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No Cross, No Crown: Quaker Perspectives on The Meaning of Easter By Anthony Manousos Perhaps more than any other Biblical narrative, the story Christ's death and resurrection arouses profound uneasiness as well as hopes. Some may feel qualms about a holiday that has been associated with Christianity's most virulent anti-Semitic outbursts. Others may be turned off by the idea that a man "just like us" supposedly rose from the dead. Still others may be disturbed by the Easter story's unflattering picture of the human condition. It is no wonder that people try to trivialize this event by turning it into a matter of bunnies and eggs! (Although it could be worse: this spring I saw a card with a group of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, their weapons blazing, urging us to "have a blast" on Easter.) No matter how uncomfortable the Easter story may make us, and no matter how hard we try to avoid its message, it cannot be denied that the death and resurrection of Christ is crucial to an understanding of Christianity and also to the way of early Friends. Sooner or later we have to confront the meaning of the Crucifixion the way we must confront the question, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Like a Zen koan, the Easter story challenges us to reflect on questions beyond the reach of conventional thinking. Why did a man who called himself the Prince of Peace go into Jerusalem and deliberately provoke the authorities? If there is "that of God" in every one, why did religious leaders and their followers want Jesus to be crucified? Finally, what do we make of the fact that Jesus' followers not only believed that Christ rose from the dead, but were willing to stake their lives on this conviction? These tough questions deserve serious reflection because they challenge our customary beliefs and practices. Do we have the courage to face our inner demons, as Jesus did? Are we willing to take on those whom psychologist Scott Peck calls "people of the lie"? How do we respond to the reality of torture, genocide, and other unspeakable evils that plague our world? And what meaning do the death and resurrection of Christ have for our lives today? Over the past couple of years, I have made it a practice to reflect on these questions during the forty days preceding Easter. I should point out that, like most Quakers, I am not an orthodox Christian (though I happen to have been baptized one). I draw insights from Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, and Native people. For me, true religion is not about dogma; it's a way of life and an inner awareness that is available to people of all faiths. The Way is beyond words and names. Any attempt to define or to chart it is bound to be inadequate. But if we keep in mind Hiyakawa's observation that "the map is not the territory," we can learn from observing those who have walked the path before us. We can view the Easter story not only as an historical event, but also as a kind of spiritual map with signposts pointing us in the direction of Truth. Sometimes called the Way of the Cross, this journey can be broken down into four distinct stages: 1) The temptation in the desert. Confronting one's inner demons. The Lenten experience. 2) Entering Jerusalem. Professing one's inner truth, no matter what the price. "Speaking truth to power." 3) The crucifixion. Dying to self-will. 4) The resurrection. Experiencing the new creation and new life of the Spirit. In the first part of these reflections, I will use examples from the historical experience of Friends to describe the way of the Cross as it was imaged and experienced in the seventeenth century. In the second part, I will use examples drawn from my own experience and that of contemporary Friends, some of whom may not consider themselves Christian, but whose spiritual journey has embodied similar stages. The Cross and Early Friends In reflecting on early Friends' attitude towards the Cross, I am reminded of what James Baldwin once said about the African-American experience of Christianity: "White Americans learned about the Cross from a book, but black Americans learned about the book from the Cross." The same may be said about Fox and early Friends: they did not learn the Cross from the Bible, but rather they learned about the Bible through the Cross. In the 17th century, thousands of Friends were arrested, tortured, and jailed for their beliefs. Despite incredible persecution, they did not lose faith in the power of love. Perhaps the most remarkable document of this period, or of any period, is a petition signed by 164 Friends and sent to Parliament in 1659: Given the dangerous conditions of British jails at this time, it is hard to imagine a more striking application of Jesus' definition of love: "No greater love hath a man than he lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). Clearly, the experience of the Cross was a life-transforming one for early Friends, giving them the strength to do things that we can scarce imagine doing ourselves today. What, then, did the Cross mean to Fox and early Friends? Seeing the Crucifixion and the Resurrection in a New Light Like most people of his era, Fox took for granted the literal truth