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.
