Author: patradallmann

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord (Isa. 55:8).

Man is made spiritual and godly by a power which operates in man but which is nevertheless not of man. It is always the working of a sovereign will distinct from  one’s own.  – Lewis Benson

The Religious Society of Friends has its origin in the discovery that the power of God can be felt and known among us in our gatherings for worship. Friends claim that our deepest thoughts and noblest feelings are manifestations of the divine. If, however, we fail to discern the difference between the guiding spirit of God and the products of our own human spirit (that is, our thoughts and feelings), we will be misled into an abbreviated and groundless understanding of who we are and what we can be as human beings. More importantly, we will be unavailable to carry forward the power and wisdom God provides to us for the stabilization and survival of our world.

Distinguishing the difference has been made more difficult in the last century by the prevailing interpretation of Quakerism in our Liberal meetings. The doctrine presented by Rufus Jones, There is that of God in everyone, was a misunderstsanding of George Fox’s statement and thought. As Fox understood it, “that of God in every one” would be known first through the often unexpected realization that one has strayed far from God, a condition one can redress neither by oneself nor with the help of others. (Fox relates in his Journal, “there was none upon the earth that could speak to my condition.”) Nothing in the theology of Fox supports the contemporary Quaker notion that “that of God in every one” indicates the innate virtue of our minds and hearts.

In all your tradings…walk in the truth, and this brings righteousness forth. For it answereth the witness of God in every one; which lets every one see all the deeds and actions they have done amiss, and the words they have spoken amiss: So the witness of God within them ariseth a swift witness against them…and brings them to the judgment bar and to condemnation (Works, 7:193).

The need for distinguishing the difference between the spirit of God and our own human spirit is not new. The difficulty was addressed early on in the history of monotheism. We come upon this moment as it is recorded in the Hebrew Scriptures–when God begins to move His people forward into a new land and into a new life. He begins with one person, the prophet Moses, and a lesson in discernment is the first item on the agenda:

God called unto him out of the midst of the bush and said Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I. And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy   feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. Moreover he said, I am the God of thy father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob (Ex. 3:4-6).

Before God identifies himself to Moses, before he makes Himself known, God commands Moses to remove his shoes. Why? for the place whereon he stands is holy. Before the interaction can begin between God and His servant, Moses must first come to the realization that the holy is something other. It is a new category, unlike anything known before in the covered and veiled, limited, human avenues of thought. Through removing his shoes (his man-made covering), baring himself, Moses stands ready to enter into relationship with one who is other than himself.

As God has taught the prophet, so does the prophet teach God’s people: the holy is different from our natural, ordinary ways. The law that Moses gives to the people is intended to raise and instill awareness of the distinction between the holy, on the one hand, and, on the other, the parameters of our natural ideals, inclinations, capacities, and expectations. God is preparing a new place for His people, not only an outward land but a new inward and spiritual place for which Canaan is only a metaphor.

Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God (Ex. 20: 8-10).

An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me…And if thou wilt make me an altar of    stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone; for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it (Ex. 20:24-25).

Hewn stone, stone shaped by man, is polluted and not suitable for the place to worship God. Clearly, surely the message is conveyed through repetition and variation: The holy is not of man but of God.

These many intricate rules for time and place of worship and conduct of life created a people practiced in discernment, able to differentiate one thing from another, and sensitive to distinctions. The pure was other than the impure, the sanctioned separate from the condemned. The categories were delineated, and observation was paramount. This scrutiny readied the people for the more exacting discernment of the Spirit’s inward promptings, which was to come later.

The prophets, God’s servants, challenged the people to become progressively more sensitive in their spiritual discernment. Samuel in the following verse admonishes the people to hearken, that is, to listen attentively rather than to sacrifice, as the way to honor God:

And Samuel said, Hath the Lord as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the Lord? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams (1 Sam.15: 22).

Sacrifice originates with and is completed by the worshiper; the human being begins and completes the sacrifice. To hearken, to listen, however, is to invite another into relationship. Through listening, the worshiper becomes an open receptacle, ready to receive. To listen for God is to acknowledge and honor one who is active; it is to recognize that worship is God-driven, not humanely managed. Man is the recipient, not the initiator.