of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection. He seems never to have doubted that Jesus Christ was the son of God, was nailed to a cross, and rose from the dead. What was highly unusual, however, is that Fox referred to the literal death and resurrection of Christ as an historical precedent for validating equality between men and women: According to Fox, the testimony of women regarding the Resurrection seemed like a mere fantasy to Christ's male (chauvinist) disciples. But because women were the first to experience and witness to the Resurrection, they became equally entitled to be ministers of the Gospel. This was a radical view at the time, but one that Fox believed was rooted in historical fact. As I will show later, Fox's open-minded approach to the Resurrection is at the heart of authentic Quaker understanding of the Christian story. ( Elizabeth Watson's recent attempts to re-tell the Gospel from the viewpoint of its women is in keeping with Fox's revolutionary approach to reading Scripture.) The Cross as a Means for Spiritual Transformation Important as the literal death and resurrection of Christ was to Fox, the "inward cross" was even more compelling. Experiencing the "inward cross" is what gives spiritual meaning and power to one's life. For this reason, Fox advised Friends: Taking up one's daily cross was the basis of Friends' spiritual discipline. It meant stripping everything superfluous in our lives so that our souls can stand naked and unafraid before the presence of the living God. It meant separating ourselves from worldly love objects in order to draw closer to divine Love. Finally, it meant renouncing the evil within oneself, and turning one's life over to God, the source of all goodness. As Fox declares, The Cross is the spiritual foundation for our Quaker testimony on simplicity and "speaking truth to power." When you stand in the shadow of the cross and look up at the face of the naked, suffering Christ, you realize how vain and foolish it is to worry about material things. You also realize that living the Truth may require great sacrifices, even imprisonment and death. Fox warned Friends that if they did not follow the way of the Cross, if they slackened in their faith, they would be in grave spiritual peril. "Keep to the Cross of Christ, the power of God," Fox exhorted. "If you do not keep in this power of God....you will come to crucify to yourselves the Son of God afresh, and put him to open shame" (Letters: 120, 1681). Abandoning one's cross leads to spiritual death and even acts of violence against the just (Journal 391). Friends believed that conventional Christianity turned the Cross into a mere ritual devoid of inward experience. When Christianity becomes merely a matter of words and dogma, the spiritual meaning of Christ's death and resurrection is perverted. William Penn's polemic No Cross, No Crown shows how external rituals distract us from inwardly experiencing the redemptive power of Christ's death and resurrection. In Penn's view, we can only enjoy the divine crown when we take up the cross of simplicity. Then as now, some Friends missed the point of Christ's sacrifice and continued to live their lives in the same old disorderly fashion. Fox writes of a man named Rice Jones, who became a convinced Friend but refused to give up "vices" such as wrestling and football. Jones' wild and undisciplined behavior was leading others from the faith, so Fox denounced Jones before his followers in rather harsh terms. Fox concludes, "They denied the inward cross, the power of God, and so went into vanity" (Journal 338). This may seem "judgmental" to us, but early Friends had high expectations of behavior from those who professed their faith. Friends who were willing to risk jail and confiscation of their property for the sake of their beliefs did not take the way of the Cross lightly. Under its strict discipline, the Quaker movement flourished. The more the movement was persecuted, the larger it grew. Nowadays we have lowered our expectations and membership in the Religious Society of Friends has dwindled. These two developments may not be unrelated. A recent study revealed that the fastest growing churches in the United States today are the ones that challenge their members to make the largest personal and financial sacrifices. If Quakerism is to flourish, modern Quakers may have to take more seriously Penn's phrase, "No Cross, No Crown." The Cross as an Instrument of Social Transformation For early Friends, the Cross was both a personal discipline and a method of social change. Once we accept the Cross and live in its power, we are freed to become effective instruments for "mending the world." As William Penn made clear: For Penn, the Cross is a liberating experience. It empowers us to do God's will with the courage of a soldier. It frees us from worrying about what other people think of us. It is not an object for mere contemplation; rather, it excites our desire to end oppression and suffering in the world. Throughout its history, Quakerism has produced men and women who have indeed lived under the Cross. They risked and sacrificed much in order to make this world a better place. They devoted themselves to their families and to those in need. They ministered to members of their meetings. They visited prisoners, fed