Echo Chamber (Part IV in the unfolding story)

"It is vital and true and deeply required that we tell our story. We must trace the shape of it, speak of the place in our body where it still lives, weep the tears of it, allow it to be seen and known. To have someone know the story of how we came to be here, how we came to be this way."--Wayne Muller

A few weeks back, during our trek home from the Boulder Friends Meeting, Bob said to me through a chuckle, "there are A LOT of people at Meeting with lots of different ways of seeing the world." We were both laughing because Meeting that day had been peculiarly awkward, characterized by an assortment of random comments shared by several people during Meeting. If you've been following this story, you know that for the most part, our Boulder Quaker Meeting is a silent, unprogrammed Meeting, usually punctuated by a few people who stand and speak, to say something that feels inspired.

It was obvious to me, someone who is still fairly new to this Quaker thing, that something was out of whack at Meeting that day. Despite some guidelines to help us discern when it might be appropriate to speak our thoughts, too many people were standing to speak. There was too much response to what the last person had said, and not enough quiet between spoken words. It felt as if the people who spoke were speaking to share their point of view without really having listened to what the person who spoke right before them had to say. There was no contemplation or reflection, just reaction. I got to see some true colors, some of the more difficult aspects of humanity taking part in this otherwise pleasantly reflective Meeting. I felt uncomfortable, impatient, frustrated, and even slightly embarrassed for others---there were moments that I wasn't sure if I was squirming on the outside or the inside.  I avoided any kind of eye contact, and  just hoped things would simmer down, hoped people would pause long enough to decide if they needed to say what they were going to say.  It triggered some familiar discomfort, and was a reminder of the overarching reason that I migrated away from my former evangelical worldview.

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I learned a really cool, new term recently: echo chamber.  It is a term that media-types use to describe a current phenomenon in the information age. Echo chamber describes the common practice of deriving our information from sources that tell us what we want to hear. It makes it possible for us to only gather information that confirms our own point of view without ever having to interact with differing points of view, inadvertently confirming the correctness of of our own perspectives.

This term struck me because it perfectly put into words something that has been difficult for me to describe. The way I interpreted echo chamber expanded beyond use for media types and captured something that I think is common for most people, including me.  Our echo chambers are how we get our bearings in the world, how we make sense of ourselves and others. In our echo chambers we intentionally and unintentionally seek out our own perspectives about life and the world from places and spaces that reinforce our way of understanding, bouncing back to us what we are comfortable hearing. Our echo chambers also protect us from dissonance--those sounds that make our ears and souls hurt. They can prohibit us from learning what other voices sound like, blocking our ability to make space for other ways of being and seeing.

After my last post "Wear it as Long as You Can,"  I got an email from a reader, someone I don't know, for whom my blog struck and uncomfortable chord. The subject line of his email summarized it all: My son is where you are and I don't get it. Through his email, he described the pain of having a son who's beliefs have changed. He addressed how his heart is torn between loving Jesus AND loving his son, perhaps implying that it might be difficult to do both. He explained how he could only understand life through the work of Jesus dying on the cross and that for him there is no other way to understand the world. He also told me he was praying a "father like" prayer for me because of the pain I might be causing my parents. I'm guessing that my story and his son's story are causing some discordant reverberations in his echo chamber.

There was part of me that was appreciative that he read my post (it is a commitment to read my long posts!) and felt compelled enough to share his perspective and vulnerability. He reminded me of the people in my life that might feel like him when they read my story.  Through his email I got the sense that he genuinely cared for me. He also reminded me of what I fear most: that I might be causing others pain and risking rejection by being authentically me. He reminded me of myself not so long ago too, and I get why he doesn't get it. There was another part of me that was very annoyed by the email. I interpreted it as if he needed to tell me that he just doesn't get the way I, or his son, see things. Because he doesn't get it, he is going to pray for me, so that maybe I'll come around. This did not make me feel like he was really trying to understand, but instead felt condescending, as if he has the correct way of seeing things and that he will pray to God, who also shares his viewpoint, so that I might see the world the way he does. This may not have been his intention, but that was how his words impacted me.

For many years, I lived life in an echo chamber that was probably similar to the reader who emailed me. I just could not comprehend why someone would walk away from their belief in Jesus, or how it was possible to understand the world and the fate of humanity without Christ, or how I could ever have close relationships with people who believed differently than me. In fact, as I went through the long process of deconstructing my faith, Jesus was the last thing I let go of because he was the last thing that made sense to me. My relationship with Jesus was everything. Jesus was my guide for major decisions, as well as my compass for how to treat others. My community, vocation, education, and understanding of life and self, centered around my evangelical Christian Jesus.
  
At that time in life, I did not interact with many people outside of my echo chamber. When I did, most of my conversations were had in airports and coffee shops, where I'd strike up a conversation with a stranger and it would eventually came around to what I did for work and/or education (youth ministry; theological education), which would inevitably lead to a conversation about faith. I deeply enjoyed these conversations and felt great courage and fulfillment talking about why Jesus was the hope in my life, as well as sincerely hoped that the stranger would somehow come to Jesus someday because of the seeds I had planted. I even went on a few dates with a Buddhist, but broke it off with him because I thought we came from fundamentally incompatible perspectives. I could only understand the world through a Christian lens and I hoped everyone else would see it that way too.

There is a particular incident that has stuck with me over the years, especially as my own spiritual identity has evolved. Many years back, when I was working with youth, I had been leading a Bible study for some high school girls over a period of several months and was developing close relationships with them. One night, one of the girls showed up early to our study because she wanted to talk with me about something important. I thrived on one on one conversations with my students, and always thought it was privilege and honor when they wanted to mull something over with me. I was happy to have some extra time with this student. She arrived at my studio-apartment-like dwelling, sat on the floor against my dresser, knees to her chest, and confessed that she didn’t think she believed in Jesus anymore:

“I’ve been dating a guy who has had a lot of questions about God, and thinks its all bullshit. He makes a lot of sense to me and I don’t think I believe in Jesus anymore. I wanted to tell you that, and to tell you I won't be part of this group anymore.” 