This essential dynamic is restated in the New Testament, early in the book of John. Those given the power to become the sons and daughters of God are those who would receive the Light:

But as man as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God,   even to them that believe on his name: Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God (Jn. 1: 12-13).

Using the same imagery of child birth, Isaiah prophesies: those who have chosen the pure and holy (with its uncorrupted singularity) will bear the new sense of being (God with us) that He begets within:

Therefore the Lord himself shall give you a sign; Behold, a virgin shall conceive,    and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel. Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good (Isa. 7: 14-15).

The foremost capability of the son of God is accurate discernment: he discerns and chooses good over evil. Inward, spiritual understanding for the sons and daughters of God is as evident as the sense of taste. The son has tasted and sensed what is good. His knowledge comes by personal experience, as immediate as the sensation that honey is sweet. It is not opinion, not speculation, not logical conclusion, not hearsay, nor conformity to tribal beliefs that informs his understanding. Instead, it is an inward apprehension of the Spirit of God that generates this certainty.

Quaker theologian Robert Barclay in the second proposition of his Apology for the True Christian Divinity affirms the presence of self-evident conviction that accompanies divine illumination:

For this divine revelation and inward illumination is that which is evident and clear of itself, forcing, by its own evidence and clearness, the well-disposed     understanding to assent, irresistibly moving the same thereunto, even as the   common principles of natural truths do move and incline the mind to a natural assent: as, that the whole is greater than its part, that two contradictories can   neither be both true, nor both false (22).

*    *   *

In the scripture account we see a progression from the people’s initial ignorance of the Holy Spirit to their subsequent experiential awareness of the Spirit. The people are guided by their prophets to think in terms of two separate categories: the holy and its opposite, the mundane. Through observing innumerable regulations that pertain to the conduct of their lives, the people learn carefully to distinguish between the two, noting how the holy, the right, and the pure differ from the mundane, the erroneous, and the corrupt. The prophets guide the people from an immature reverence, which is characterized by autonomous oblation or service to the holy, to a more mature worship, which is characterized by the watchful expectation of receiving the Spirit of God. When this epiphany occurs, it carries with it a clear evidence of the divine, as convincing as sensory perception.

This summary describes unhindered growth of spiritual discernment and understanding. Through conscientious attention to their prophets’ guidance and earnest application of their natural gifts of discernment (that is, conscience and reason), the people move forward. Conversely, this process is thwarted when the people choose not to exercise those natural, God-given capacities.

We have an example of this error in the eleventh chapter of the book of Mark. Those needling Pharisees are at it again–provoking Jesus, lying, and doing all the wrong things. In this passage, Jesus puts an either/or question to them: he is challenging them to use their reason and conscience, their God-given gifts for discernment…or not to use them:

And Jesus answered and said unto them, I will also ask of you one question, and   answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I do these things. The baptism of John, was it from heaven or of men? Answer me. And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say, From heaven; he will say, Why then did ye not believe him? But if we shall say, Of men; they feared the people: for all men counted John, that he was a prophet indeed. And they answered and said unto Jesus, We cannot tell (Mark 11: 28-33).

Do the Pharisees use their reasoning power to discern the truth? No, they perversely use their natural power of reason to secure unworthy aims–to hide their deceit and to maintain their social standing. To Jesus’s question about the source (divine or human) of John the Baptist’s ministry, the Pharisees respond: “We cannot tell.” Ironically, their answer becomes a justly appropriate response to any further quandaries requiring spiritual discernment. They cannot tell, for, in truth, they cannot tell one thing from another. With each corruption of their natural gifts of reason and conscience, they have numbed their sensitivity to the Spirit of truth, so that it cannot be seen, known, or received (Jn. 14: 17):

But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are   foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually   discerned (1 Cor. 2: 14).

George Fox often spoke of “tenderness” (or its absence) in the people he encountered as he traveled to minister. This tenderness is what we today call sensitive discernment. It can be nurtured by fully using our natural gifts of reason and conscience to reveal that which we, limited though we are, can know of the true and the good. And conversely, the sensitivity we possess can be diminished or lost by failing to use these gifts. We should choose to exercise conscience and reason fully and concurrently, thus preparing ourselves to receive the life and power which comes alone from God.