the hungry, protested war and injustice. They experienced and shared the liberating power that comes from selfless service. Are we willing to take up our Cross, as did early Friends, and make sacrifices and take risks for the sake of our beliefs? Without acknowledging the Cross and its teaching, we may forget that genocide and oppression and other social ills begin in our own hearts, and must be confronted there on a daily basis. We may ignore the fact that people like Jesus and George Fox "stirred up God's good trouble," and that we are called to take similar risks. Without the Cross, religion can become a tranquilizer, a pain-killer, or a sleeping-pill. The Cross is a wake-up call from God, rousing us from the troubled sleep of apathy into a new day of social commitment and love. Remembering the Cross After two thousands years, some of the meaning and shock value of the cross has worn off; it has become for many a comforting symbol of religious tradition, and for others a "red flag" reminding them of Christianity's failings. But if we could somehow transport ourselves back to the second century, and look at the cross with the eyes of Jesus' contemporaries, we would see how scandalous this image really is, and how astonishing it must have seemed to early believers. Imagine a noose or an electric chair as an object of worship! Why then put the Cross, that symbol of humanity's worst impulses, at the center of one's religious faith? Before attempting to answer this question, it should be noted that Friends are not supposed to put any images in their worship space. Early Friends were so concerned about focusing on the "inward Cross" that meetinghouses were as austere as the cells of a desert hermit. But modern Friends occasionally deviate from this austerity by decorating their meeting space with flowers or other pretty objects. Unlike the cross, such images are in keeping with our comfortable, modern faith in natural goodness. These little bouquets are like the touching messages that one occasionally hears at meeting: "I went out for a walk in the woods today, and I felt close to God" or "If only we could convince people to be reasonable and loving, and to pray together, we could achieve world peace!" These are "nice" sentiments. But early Quakers, like early Christians, knew better. They knew that peace has a price. "No Cross, No Crown," wrote Penn. Strip all ornaments from religion, he said, and stand naked before Truth. Before you can experience "that of God" in other, you have to face what George Fox called the "ocean of darkness." There is no darker moment in the 20th century than the Holocaust. For this reason, I have made it a practice to take groups of students, including Quaker teenagers, to the Simon Wiesenthal Museum of Tolerance in downtown Los Angeles. This museum not only commemorates the Holocaust, but it also attempts to open our eyes and ears to the darkness of racism and bigotry in contemporary society. For instance, in the "hall of bigotry," you walk down a darkened corridor and hear voices whispering insults like "male chauvinist pig," "dago," "nigger" and finally, "Jew boy." Exhibits like these are intended to shock us into realizing what it feels like to be the victim of prejudice. The museum also presents graphic reminders that the 20th century has been the era not just of scientific progress, but of that peculiarly modern form of mass murder known as genocide. Beginning with the mass slaughter of Armenians by Turks, our century has seen one blood bath after another: the holocaust of Jews, the mass exterminations by Pot Pol Communists, and most recently, "ethnic cleansing" in Serbia and Bosnia. The vast numbers slaughtered during these acts of genocide can be mind-numbing, so the museum tries to "personalize" the victims. Before entering a reconstructed Nazi death camp, each visitor is given a "passport" with the name and life history of a single person who was killed. You can also go to computer terminals and hear videotaped testimonials of survivors. Efficient though the Nazis were in their diabolic misuse of technology, they failed to obliterate the Jews or Jewish culture. The victims of the Holocaust live on in the memory banks of these high tech computers, and in our hearts. The Cross serves a similar purpose, reminding us that at the very heart of human existence is suffering--the slaughter of innocence. If we stare long enough into what Fox called "ocean of darkness," we also see that those who have tried to exterminate the Truth have failed utterly, and always will. This act of remembering the Cross, like that of remembering the Holocaust, can be painful as well as redemptive. It is disquieting to recall the complicity of so-called Christians who went along with the Nazi regime. But it is salutary to remember those who heeded the cries of the victims and were true followers of Christ. They are called by the Jews "the Righteous of all Nations." Among these were many Quakers. However, the figure who most caught my imagination was a Greek Orthodox archbishop who was asked by the Nazis to list all the Jews on his island. "Why should I?" he replied. "The Jews have lived here peacefully with us for centuries. We consider them Greeks." When the Nazis insisted, the Archbishop took a piece of paper and wrote down