I didn’t know what to say. How could she not believe in Jesus when he meant so much to me? Did she know she would not be in heaven with her friends and family for not believing in Jesus? Did she really not believe? These questions were stirring in my mind as I grasped for something to say. All I could muster was, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she left. I felt so disoriented, and as if I had failed her. I wanted to say more to her, I wanted to tell her that I thought she was wrong. I anguished over this conversation and finally decided that I needed to go to her house and talk to her.  I drove to her house a few days later, knocked on the door and her mom answered, happy to see me, and freely let me in. I went up to my student's room and sat on her bed with her, nervously beginning to say my piece. She was surprisingly patient with me as I told her, to her 15 year-old face, that she was wrong for not believing in Jesus, that she was making a bad choice. She simply listened, said "okay," as if she wasn't sure what to do next, then I left. My adrenaline was pulsing though my body as I drove home, I was concerned that I may have hurt her feelings, and I felt somewhat triumphant, believing that I had done and said the right thing; I had spoken the Truth to her.

All these years later, I wish I could go back and change that moment.  I wished I could have truly tried to understand her, allowing her discordant words some space in my echo chamber. At that time in my life, I truly didn't get it, and I didn't know I didn't get it; I didn't want to get it. Through the miracles of modern technology, specifically, The Facebook, I nervously messaged this student a few months ago to ask how this conversation impacted her (and to apologize). Surprisingly, she told me she didn't remember much about the conversation, and that she didn't remember anything negative about our conversation. Then she said this: The thing that really has stuck with me all of these years was the sense of abandonment after I stopped coming to church. I went from being a person who was involved in church activities 2-3 times per week, to not showing up at all, and it seemed no one cared. Maybe people thought it would be best not to pester me about it, or maybe people weren't sure how to approach the situation- I don't really know. I just know that it solidified my decision that the Christian faith wasn't where I needed to be. 

I was one of those who seemed not to care. It wasn't because I didn't care though, it was because I didn't understand, and I didn't want to bother her, and I didn't know how to interact with her now that she no longer believed in the fundamental element that allowed our relationship to exist in the first place. Ultimately, there wasn't space in my echo chamber for this student's questions and doubts, and when she attempted to talk about them to her awesome youth leader--me--I put my hands over my ears and a megaphone to my mouth.

Ironically, like my former student, it is for a similar overarching reason that I too have migrated from my evangelical faith.  Just as my student who was questioning her belief in Jesus, many years later I began to ask questions too. Initially my questions were still within the bounds of traditional Christian belief, and I was asking them as a pastor and a seminary student (a nerve-wracking thing to do, I might add). My questions eventually lead to my resignation from the ministry, yet I still kept asking in my seminary classrooms, with friends, and with a variety of evangelical ministerial leaders.  I really wanted to talk with pastors and scholars, the people who I perceived to be the intellectuals of the faith. I was seeking intellectual honesty and humility, people who would wrestle with the questions with me and perhaps normalize my curiosity. I was not expecting answers. Back then, and now, I was pretty sure there weren't a lot of answers to the questions I had.

One conversation that epitomizes the frustration I felt when talking with church leaders happened during a time I had just started going back to church after a two year hiatus. I really enjoyed the down-to-earth-ness of this church: they held services in a basement, their worship band was off to the side and performance was not a focal point. They were (and still are) doing very meaningful work in their community as well. I was getting to know one of the pastors and  took a risk to talk with him about one of my pressing questions of the day: what did he think about universal salvation? For those of you unfamiliar with the term, it is basically a concept that claims that everyone goes to heaven. Universal salvation is heresy in evangelical theology, but accepted in other versions of Christian faith.
We talked, and per usual,  I enjoyed most of our conversation....here comes the but...But, when we got to the point in the conversation where there wasn't an answer, or perhaps there were many answers but those answers existed outside of an evangelical theological framework,  the conversation stopped. The response of my pastor was that my question was out of bounds, that we could no longer think beyond the boundaries of evangelical theology.

This was the type of response I got in one version or another when dialoging about the foundations of evangelical faith. It was so confusing for me. At the time I thought that if God created me with this brain and these were the things I was thinking, how could an out of bounds exist? But an out of bounds did exist. When I enrolled at my evangelical seminary, I had to sign the National Association of Evangelicals' statement of faith, and when I graduated from the same institution, I had to sign the  same statement of faith again. This is strange to me, because in any other educational environment--med school, law school, college, grad school, tech school, high school--it would be considered failure if  a student graduated with the same beliefs and understandings that they began with. The boundaries confounded me. In a weird way, I also understood that the boundaries must be held. If an institution or faith system is to maintain it's identity then there are certain core beliefs that must remain, otherwise it ceases to be what it is. Who would I be beyond the boundaries?

I must say too, that despite the boundaries, I still appreciated my theological education. In the years after I finished my BA in Biblical Studies, I often explained to people that I learned how to be a critical thinker in college. What I learned how to think about was how the Bible came to be, and how to linguistically, culturally, and historically interpret Biblical texts. It wasn't until years later, when I thought and socialized beyond my evangelical echo chamber, that I realized my critical thinking skills were excellent within the boundaries. However, something I had not learned to think about was how to critically think about how the boundaries came to be, and how my critical thinking skills broke down outside the boundaries. It's like when Christian kids go to a non-Christian college and have to figure out how to make sense of their faith in a brave new world: they either have to cover their ears, or learn to integrate their faith into a pluralistic context. They often don't know how to do the latter, because their critical thinking skills only work in their Christian framework. When they meet this challenge, they often decide that they can't reconcile their faith with all the other worldviews, and painfully "lose their faith." I think it is possible to remain a Christian in college, but it takes some intellectual, emotional, and spiritual flexibility that many students don't develop because of rigid boundaries. Like those college kids, I too was trying to make sense of my faith, and the world, outside of my echo chamber. As I asked my questions I was testing out my flexibility. What I really wanted and needed was an acknowledgement that my questions were valid, and willingness to admit that perhaps evangelical Christianity was not the only way of seeing things. I just needed to hear that, and not so I could say, "gotcha!", but out of a genuine desire to honor my curiosity and to maintain intellectual integrity. Some might be reading this and thinking, "well of course there are many other ways of seeing the world, why was this so hard for you?" while others are likely thinking the opposite. It can be difficult for me to communicate that when this was the only way I knew to see the world, it took me years to begin to imagine that there are other ways of understanding, and that considering those ways did not mean I'd been conned or mislead or blind or weak in my relationship with God. To ask the questions also made me feel vulnerable, risking separation from my community. And asking the questions made me feel free and alive.