For what man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in   him? even so the things of God knoweth no man, but the Spirit of God. Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the spirit which is of God; that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God (1 Cor. 2: 11-12).

We want only to communicate to you an experience we have had that here and there in the world and now and then in ourselves is a New Creation, usually hidden, but sometimes manifest, and certainly manifest in Jesus who is called the Christ.

                                                            Paul Tillich, “The New Being”

The New Creation to which Tillich refers is the message we are given to declare—we are aware of the New Creation, experientially aware. The New Creation, the New Being is not always apparent to us, in fact, is seldom so. Yet we remember its presence and therefore infer that at every moment, the New Creation is available to each and every human being. And so we seek; we cultivate; we strive to nurture ourselves and to communicate to others. Enfolded in God’s glory, we do become new beings—perfect, whole, joyful, and free.

This New Creation is not a reshuffling of old ideas, emotions, or sensations, nor simply an introduction to new ones. Because we encounter this Life differently from the phenomena of our nature, apprehension is problematic. Further adding to the difficulty is our reluctance to detach ourselves from the self-affirming comfort and strength we derive from exercising our natural powers, the powers of the old creation so familiar to us. Prying ourselves loose from the old while gaining confidence in the new does not happen without suffering, for it is an upheaval, a removal of all things that are made, “that those things which cannot be shaken may remain” (Heb. 12:27).

Our tradition assists us in many ways with our entry into the New Creation, for that is its ultimate purpose. One of the earliest ways we see in Scripture is through the act of the promise. God’s promises to the Hebrews mark significant events in their history: His promise following the flood to no more curse the ground and His promise to Abraham to make of him the father of many nations are two such promises, which work to establish a relationship of trust between God and his people. These promises, as do all promises, guarantee future circumstances, allowing the promisee to act not according to what is, but according to what will be.

A promise collapses the distance between the present and the future, so that the old can be relinquished in favor of the new, as if the new were already here. Jesus tells his disciples:

I send the promise of my Father upon you; but tarry ye in the city of Jerusalem, until ye be endued with power from on high” (Lk. 24:49).

It is God’s promise that the disciples will be endued with power, and so they are willing to act in a new way—by staying put in the city—by standing still.

A promise also strengthens us with hope for the future. “Nevertheless we, according to his promise, look for new heavens and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness” (2 Peter 3:13). A promise diminishes the significance of the here and now and pulls us into what is yet to be. Standing on the threshold of the New Creation, the promise allows us to step forward with hope and confidence.

The early Quakers affirmed the validity of scriptural promises, and they themselves continued the practice. We read in George Fox’s journal:

Therefore, all wait patiently upon the Lord, whatsoever condition you be in; wait in the grace and truth that comes by Jesus; for if ye so do, there is a promise to you, and the Lord God will fulfill it in you. And blessed are all they indeed that do indeed hunger and thirst after righteousness, they shall be satisfied with it (Works, 1:75).

If the promises pull us into the New Creation, the law—in the form of outward commandments—pushes us into it. Where the promises speak of good things to come, the law, on the contrary, makes our present situation inviable. Paul explores the effect of the law on the old being in the book of Romans:

For I was alive without the law once: but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died. And the commandment, which was ordained to life, I found to be unto death (Rom. 7:9-10).

The law precipitates a disassociation from our natural selves, that is to say that guilt ensues from breaking the law:

For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I…Now if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do it, but sin that dwelleth in me (Rom. 7:15, 20).

This disjoining of will from behavior promotes some deep searching for relief, for wholeness that is beyond our reach. We look for salvation, a savior. Says Paul: “ O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death” (Rom. 7:24). We are thus pried loose from our natural moorings, and we are baptized into Christ Jesus, into his death (Rom. 6:3).

That the law’s purpose is to bring us to this state is further supported by New Testament stories in which the original commandments have been followed, only to be supplemented with additional commands. Witness the conversation between Jesus and the rich, young ruler who comes to ask him what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus says:

Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and mother (Mk. 10:19).