a single name: his own. Remembering the Cross, like remembering the blood smeared on the doorposts of Jewish homes during Passover, is another way of remembering God. For the Moslem, the act of prayer is called dikr, remembering. The more that I recall (literally, "call back") enlightened souls such as Jesus and Fox and Woolman and Lucretia Mott and countless others, the more present they seem to me. Paul spoke of being surrounded by a "cloud of witnesses" who cheered him on as he ran his spiritual race (Hebrews 12:1). Joanna Macy, a Buddhist psychologist, conducts a guided meditation in which she asks people to visualize a giant ball in which every act of kindness and self-sacrifice is stored. "Imagine this ball of merit as a reservoir of strength that you can draw from," she says. Sometimes, in my prayers, I can feel a host of friendly presences laying their hands on my shoulders. Remembering our spiritual fathers and mothers and their deeds of kindness and self-sacrifice can give us new life and new strength to do the work that we are called to do. The Lenten Experience Lent is associated with the fourth-century Christians who followed Jesus' example and went into the desert for a period of prayer and fasting as a way of getting into closer touch with God. The desert is a place where we encounter the Truth and the Truth encounters us. Desert spirituality means much more than getting out of the noise of the city into the silence of the wilderness. In the desert, life is reduced to the utter simplicity of "What Is." On the desert, there is no name for God other than "I exist." There is no place for diversions, distractions, luxuries or trivia. When Friends speak of "simplicity," they are recalling this desert experience.Like the Hebrews who were called out of Egypt into the desert to wait for Moses at the foot of Mt. Sinai, we are called to the utter simplicity of desert living, so that nothing might stand between us and the living God. The desert experience begins with the deliberate decision to deny one's physical pleasure to receive a greater spiritual treasure. But Lent is more than just self-denial, it is also a time self-examination. Jesus went to the desert to confront the forces of darkness within himself. This is a journey that each of us must take if we want to know ourselves, and to know God. Self-examination does not mean a morbid fixation on our shortcomings; it means trying to be realistic-- acknowledging the failings that are really ours and then resolving to set things right. For several years, I used to go out to the Nevada nuclear test site with a group of Friends for what was called "the Lenten Desert Witness." In early spring, as the wildflowers begin to bloom, the desert was surprisingly beautiful. Looking out over the blue mountains in the distance, it was hard to believe that just over the ridge a village of scientists and workers was busily planning the most efficient means to create weapons of mass destruction. Most of these people had no qualms whatever about what they were doing; many were no doubt church-goers. Witnessing in the desert with like-minded Friends was a powerful spiritual experience. We ate, slept and prayed together. Many of us were arrested, manacled, and kept in holding pens by the state troopers. Sharing our feelings and our stories while hand-cuffed, we felt deeply connected to each other and to the source of Life. We worshipped together under the open sky, acutely conscious that we were standing on holy ground, and that this ground belonged not to us, but to the Native People and to the Great Spirit. (Before beginning our vigil, we were given "passports" by local indigenous people, who were trying to reclaim their land.) During a time of worship, a woman confessed how deeply sorry she felt for the way that white people had desecrated this beautiful and sacred land. Her voice choked with emotion and her pangs of conscience flowed through the entire group. Finally, after a long and painful silence, a Native American woman spoke: "Our elders have heard your words, and so has the Great Spirit. And they forgive you." It was as if the Earth herself were speaking. No moment of worship has ever been more precious. You don't have to go to the desert to confess your shortcomings and experience healing. One of the most important spiritual experiences of my life was attending the "Surrender Group" at Princeton Meeting. This group was started by Herrymon Maurer, a Friend whose translation of the Tao Teh Ching draws fascinating connections between Taoism, John Woolman, and Jewish mysticism. Each week we met to reflect upon "Ten Queries" that were based upon the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. One of the queries that I remember best is, "Are you willing to take a fearless moral inventory of your life?" There is a real power in conducting this kind of inventory, whether you do it alone or in a group. When we examine ourselves alone, however, we are apt either to wallow in vague, unspecified guilt ("I'm a terrible person! Poor me!") or to deny our guilt entirely ("I'm okay, the world's okay"). In a group, or with a friend, it is sometimes easier to be more specific and honest. Such honest acknowledgment of our shortcomings can profoundly change our behavior. In the course of a