I want to be clear that I don't think echo chambers are "good" or "bad." I see them as neutral, as something that we all create. I also don't want to come across as finger-pointing at evangelicals. The evangelical subculture is where I happened to develop my identity and understanding of everything, and many people I still trust and respect identify as evangelicals. As I have branched out into a more more liberal and spiritually eclectic community, it is just as evident that there are people who "don't get" how anyone else sees the world either, and will write off evangelicals as crazy. As a friend of mine, with a similar story as mine, so aptly said to me, "I don't think either one of us really wants to exchange one truth for another." Or as I put it, one echo chamber for another. I know what my echo chamber sounds like and I don't want to pretend that I am opinion-less or to trying to agree with everyone. Instead I want to allow space for all sort of voices, and do my best to simply listen and not try to change someone, and also say what I think without fear of being dismissed. This is incredibly difficult for me, yet the thing I value most in others.

The echo chamber concept has been the umbrella issue for me as I detached from evangelicalism--it is the pervasive element that helps me make sense of how I got to where I am. Beneath this umbrella there are a variety of topics that emerged over a long period of time, that I attempted to bring into the evangelical echo chamber: gender, sexuality, church history, salvation, Biblical interpretation, Biblical infallibility, homiletics, socio-historical contexts, theology, morality, mythology, social justice, and nationalism intertwined with evangelical Christianity. As I brought each of these issues into my evangelical echo chamber, I was unable to find the space that could hold different ways of understanding these concepts, and I was unable to reconcile what I was learning outside the boundaries with the absolutes within the boundaries. My story of how I got to where I am contains anger, bitterness, sadness, joy, relief, humor, forgiveness, acceptance, and as they sing in Moulin Rouge, "freedom, beauty, truth, and looooove!"  As I continue to tell this story, hopefully you will recognize me through it all, and maybe even see yourself somewhere in there too.

And the Quaker Meeting that went awry a few weeks back, righted itself. Though it was an off week, the general pattern is that there is space for questions, for differing opinions, for all sorts of ways of being. During the awkward week, that space seemed threatened by lots of megaphones and too many closed ears when typically it is the other way around. Through the Quaker community I have been able to understand what I was looking for in all those past conversations: space for dissonance. My dissonance, or the dissonance of another. A space where I can be where I am in my process and I can hold the process of another, without cross examination and invalidation, but with honest discussion and a genuine intent to understand.



*Note: If this is my first post you have read, this story is the fourth in a series of posts starting with Coming Out Quaker...maybe. If you are having trouble accessing Parts I-III, please let me know.

Wear It As Long As You Can (Part III)

I've been hesitant to  tell my spiritual story through my Quaker experience; partly because so much of my path away from my evangelical worldview and identity has only been intertwined with Quakerism for nine months. And, partly because I am annoyed that in my quest to dis-identify from a religion, I have found a religion. I am also averse to use the word spiritual because it might communicate to non-theists that they can't identify with my story, even though most non-theists I know find meaning and purpose in life (which is how I understand spirituality). I also feel tentative about spiritual because it sounds overused and generic to me at times.  I think if there was a word that encompassed identity and spirituality, I would feel more comfortable, something like…identuality. There it is: Identuality. My spirituality has long been intertwined with my identity as a pastor and a Christian. Gradually letting go of my pastor-ness and evangelical Christian-ness has yielded a process of redefining and reaffirming my whole self. So much of this metamorphosis has happened over many years, inside and outside of religion, and only recently has it included Quaker thought.

Uncomfortable as I am telling my identuality (I wonder if my new word will get added to the dictionary) story through Quakerism, my experience with the Religious Society of Friends has unexpectedly and profoundly provided the context for me to continue to work this all out for myself. Not just to work it out, but to continue living with intentionality and awareness when it comes to moving forward through life.

Last week I was perusing the books in the Boulder Friends’ library. The library is a small room, but one of the centerpieces of the Meeting House, a wonderful fact considering I am a book nerd. There are a variety of books lining the east, south, and west walls, with a floor to ceiling glass wall on the north side. The library is naturally lit, with sunshine aimed directly at a table in the center of the room.  It also serves as the waiting room of shame, for those of us who arrive past 10am and have to wait until 10:15 to enter the Meeting room.

Over the months, a few Friends have helped Bob and me find books that would help us learn more about Quakerism, which has allowed us gluttonous amounts of time in the library. I found a children’s book a couple of weeks ago called What is God? I loved the question proposed in the title. All of my experience/education has taught me to ask, Who is God? In more recent years I have been leaning more toward What is God (and, Is God)? As I looked around last week, paying more attention to the titles on the shelves, I continued to realize why I am finding a home in The Religious Society of Friends. [I should pause here and say that I've been learning that the Boulder Friends Meeting is not representative of American Quakerism in general. Most Quaker Meetings in the U.S. are programmed and/or evangelical in nature. The Meeting we attend is unprogrammed-liberal-universalist in nature, and includes both theists and non-theists. And yes, I know the words liberal and universalist might be loaded words for some readers, but more on that some other time. Mostly, I did not want to misrepresent the majority of Quakers out there].

On the east wall of the the library, I found books on eating local, emotional well-being, cultures of peace, economics, and an entire shelf dedicated to Boulder Friends authors! As I moved toward the south wall, there were numerous books on Quaker history, Quaker practices, and the biographies of Quakers and other peace activists. There were also sections of books on world religions, universalism, spirituality books written by Quakers, personality theory, social commentaries, indigenous peoples, art & literature, aging, death & dying, living simply, peace & war, peaceful careers, religion & philosophy, and children’s books as well. I was enamored by the variety, by so much of life that was included in this collection--and not just from a Quaker point of view.

