 2-3.
Robert Barclay, Inner Life, p. 353.
38. Robert Barclay, Inner Life, p.
116. This passage is apparently excerpted from a letter from Hugh Bromhead to
William Hamerton of London. Harleian MS 360 fol.
39. Agnes L. Tierney, Ten Studies in the History and
Teaching of the Society of Friends (Richmond, Indiana: Friends Book and Supply House,
1922), p. 13. Braithwaite, Beginnings, p. xxv.
25. Jones, Mysticism and Democracy, pp.
40-41. Fox, Journal, e.g., pp. 10-18.
A. S.
P. Woodhouse, ed., Puritanism and Liberty (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1951) pp. 105, 104, 95, 23, 17-19. Bracketed words
supplied by Woodhouse.
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