vigorous self-examination, one discovers that just as there is "that of God" in each of us, there is also "that of the devil." During the time of Fox, the devil was often seen as something purely external. Fox resisted the temptation to see evil as something "out there," apart from oneself, that had to be combated, often by force of arms. Fox realized that by far the most dangerous demons are those we carry within us: Horrified by this glimpse of human evil that each of us carries inside, Fox asks: This experience corresponds to what Carl Jung called "facing one's shadow." Long before Jung, Fox recognized that we must confront the dark side of ourselves before we can be of psychological or spiritual assistance to others. Friends prefer talking about the "darkness" rather than about "sin," perhaps because this latter concept has been used to manipulative ways. The Catholic theologian Matthew Fox (no relation to George) once pointed out that the church invented sin so that priests could administer sacraments and thereby control people. It is for this reason that Fox (George, not Mathew) infuriated the 16th-century religious establishment by insisting that those who have given up self-will and are living in the Light are no longer sinners; they live in the state that Adam was before the fall. The Puritanical sometimes use the concept of sin as a peculiar form of self-advertisement. John Bunyan, for example, wrote a popular book confessing (or was he boasting?) that he was "the chief of sinners." Nowadays, people go on television parading their sins in a parody of penitence. Such self-advertising guilt is not new, nor is it spiritually helpful. Some of Jesus' contemporaries "repented" with such ostentatious fervor that Jesus finally said, "Enough of this!" He instructed to keep their penitence and fasting as a private encounter with God, rather than trying to show the public how sinful (and therefore how holy) they were. As those in AA learn, we are wise not to make a big deal out of our misdeeds and our repentance. As we mature in our spiritual life, we come to see our shortcomings in a larger social context and as part of a larger divine order. When mistakes are made, they are to be acknowledged and learned from. Just as we cannot achieve spiritual health alone, we do not become not spiritually sick alone. Each of us is interrelated. We each carry the seeds of war and social dis-ease inside ourselves. As Woolman notes in an often quoted passage, "O that we declare against wars, and acknowledge our trust to be in God only, may walk in the Light, and therein examine our foundations and motives in holding great estates...." Once we have acknowledge our complicity with the society that fosters injustice, war, and numerous forms of neuroses, we can begin the process of healing not only ourselves, but also our community. Self-Sacrifice and Fasting The Lenten experience also entails some form of self-sacrifice--giving up food or some other pleasure that stands between us and God. The point of sacrificial giving is to give not just to the level where it feels comfortable, but to give until it hurts. "To turn all of our treasures into channels for universal love is the real business of our lives," is how John Woolman put it. Self-sacrifice opens the door to love as we learn to care for others the same way that we care for ourselves. Like repentance, the act of self-sacrifice can be perverted. Take, for instance, the phrase which I am sure that many of us had heard (or perhaps uttered) at least once in our lives: "I made all these sacrifices for you, and look how you treat me." Playing the martyr is not self-sacrifice; it's just a power trip with fancy bows and wrapping. To understand self-sacrifice, we need to look at its root meaning: "to make sacred." To sacrifice oneself means to "make oneself a sacred gift, an offering" to God or to others. True self-sacrifice is not about pain and self-deprivation, except in the sense that a drug addict experiences pain when going cold turkey. Self-sacrifice means giving up an addiction to a lesser good so that we can experience ultimate goodness. Giving up alcohol or heroin may be painful at first, but in the long run, sobriety is much more satisfying than addiction. For this reason, self-sacrifice can be one of life's most fulfilling experiences. What a relief it is to say, "I am not a slave to my own selfish desires. I can choose not to eat candy or to drink alcohol or to be judgmental." Each time one gives up a lesser good for the sake of a greater good, one is "making oneself sacred." What freedom and joy such self-sacrifice bring! For early Christians, "going without meat" meant "enabling your brother to eat"--or as we would say it today, "living simply so that others can simply live." In 128 A.D. Aristides explained to Emperor Hadrian the strange manner in which Christians lived: "When someone is poor among them, who has need of help, they fast for two or three days and they have the custom of sending him the food which they had prepared for themselves." Early Quakers had the same reckless habit of sharing with others: "Justices and captains had come to break up this meeting, but when they saw Friends' books and accounts of collections concerning the poor...they were made to confess that we did their