Books tell me a lot about someone. Aside from my observation that this library reflected Quaker values of "peace, simplicity, equality, community, and integrity," I also noticed that it included  authors, stories, and biographies by and about women, and other historically oppressed groups and people. Quaker history has included women from the start; women were not and have never been a problem. They were preachers, leaders, and worked with men in the early Quaker movement. Their stories are on the shelves, not just chapters in a book. In Quaker tradition, women and men are functionally and spiritually equal; women were and are leaders, and don't need a book to explain why that is okay.

The books that are not included in a collection also tell me a lot about someone. I was starkly aware of one particular set of books that did not exist in this library: Books on apologetics. There are no books that painstakingly attempt to prove that the Quaker way is the right way. No books that defend the faith. No books that, point by point and proof text by proof text, trumpet the fallibility of all other religions. Though there are Bibles (and other sacred religious texts), there is not one book on Biblical inerrancy or infallibility.There is no Biblical authority.

When I write the words, there is no Biblical authority, I hear a clamor of voices and see a myriad of faces, I am haunted by a caucaphony of conversations, imagined and real, I've had as I have s...l...o...w...l...y "come out" over the years. Trying to explain why I think the Bible is not the perfect word of God and that Christianity isn't the mono-explanation to everything, has been one of the hardest things I have ever done (sans childbirth, working as a youth pastor in San Diego, depression, and finding a seat on the westbound BV bus after the Broomfield park and ride).  This idea of no authority dismantles everything about evangelical Christianity, and perhaps dismantles my good reputation and trustworthy faith in the eyes of others. These are not conversations I have sought out, and I've spent quite a bit of energy avoiding them altogether. Inevitably, the question comes up about where I'm going to church*, and it has gotten increasingly difficult to hem and haw and come up with some disingenuous response and try to divert the conversation to another topic.

*the fact that I don't go to church inevitably leads to questions of why

As I've worked to become an integrated person, living without shame and confident in who I am, being covert about my identuality is no longer an option. I have not yet found the most ideal way to have these conversations, and I often find that when they are had, they come up at awkward times, and I bumble through an explanation that makes me feel like I'm speaking Melmackian. For instance, during my parents' 40th wedding anniversary party, a good family friend and I got into this discussion 10 minutes before I was supposed to emcee for a group of 100 my parents' friends. When my friend asked me about church, and with good intention reassured me that Jesus is not afraid of liberals, stating that it is not about religion, that it's about a relationship with Jesus, I wanted to walk away and avoid revealing my true self. I stopped myself mid-escape-stride and told my friend that I would have this conversation if she was really willing to listen and not bash me. What I wished I said instead of bash, was that I wanted her to listen to me. Really listen. And not listen for holes, and points where she could use the Christian theological framework to attempt to disintegrate my point of view. This kind of conversation often ends up being about the other person's fear and need for self-reassurance than it is about understanding another perspective. She did her best and was more respectful than I expected, and I did my best to explain that I don't think Jesus is the only answer. I don't think she understood, and I think I could have explained it better. Her lack of understanding had nothing to do with intellectual capacity, and everything to do with belief. Most of the time, I don't think there's anything anyone can say to make us see or think differently when our identualities are intertwined with our belief. After talking with my friend, I felt unexpectedly thankful. Thankful  that my assumption was wrong about her and that she really seemed to want to understand, and thankful that I didn't walk away from the conversation.

Though I am pining to be more articulate in these conversations, my aim is not to wrangle others out of their own belief system and convince them of mine. In fact, I don't want to. I was at that party, celebrating my parents' marriage, celebrating two people who would, without a doubt tell you that they are who they are because of Jesus in their lives. My parents are amazing people and I would never want to talk Jesus out of their lives, because he is part of their identuality.What I want in these conversations are acceptance and openness, and at the very least, to be able to accept myself when others are uncomfortable with me.

Surprisingly, the dismantling of my core, defining, foundational personal beliefs, has not bred a crisis. You know, that crisis of faith that so many fret about? The one where the woman who loses her religion goes on a drunken, sex-laden, Christian/Church-hating, loose-morals binge? That crisis where no one recognizes the faithless one anymore, and wonders if she ever really knew Jesus? I never had that kind of crisis. Yes, I have been angry and bitter, and needed to go through those seasons in order to heal and move forward.  For me, the real crisis has been around letting people know the whole me. The crisis has been in the "coming out," in the telling the truth about myself. The crisis has been in lacking a "defense."I spent years mentoring and being in community with others based on my Christianity.  The majority of my undergraduate and graduate education, as well as my first career, were about learning and teaching why my way of living and believing were the best way, learning all the language and apologetic tactics in order to have influential conversations with non-believers, hoping that my life would be example enough to help them change. All of those tactics made sense within my evangelical worldview, and at the time they came from what I perceived as a a genuine and loving place.

As I have been interpreting the world through multiple lenses, seeing things from others' perspectives, and trusting my own vision, the evangelical framework doesn't fit for me anymore, and all of the arguments to prove my that faith is best no longer make sense with an expanded worldview. The crisis for me is knowing that I might be dismissed with descriptors like: relativist, postmodernist, secular humanist, being summarily discredited with tidy labels that help others forget who I am. The crisis is risking that others will think negatively of me, or think I need prayer, or that I am lost, or that the liberals got a hold of me, or that it's Boulder's fault, or perhaps the Debil (read: Devil, as pronounced by Bobby Boucher's mama) did it, or simply have pity or feel bad for me when the reality is I feel more myself than ever.

"I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me. " Hermann Hesse

The nature of the Religious Society of friends is not about proving anything: the existence of God, the rightness of Quaker belief, the wrongness of everyone else’s beliefs, or anything along the lines of "we have the answer, the best theology/exegesis/hermeneutics, and the rest of you are misinformed and lost." I continue to learn that Friends are staunch respecters of my process, my perspective, my intellect, and my experience.