The young man assures him that he has observed all these commandments throughout his life, and Jesus tenderly loves him for his answer. Yet he then gives the man a more rigorous command: he must forfeit his riches, giving the proceeds to the poor that he may have “treasure in heaven” (v.21). This treasure in heaven, that is, eternal life, is not the result of having followed the commandments, for if that were the case, the man would have received what he was looking for immediately. The treasure will become available only upon the failure of the will, the awareness of that failure, and an ensuing sorrowful regret and longing. This longing and the accompanying inner turmoil belong to the birth pangs of the New Being.

When the man sorrowfully leaves, Jesus exclaims, “…how hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of God” (v. 24). In addition to straightforward reference to material wealth, we might also infer that the natural assets of a person, that is, a strong will, great intelligence, talent, youth, or charisma could hinder entry. For the more advantaged a person feels himself to be, the more he must do to divest himself of attachment to self. And it is this divestment that readies him for putting on the Lord Jesus Christ (Rom. 13:14). Conversely, attempting to sustain a coherent, powerful sense of self, once weakness and fragmentation become self-apparent, entails anxiety, self-deceit, and too often the defrauding or victimization of others.

With what equanimity does George Fox see himself as he is in the old creation, once he has entered the new:

Then the Lord gently led me along, and let me see his love, which was endless and eternal, surpassing all the knowledge that men have in the natural state, or can get by history or books. That love let me see myself, as I was without him; and I was afraid of all company; for I saw them perfectly, where they were, through the love of God which let me see myself…I was afraid of all carnal talk and talkers, for I could see nothing but corruptions, and the life lay under the burden of corruptions (Works 1:74).

Another example of a more rigorous command superadded to those previously given occurs in the book of John. Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure by giving them a new commandment. For even though the disciples have left all and followed Jesus (as the rich man did not), they have not yet known the New Creation. There remains a distance separating them from Jesus. They cannot come to where he is.

Whither I go, ye cannot come; so now I say to you. A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another (John 13:33-34).

A commandment is to be carried out by the power of the will. However, this commandment—to love one another—cannot be carried out by the will. Love is a fruit of the Spirit (Gal. 5:22), and therefore, one can love as Jesus loved only as it is given to us from God: We love him, because he first loved us (1 Jn. 4:19).

The commandment that Jesus gives the disciples carries them into territory where the will is of no more use. Their wills are strong; they’ve left all to follow Jesus. Yet obeying this new command is beyond theirs or anyone’s capacity.

Peter said unto him, Lord, why cannot I follow thee now? I will lay down my life for thy sake. Jesus answered him, Wilt thou lay down thy life for my sake (Jn. 13:37-38).

The old being reaches its end, iconically in Jesus on the Cross and distinctly in Peter’s bitter weeping (Mk. 14:72). The new can only be awaited. “Who can be saved?” the disciples ask. Jesus replies, “With men it is impossible, but not with God: for with God all things are possible” (Mk.10:27). The law pushes us to the point where we are ready to receive salvation. We reject our old selves and await the New Creation because we can embrace a standard that is beyond our keeping.

Finally, I would like to look at a different kind of lesson, which goes beyond both the commandments and the promises, types that originated and were carried over from the Hebrew tradition. This new lesson is in the book of Mark, and, once again, Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. As he did in the previous story, he is pushing them into new territory beyond the commandments he had previously given. In this lesson Jesus borrows and alters an image from the first stanza of Psalm 46. It is an image of a mountain being cast into the sea, an image of monumental upheaval. In this passage, nature is in tumult:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof  (Psalm 46:1-3).

This psalm is about disruption, and though the imagery is of outward nature, we, as Quakers (and therefore not literalists), know that it’s really about an inward state within human nature. And the most disruptive inward state is the transformation from the old being to the new, as our mountainous egos undergo dissolution.

In the correlating verse from Mark 11, Jesus puts us into the position of commanding the mountain to be cast into the sea. In other words, we are not to be passive victims of the inward disruption, but are actually to welcome it, even to call it forward, to take command of our nature, rather than remaining its captive:

Have faith in God. For verily I say unto you. That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass, he shall have whatsoever he saith. Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them (Mk. 11:22-24).