I just read a story about a conversation that happened between the Quaker founder, George Fox, and a Quaker convert, William Penn (the William Pennsylvania Penn). Early Quakers were rabble rousers and quite divergent from traditional Christian practice in their day. In fact, they were much more "in your face" than modern Quakers--they would tell you you're wrong, and their way is the right way, then slam a volleyball into your face (see last post).  Their aggressive proselytizing is an embarrassing piece of history for today's Quakers because it is so different than the way they have lived for most of their history. In Fox's time, Quakers were spreading the word around London that every person could know the Divine and define it for themselves. This greatly disturbed the powerful Church, it was the 1600s after all, and Quakers were routinely arrested because of their views.

William Penn  was seriously considering joining the Quakers, but did not want to stop wearing his sword. Remember, it was the 1600s; wearing a sword was like carrying a cell phone. Quakers were non-violent and swords were incongruent with their way of life. Penn's sword had saved his life at one point and he was struggling to let it go. He shared this concern with George Fox, who responded: “Wear it as long as you can.” Not long afterward, when they met again, Penn did not have his sword, and Fox asked him where it was. Penn replied, “I wore it as long as I could.”

Quoting directly from Being a Quaker:

 ‘Wear it as long as you can’ is advice still offered by Quakers. Old ways are hard to give up, but if we accept the difficulty and live with it, we discover—sometimes after many years—an ability to move on. We incorporate the change by finding it increasingly impossible to live in any other way…By wearing much loved religious practices as long as we can, we give it the respect it needs before discovering little by little, the capacity to let it go.

That quote, and the library, in a nutshell are why I keep returning to Quaker thought as I let go and move forward. I don’t have to hate or demean my past identity. And, I did indeed, "wear it as long as I could." It has taken many years to shed my evangelical wardrobe. In the letting go, I have learned that I am still me at the core. Evangelical belief fit me well for a long time; it suited me. In many ways it made me who I am today. Who I am today continues to grow and change. The Quaker Way has allowed me to continue to become myself without having to consent to a correct set of values, worldview, or theology. For me, this is a big deal. It is the story I continue to write.

Must Thee Speak? (Part II)

"Seeker: Anyone whose spiritual journey is alive and continuing."

After two weeks of absence, everything in me felt at rest as we joined the Quaker Meeting this morning. We still don't know very many people, we are still learning what it means to be a Friend, but there was something about being present in that oval-shaped room full of people, being still together, that has captured my soul's attention.

Before we started going to Meeting, my first interactions with Quakerism were completely misinformed, or surface-level at best. Like most cereal-eating Americans, I've had my share of mornings staring down the dude on the oatmeal canister (or box) and thought that breakfast food was what Quakers were all about...

 ...and/or staring down the TV screen, watching Wilford Brimley telling me to eat my Quaker oats.

During my childhood, I attended a church camp where Mennonites in bonnets, long skirts, or suspenders played volleyball. I thought they were Amish, and when as I heard the word Quaker over the years, I thought of the Mennonites.  When I read Uncle Tom's Cabin, I learned that Quakers helped guide slaves to freedom, imagining all the while, bonnet and buckle-clad people hammering down a volleyball in the face of their ankle-length, skirt-wearing opponents. And surprisingly, there wasn't much teaching about the Religious Society of Friends in my undergraduate or graduate level theological education; they weren't even mentioned as a cult or sect, which is likely how they would be defined in those contexts.

 About three and a half years ago, while visiting my sister-in-law in Nantucket, I picked up a book by Nathaniel Philbrick, called In the Heart of the Sea. This book gave an historical account of the US whaling industry, which was based in Nantucket and driven mostly by Quakers (yes, these peace-loving folks were part of one of the most violent professions in history). This was my first interaction with the social life of Quakers, giving me miniscule glimpse of what they were like over 300 years ago.

Over the years, I have deeply connected with the work of Parker Palmer and Philip Gulley, Quaker authors who write on spirituality, both of whom sparked my interest in learning more about Quaker practice. Neither are evangelists for Quakerism (evangelism and Quakerism are like oil and water), but their philosophies on life and faith have resonated with my path. I recently learned that Gregg Levoy, a superstar in the career counseling world, is also a Quaker, and has written a seminal work called Callings:Finding & Following an Authentic Life, a book I have recently started reading. Palmer and Gulley were the impetus behind Bob and I attending a Quaker Meeting. I'm glad that I've slowly begun to learn what real, modern-day Quakers are like through reading, and now through attending the Boulder Friends Meeting.

Aside from attending a weekly Meeting, I've learned a lot more about the Quakers in the past seven months, having the chance to be a Friend at the Door for a month, attending a potluck, and reading a newcomers guide to Quakerism. I think I'm beginning to get a sense of what this is all about.

 I found that being a Friend at the Door was not the way best way to get to know the Boulder Friends, or Quakerism on a deeper level, but did provide a way get to know faces, and those faces start to get to know mine. Bob, Claire, and I typically don't stick around too long after Meeting is over because the nap schedule of our two year old tends to win out over socializing. But when we do get to linger, I think people are a bit more comfortable approaching us because they've seen me greeting them every week. I've been hoping, that when we can stick around longer, I can actually have some conversations with Friends to hear about why they are Quakers and what their experience has been like.

Another activity that Bob, Claire and I took part in was a good, old fashioned potluck. Something I have learned through a lifetime of church involvement is that food is central, and potlucks are one of the most common mediums of eating food with others. The first time I heard the term potluck outside of a church setting, I thought people were making fun of Christian practices. I simply did not think other groups of people partook of this socio-culinary secret and were lightheartedly mocking it. To my surprise, over the years I have learned that many groups of people have discovered and utilized this simple way of being together.

Now that I knew that potlucks were commonplace, the Quaker potluck opportunity was no surprise and provided an easy way for us to get to know people in a more intimate setting. I made sure to sign us up for potluck that included Sam, Claire, & Lydia (our friends who invited us to our first Meeting) because we knew they them, and provided a social safety net for us. After Meeting one Sunday, we headed up the winding streets of the Lover's Hill neighborhood, catching expansive views of the Flatirons to the west. We were going to Richard the archaeologist's house, near the top of the neighborhood. Arriving a little early, we decided to keep driving around to avoid awkwardness until our friends got there. There were a variety of houses, all fronting their own unique charm. Some were large and modern, others retro and cottage-like. Bob and I guessed how much property was worth in this area and how we would probably never afford living here.

We looped back around to Richard's, relieved to see that our friends had arrived. Hauling ourselves and food to the front door, we removed our shoes and stepped inside. Richard's cozy home was of the retro, cottage-like style, and was strikingly similar to my childhood home in Florida. I immediately noticed a feature that I have never seen in any home but mine: an in the wall phone shelf. All of the doorways were framed like my Florida home, and there was a similar, homey feel about the place. Richard was very hospitable and got us drinks right away.

Other guests arrived: a non-profit worker, a teacher, a county employee,  and biotech guy. I was immediately introducing myself to people because I have a hard time with strangers standing around, not introducing themselves. After 30 minutes of small-talk, and Bob and I taking turns ensuring Claire didn't destroy this lovely home, it was time to eat. I particularly enjoyed some kale enchiladas and chatted with Cindy (the county employee) about how she got involved in the Quaker community. I was really getting in to what she had to say when Richard paused the conversation to tell us it was time for The Query. Bob and I looked at each other, using our eyes to say: The Query? What the? Here is where the other shoe drops, and we are about to find out that these people are weirdos. Do we grab Claire and find an excuse to hustle out the door?

Our curiosity was stronger than our discomfort, so we stayed to learn about The Query. We, and the rest of the group, moved into the living room and found our seats, chairs in a circle. Just as in Meeting, we were all facing each other. Nate (the biotech guy, and Cindy's partner) explained The Query. With his brawny stature and heart thumping bass of a voice (if Quakers were Amish, then this dude would have completed a barn-raising single handed), he began the description: "This is a time when our Quaker community meets in smaller groups and tries to get a pulse on how attenders and members are experiencing the Meeting. We do this by asking a question, and give everyone a chance to answer. This is an opportunity for each person to share their experience." He then used a metaphor to explain what he meant. "Imagine that we are all sitting around a pond, each of us with a pebble in our hand. Your pebble is your voice. When you speak, it is like throwing your pebble in the water, allowing the ripples to go where they may. Your pebble is not for anyone to take out of the water. When someone throws their pebble, simply notice how it lands, and take it as you will." Basically, it was the Quaker way of saying: Share your honest thoughts, not in aim at any person. And, when you hear a thought, don't react or respond in a way that feels like you are snatching someone's pebble, simply notice. The question we were each to answer:

How have you seen love, received love, and given love, at the Friends Meeting?

Okay, so this wasn't so weird after all! In fact, I felt joy and relief to know that this community cared to ask this question, and cared to hear my response. Listening to each person share their experience, symbolically throwing their pebble in the water, broadened my perspective on the variety of ways that love is present and proactive in this small community. As I write this, this whole things sounds really touchy-feely, in some ways it was. But, it was really more an honest accounting, a sharing of things-noticed, in a way that everyone could speak, and be heard--without having to justify or defend their perspective. I didn't get to hear from everyone though because two-year-olds have needs that can't abide a Query. I shared my piece and was out the door, trading places with Bob, to run around the yard with Claire.

Attending the potluck showed me that this group wasn't strange, and if they were strange it was because they were intentional about having conversations that examined the spiritual health of the community. The potluck took me one step closer to an understanding of Friends, but I honestly still felt pretty clueless as we drove away from Lover's Hill.

My turning point for understanding the Quaker way of life has come from reading a little book called the Kama Sutra. Ha! Just kidding, wanted to see if you were still paying attention. Seriously though, I've been reading a book called Being a Quaker: A Guide for Newcomers. A pervasive statement I've noticed in most literature about Quakerism is this: It's hard to describe Quakerism. So along with my reading, I'm continuing simply experience the community for what it is. Let me pause here and clarify something: I am not looking for a new religion. What I am doing is looking for intention. I am looking for a safe place and safe people to walk this path of unknowing with me. I've dismantled my former belief system without a clue or plan for next steps. As I continue move forward, I need to be around people who aren't concerned about right belief or theology, but instead are simply paying attention. I think this is why this Quaker community has been magnetic for me. I haven't been able to pinpoint it, but reading this book has helped me understand their existence and why it is a haven for someone like me.

Through reading, I've learned that the silent meeting I attend is most like the British version of Quakerism. Many Quaker Meetings in the US have pastors, and some type of hierarchy and have taken on an evangelical flavor. The purpose of the British-style silent meeting is described as a community stillness, with the hope that the Meeting will be "gathered," meaning that attenders will have a collective sense of the Light. That, in the stillness, we are able to experience something deep within, or outside of ourselves that is meaningful or urges us to live out and see the Light in all. Okay, so the Light. That's another Friends term that is loosely defined. Some use the word God, others The Divine, or the Universe, or the thing that all humans have in common. When the word God is mentioned, it could mean a thousand things, and there isn't an assumption that people are talking about the Judeo-Christian God. Even non-theists find a home here, because the thing we all have in common doesn't have to be something outside of us or supernatural. I am at rest here, because I can say with full and hearty certainty that I don't know what/who/if God is, but I do think that there is something that connects us all, something powerful and mundane. The wild and crazy Quakers don't care how I define it. They do care that I don't impose my understandings onto others. Squirrely, huh?


There is a lot more I could say here, but I am starting to bore myself. Well, actually it isn't boring to me, but I am feeling like could easily stray away from my personal experience of the process and start writing a book report. There are some other intriguing facts I'm reading about that I want to see in action: No hierarchy (I have seen this in some ways)--decisions are not made democratically, nor by consensus. Yeah-that is interesting and I can't wait to attend a Meeting for business and see how that works. And, I haven't even gotten to share how someone actually determines whether or not that will speak during a Meeting. I included a picture below that hangs right outside the Meeting room that is a decision tree as to whether or not one should speak in a Meeting: fascinating.