Jesus uses the image of utmost disruption, the mountain cast into the sea, and turns it from an image of fear into an image of desire. The movement from the old creation to the new involves this same change of perspective. We lay down the old and take up the new. To be willing to endure and even to urge on the demise of the old creation, to know in one’s heart that the old is outworn and ready to be set aside is to make oneself pliable to God. The demise is not against one’s will, but it is within one’s power. Not only should it not be resisted, it should be pursued. The death of old Adam, the old creation, is the Cross. The new creation, the second Adam, the resurrection, is at hand.

Therefore doth my Father love me, because I lay down my life, that I might take it again. No man taketh it from me, but I lay it down of myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again. This commandment have I received of my Father (Jn. 10:17-18).

In these words, the promise, the commandment, the laying down of the old and taking up of the new, all converge: the New Creation, the New Being is here.

Returning to Tillich’s essay, we hear his assessment and plea:

The New Creation—this is our ultimate concern; this should be our infinite passion—the infinite passion of every human being. This matters; this alone matters ultimately. In comparison with it everything else, even religion or non-religion, even Christianity or non-Christianity, matters very little—and ultimately nothing.

 

 

 

Some years ago in a lecture series on the Bible given at Pendle Hill, a speaker urged Friends to take back the Bible from the fundamentalists.With more than a decade having passed since that time, Quakers, for the most part, continue to forfeit our responsibility to interpret Scriptures in our particular way, through waiting for guidance from the same Spirit that brought them forth. For too long we have discounted the Scriptures’ use as a reality check for our theological meanderings. We have abandoned their use as a gathering and educating tool to be exercised in our communities, as well as an aid in our worship. We have spoken disparagingly of the Bible: “Anything can be inferred from the Bible.” “I don’t know why anyone reads it anymore.” These words were spoken at Quaker gatherings. Devaluation of the Bible is commonplace among us, and what has led to this devaluation is a loss of vision. Yet occasionally, we see in liberal yearly meetings that Friends are beginning to pick up the threads of our frayed heritage, sensing the Truth from which it has been woven. We as the Religious Society of Friends have a tremendous legacy and mission to claim yet once more.

The Scriptures are a gift. They map out the terrain we are bidden to travel on this most highly fraught spiritual adventure of humankind, providing signposts in an otherwise uncharted land. The land to be traveled is within, and like the wise men of the Christmas story, we move forward when we follow the star, that light of heaven that shines in the darkness. Through imagery drawn from unchanging nature, the Scriptures speak to us as they have spoken to generations before – of direction to take, of dangers to avoid and hardships to endure, of insights that are our provisions, and of that glorious completion toward which we move.

The misreading and misuse of Scriptures both within and without the Religious Society of Friends has often been the result of literal interpretation – by both liberals and evangelicals. When the Scriptures are valued, they are seen as a guide to ethical behavior or the center of blind “faith.” We have forgotten our original Quaker way of looking at Scriptures, and we read them “without a right sense of them” (Journal, 31). Isaac Penington wrote:

The Scriptures contain messages concerning God, concerning Christ, concerning the Spirit, the end whereof is to turn men and women to the power and life… (1:131).

By looking at passages from the 20^th chapter of John, we can receive information about Christ as he is: risen and active among us today. We can also see how a flat, literal approach to this chapter obscures the information that is offered. Through examining the puzzles, those parts that defy reasonable explanation, we enter into the fruitful area where the devotion of a trusted writer and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit lead us into understanding.

One of the puzzling parts of this chapter is the inability of Mary Magdalene and the disciples to recognize the Lord when he first appears.

…she…saw Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away. Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master (14-16).

Why is Mary unable at first to recognize Jesus? In life, she knew him well. One could reason that Jesus’ face was altered by the ordeal of his crucifixion, or perhaps that her fear and sorrow interfered with her perception. These explanations make the events of the story conform to our experience of what is possible in the world; it is a mistake of literalism and stands in the way of receiving the message intended.

Inexplicable events are not hurdles to our faith; rather they are flashing signals to look closely for here the writer has an intent that breaks through the framework of realistic narrative with the power of meaning. Mary, looking at Christ, at first believes him to be the gardener. Only after hearing him say her name does she recognize him for who he truly is. This event tells us that there is now a new and different way to know the Lord.