I still feel like I am at the tip of the iceberg in all of this. There is much more to ponder and write about. What has been most striking as I've been writing, is that these last two Quaker posts are just the tip of the iceberg for me too. The part under water is the part I've been writing about for months, the whole story of how I got to where I am today, how my identity is shifting. I'm just now feeling brave enough to peek out and invite others to my underwater world of magic and angst. So my friends, and Friends, there is more to come. More that I hope resonates or brings something to light in your own path as I figure out how to bring mine to light. Or Light. Take it as you will.

So, I couldn't figure out how to flip this. It is worth it to flip your laptop or crane your neck.

Coming out Quaker...maybe. (Part I)

After several months of sitting in silence I decided to take the next step toward getting involved. For the month of May I have volunteered to be a Friend at the Door. I shake peoples' hands, smile and say hello, and wonder what I have gotten myself in to.

Every week since mid December, Bob, Claire, and I have been showing up at the Boulder Friends Meeting. Every week, we've walked into a small, unassuming, unadorned building. Many people, mostly of a generation or two older than ours, say hello. It's small. Small enough that everyone knew we were visitors for our first couple of weeks. And, small enough for everyone to know that we kept coming back.

Going to our first Friends Meeting was strange and unexpectedly refreshing. The 20 minute drive from home to north Boulder was punctuated by our arrival into a tranquil neighborhood, where we meandered to the Meeting's dirt parking lot that faces a school playground accessorized by the Rockies. After parking Bob's giant, youth group-sized, Sit Means Sit dog training van,  the three of us crossed a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood street and walked toward the Meeting House. There is a Peace Pole in the front yard and the Meeting House looks alien (dare I say, cult-ish) in the middle of this conventional neighborhood. The building is circular and cement with big windows that look like the Cheshire Cat's mouth grinning open toward the foothills. There are solar panels on the roof. Around back is sprawling play area that backs up against a small animal farm.

Our tentative curiosity compels us toward the Friend-flanked entrance, where we are greeted by kind, gray-haired people who orient us to Meeting. Marilyn helped us create our name tags (name tags???!!!), showed us the class where Claire would play, and where to go for the official Meeting. The inside of the building is simple, like the outside, and smelled like baked goods (of the gluten-free variety). All the Friends' name tags are on a table just inside the entrance. There is a nook with benches, and pictures of all the attenders. Near the Meeting room there is another table overflowing with literature on Quaker beliefs and practice. We walk past a library, and another table with more literature, mostly about peace and Quaker activism, sans brochures about the 18th century whaling industry. The displayed values resonated with me, but I was hesitant and intensely curious to know what this was all about.

We dropped Claire off in her classroom with her buddy, Lydia (the daughter of our friends who already attend this Meeting). There were a myriad of toys, blocks, colors, and crafts, as well as a table that looked like it belonged in a science class. The table held fragile snake skins, old honeycombs, sea shells, deer antlers, and some rocks and gems. The classroom windows look out onto the  playground. A painting of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. greeted us as we headed out of the class and toward the Meeting. If we got to the Meeting room past 10am we'd have to wait outside, or as I call it--get bounced, Quaker style--until the doors reopened at 10:15.

The plain, wooden double-doors were propped open, inviting us in to the Meeting room. Once inside, we searched the oval-shaped room for chairs facing the mountains. There was no stage, no podium, no pastor, no choir, no iconography, no symbols, no front or back of the room. No one told us what was going on. There was no bulletin or Power Point on a screen telling us when Meeting starts, or who talks first, or what comes next. It is a simple room with the Cheshire Cat-grinning windows, and chairs set up in a circle, rows in a circle. People were already seated and silent. We learned later that the Meeting officially starts when the first person arrives.

We found seats in an old creaky pew against an east-facing wall; all the mountain seats were taken. The pews were  included in the rows in a circle. We all faced each other.  The doors closed at ten and we sat in silence. The doors reopened at 10:15 and late arrivers quietly found east-facing seats too. The doors closed again, and we sat in silence for an hour. There was no program, mostly silence. Had we not done some research beforehand, and talked with friends who are current attenders, we probably would have left during that first 15 minutes. In fact, we saw some visitors a few weeks ago who sat in Meeting for 10 minutes, then abruptly left. I could understand. It's awkward. Once you're in Meeting, no one looks you in the eye and there is no formal explanation as to why 50 or 60 people are all sitting in a circle, silent. Every belly growl, throat gurgle, cough, sneeze, crinkly shift in the seat, rustle of clothing, (was that a fart?), or snore--yes, snore, goes unaddressed and is simply part of the meditative silence. Friends are welcome to stand and break the silence with words or song--as long as what they say is something they believe is for the good of all to hear. Only three or four typically break the silence.

 In the silence, I looked around the room and pictured each individual in traditional Quaker bonnets or hats. I thought of oatmeal. I sort of giggled inside, but was also aware of how a bonnet or hat would not hide the uniqueness of each face, yet would veil hair (or lack thereof) in a way that limits my assumptions of what each person is like. My thoughts meandered. I enjoyed having a silent hour to simply think. I wondered if anyone would stand and talk, and what they would say. I also wondered if I would explode in a pyrotechnic flash if I looked anyone directly in the eyes.

A more seasoned Friend tenuously broke the silence to share a thought, something he believed to be meaningful. He told the familiar Christian story about the maniacal King Herod killing all the babies in Judea that were two years and under because he heard about a new king that was born (baby Jesus). The friend noted that the inclusion of King Herod in the Christmas narrative was interesting and  how this might be like one of our Presidents ordering soldiers to come to our houses and and kill our kids that are two or younger. The Friend mentioned how poignant this story was in light of little children being massacred in Newtown (our first Meeting was around this time). And, how our answer to atrocities like Herod's or Lanza's or anyone's is to swoop in with a stronger army, a bigger sword, a more powerful weapon, or an armed teaching staff, in order to annihilate the offenders. Then, the Friend spoke of an innocent baby in a manger as the answer, the response, to atrocity. How, the answer to Herod's rapacious violence (or a teenaged gunman), was and is peace.

Over the past several years, and despite a bachelor's degree in Biblical Studies, a Master's degree from an evangelical seminary, the first decade of my adult life devoted to the ministry, and a life-changing relationship with Jesus, I have relinquished a key cornerstone of evangelical theology-- that Jesus is God and that having Jesus in our hearts, is the salve we all need. This has been a thoughtful, curious, contemplative, and anxiety-ridden process that has left me wondering if some of the closest people in my life would reject me (or pray for me), or think me foolish or uninformed. Ultimately I am at peace with this transition, and my relinquishing this cornerstone belief  does not diminish the importance of a person like Jesus, and his life and teachings that were and are counter-cultural. And, as the man at the Quaker meeting said, it does take a certain (for me, monumental) amount of faith to believe that the answer to humanity's severity towards ourselves, is not to take up arms, but to follow the example of a Jewish holy man, and others like him, who are bent on compassion.

As I have been reconfiguring my spirituality, the part of the Christmas story that resonates with me is that no matter what I believe about Jesus, that the point of the story was to show us a different way to live. This different way is what continues to make sense for me, even though in the eyes of much of the Christian and non-Christian world--and my own little world, to exchange a sword for a plowshare, really makes no sense at all. The Quakers don't require me to adhere to any doctrine (save for an hour of awkward silence on a Sunday morning), so I am welcome among them, regardless of what I think about Jesus.

The beauty of a Quaker meeting is that when someone stands to talk, and perhaps says something I might disagree with, I can simply take it as I will. The speaker has no authority, and the intent is not to impose one's thoughts in absolutist terms. It is understood that when a Friend speaks, the attitude is "take it as you will" for all hearers. As if to say, this is not a mandate, or an assertion of what is "right," but it is meaningful to you, take it, if not, let it be.There are some weeks when no one speaks and the meditative silence goes unbroken. There are other weeks when a handful of Friends break the silence, and the spoken words are quite meaningful, representing a wide variety of worldviews and contemplative thought.

In the broken silence since the first meeting, I've heard poets quoted, Shamans' wisdom, The Byrd's lyrics, physicist's musings, civil rights inspiration, farmers' observations--all varieties of attenders' meaning-making from everyday life. A devout Quaker would say that these spoken words are inspired by the divine in us all, or the Divine Light. A few weeks ago I heard the most contemplative rendering of the Lord's Prayer, sung in the kind of way that drew my soul outward in the form of tears. It truly seemed to be inspired by some version of light.

During our first Meeting, and every meeting since, there has been no formal prayer, no collective singing. Except one time, when an individual broke the silence with aforementioned  Byrd's lyrics. Just about everyone joined in, singing word's borrowed from Ecclesiastes....there is a season, turn turn turn. Seriously, we sang those lyrics, and it made sense in the moment. And, seriously, no Kool-Aid (or recreational marijuana) was passed around at the Meeting either.There is no reading of scripture or sacred writing, unless quoted by someone who stands to speak.  I've learned that this is a liberal-universalist Quaker Meeting (they are not all like this) and that all worldviews are respected and allowed a voice.

I am learning too, that the collective silence, and the few voices that speak, are actually an engaged community. As a group, we intentionally leave ourselves open to a thought, an idea, a compulsion, an inspiration, a divine whisper, or maybe to our to-do list or life's anxieties. It is a community of people who are intentional about meaning, purpose, and spirituality in life. I am learning that people genuinely care about each other too.

During that first Meeting, and every meeting since, there is a time at the end, when the silence is officially broken indicating that the end of Meeting is near, when we hear attenders' joys and sorrows. The first time this happened I rolled my internal skeptic eyes, thinking that people would just use this to talk about things like their neighbor's best friends' dog with conjunctivitis and how we should all be concerned (and, please, don't touch your eyes!). I quickly learned that there are "rules" about sharing, and that joys and sorrows should be about something that directly impacts you or your family. First, are the sorrows, and they are tough sorrows: a man whose wife died and left behind himself and a teenaged son; another, battling cancer and trying to stay strong; one young man and his mom who have been severely mistreated and abused by an ex-husband/father; others who are caring for aging parents and feeling the stress and grief of the process. When sorrows are shared, the Friend who is facilitating asks all attenders to hold each sorrow-bearer in the Light, and we all observe a moment of silence. I am usually holding back some serious tears, or just letting them flow. Thank goodness for the joys! They are joyful: an attender who was recently in prison is now free; a volunteer for a local homeless shelter has collected umpteen pairs of socks for those in need; people who are mentally or physically sick are recovering; many people my parents' age celebrate, through tears of joy, children and grandchildren coming to visit. I always think of my parents when this type of joy is shared, and feel a pang of sadness at being so far away.

Honestly,  my Quaker experience hasn't been that different from the evangelical churches I have experienced as a child, and as a pastor: people intentionally sharing life and spirituality together, and people who genuinely love and care for each other. The greatest differences lie in some of the values and beliefs, and possibly the basis for that love, care, and spirituality. As I have been realizing this, and recognizing that I need a safe context to continue to grow as a person and explore the evolution of my spiritual life, I needed to start to get to really know the people who are part of this community.

I decided to become a Friend at the door (aka Greeter) so I could actually get to know people. I've been trying to determine whether or not I want to be part of a Quaker community, and allow myself to be known, trusting others with myself in a spiritual environment. So far, Bob and I have been pleasantly surprised, appreciating silence, as well as rich conversations about our own spirituality with each other mostly, and a few chats here and there with Friends. I am learning to slowly tell the truth about myself in this context; that conversation usually starts out something like, "I grew up in a conservative evangelical context, worked as a pastor, and long story short do not identify with it anymore..." Everyone I have talked to "gets it," and there is no need on the Friends' part to know what Bob or I believe, no pressure to conform to anything, really.  I love that Claire can be part of an intentionally spiritual and socially active, multi-generational community and is already supported by so many. This is something that I am deeply grateful for from my own childhood experience at church, and believe this is highly valuable for Claire.

As I've shaken many hands at the door, sat in silence listening to a symphony of human bodily functions, and continue to reflect on my own spiritual pilgrimage, I'm gradually finding freedom and acceptance in who I am and how spirituality continues to be deeply ingrained in my life. In the midst of it all, I still don't know quite yet, what I have gotten myself in to, but I plan to let you know what I find out.