Knowing Christ will no longer be done outwardly and visually, but hence forward inwardly at hearing one’s name (that is, oneself) called. Mary responds, “Rabboni!” which is Hebrew for “Teacher.” She acknowledges the nature of this relationship; he is to guide and teach; she is to hear and learn. The value of this story lies not in its factual veracity, nor because it portrays an event in the life of Jesus whom we revere. Its value, from a Quaker standpoint, is in its revealing something to us of ourselves and our movement toward a higher state of being than that which we now accept despairingly as the inevitable condition of human nature.

Fox reminds us that people read the Scriptures “without duly applying them to their own states” (Journal, 31). This scene in John is an outward depiction of an inward spiritual state known to Friends. The living Christ has called and continues to call the spirit of humankind to an exalted place where he is seen and recognized, a place he has prepared for us so that where he is in his understanding and power, there we may be also. It is a place to which we rise from meaningless, death-centered, grappling existence to exultant, abundant Life. Christ has come to teach his people himself. This is the continuing revelation we, as Quakers, have insisted is so.

Note that it is not a natural, spiritual essence that Mary experiences, but an interaction with one who is other than herself. This is a great difference between the Light of Christ as revealed to early Friends and the Inner Light as spoken of by modern Friends. God is not only immanent but transcendent as well.

The risen Lord appears twice more in this chapter. His disciples recognize him onlyafter having seen his wounds.

Then…came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, Peace be unto you. And when he had so said, he shewed unto them his hands and his side. Then were the disciples glad, when they saw the Lord (19-20).

And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them; then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you. Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side; and be not faithless, but believing. And Thomas answered and said unto him, My Lord and my God (26-28).

What does this problem with recognition tell us? Death to the worldly nature (wounds being the sign of that death) is the distinguishing mark of the risen Lord. To follow him, we too must essentially “keep in the daily cross,” as Fox exhorts. Becoming aware of the Christ Within, the new and living way, is such a radical change in sense of life, that only the death-followed-by-life metaphor will adequately describe it, and only the daily crucifying of the old worldly way of self-aggrandizement and egotism will precede it. Comparing this imagery, this language and vision, to that in Quakerism today, we ask: Does the life of our Meetings surpass the power presented in our biblical and early Quaker heritage? Is there not something deeper and more authentic generating the vision and language of our tradition than that which generates our contemporary practices? What excuse do we have for not availing ourselves of this gift of Scriptures?

Before Christ appears in this chapter, the disciples are disorderly and engaged in fruitless activity. Peter and the other disciple, whom Jesus loved, lack coordination in their approach to the tomb. Meaningless details of who arrives first, goes into the tomb first, believes first make this look like a petty competition between the two.

So they ran both together; and the other disciple did outrun Peter, and came first to the sepulcher….Then cometh Simon Peter following him, and went into the sepulcher, and seeth the linen clothes lie. …Then went in also that other disciple, which came first to the sepulchre, and he saw, and believed….Then the disciples went away again unto their own home (4,6,8,10).

They do not find the Lord, and they exit, each to his own home. They become isolated individuals, unified only in their diversity. Does this lack of coordination, of shared vision and understanding, this forwarding of self-will and jockeying for position bear some resemblance to our experience in conducting business in our meetings? One thinks of the unity, the upright and generous spirit by which the early Friends were known, and one recalls: Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles (Mt. 7:16)?

In this chapter, Christ gathers the disciples to him and creates order among them with his words to Mary, “but go to my brethren and say unto them, I ascend to my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God” (17). When he arrives in their midst, they are assembled as a unified group and receive from their Lord peace, guidance and the power of spiritual discernment (23); they receive the very thing we gather to receive in worship—the Holy Spirit.

Now they are fitted and ready to be sent out to do the work of convincing others of the presence and power of the living Christ among us. Thomas’s convincement, which immediately follows, shows them the work that lies ahead. The early Quaker community, unified and ordered under Christ their head, was guided and empowered to do this same work of convincing others. Their mission – above all else – was to publish the Truth to the world. What is our mission today? Our mission is the same – to preach the Gospel; to present the power of God to grieving, doubting Thomases and Marys who, if they do not harden their hearts, if they do not become insensitive, will feel inward confirmation when they are shown, when they have heard Christ, the Word of God, preached among us, preached by one who looks like you, or me or the gardener.