work....And many times there would be two hundred beggars of the world there, for all the country knew we met about the poor....." (Journal 1660 p. 373). The spiritual power of fasting and sharing with the poor came home to me recently when I helped organize a program for Junior Friends. During one of our planning sessions, I showed a video about starving children and asked how many of the teens would be willing to "give up meat so that others could eat." To my surprise, the entire group said that they would! Fasting is something that Friends don't ordinarily do, especially out here in California, so I was taken aback by the enthusiasm with which these young Friends looked forward to self-denial. It was as if they had a spiritual hunger that could only be satisfied by giving up what teens sometimes seem to value most---food! During Quarterly Meeting, our small, but enthusiastic group fasted for 30 hours to raise money for relief and development work in Third World countries. During the course of our fast, we watched videos, heard talks, and learned about the root causes of hunger in today's world. It's amazing how much more meaningful dry statistics about hunger become when you hear them on a empty stomach! Fasting can be a powerful testimony, as I recently learned from the example of Joseph Havens. A psychologist and a peace activist for many years, Joe published a Pendle Hill pamphlet called The Fifth Yoga. I came to know Joe when he and his wife Teresina ran a retreat center called Temenos on a wooded mountain top near Amherst, Massachusetts. Temenos was a place where peace activists, artists, and spiritual seekers came together for spiritual growth and healing. Joe and Teresina took very seriously the Quaker testimony on simplicity. They had no running water or electricity. They re-cycled everything; even their outhouse was equipped to turn waste products into compost. When I first met the Havens, they were both in their seventies, and yet they seemed full of zest and vitality. At the end of our lunch together, Joe asked me if I liked Greek dancing. Being Greek, I couldn't turn him down, but I wondered how he was going to create music without electricity. It turns out that he had hooked up a stereo system to car batteries. For the next hour, Joe and I danced with Zorba-like exuberance. Never have I met any one who loved life more than Joe Havens. A couple of years ago, Joe came down with Parkinson's disease. As his palsy grew worse and worse, he kept a sense of humor ("Now I really am a Quaker," he once quipped.) But when his condition reached the point that he finally had to go to a nursing home, Joe decided to stop eating. When he died, this final message was sent to all his friends: Joe passed through his final Lenten experience with a clear mind and an open heart. His testimony was both a political statement and an act of love, even of joy. "Look around us!" he affirmed. "Talk to a stranger, hug a friend, or share with your family, but please, do help this wonderful process along." The Lenten experience is not only about penitence and self-denial, it is also about prayer and renewal. For Friends, the highest form of prayer is silent worship. Silent worship, like meditation, can be a wonderfully relaxing and healing experience--a "safe haven" during times of spiritual upheaval. But silent worship can be also extremely painful. Many people (particularly those who are young) find silence so excruciating that they cannot handle it for longer than ten or fifteen minutes. As Caroline Stephen once pointed out, The seventeenth-century Quaker apologist Robert Barclay sometimes talks about meeting for worship as a birthing process. He says that when worshippers get together, their inner struggle can be like the battling of Jacob and Esau within Rebecca's womb. This inner conflict results in "many groans, and sighs, and tears, even as the pangs of a woman in travail...." According to Barclay, it is from this that the name Quakers, i.e. Tremblers, was first derived. Nowadays, Friends are not apt to shake physically from their struggles against self-will. But when difficult issues arise, or when troubled personalities appear on the scene, it is not unusual for Friends to experience times of pain and turmoil, when it feels as if dark forces are tearing the meeting and our souls apart. In silent meetings, it is hard to gloss over or hide from what is painful, neurotic, or demonic within ourselves and our community. During these dark times, it is tempting to withdraw from meeting altogether, or to fall asleep, as Jesus' disciples did in the garden of Gesthemane. But those who stay attentive during these times of spiritual crisis can make some astonishing discoveries. In the heart of darkness one can discern a light that cannot be extinguished---a sense of peace that cannot be shaken--a love that never fails. No one who has ever experienced this peace, this light, would ever want a mere "safe haven." But this peace has a price. In order to taste it, we must take the cup of fear and trembling to our lips and say to the Creator of the Universe, "Let Thy will, not mine, be done." "George Fox is alive and well and living in Pasadena." This thought crossed my mind as I watched a film about Sis Levin, a woman who for a while was director of the AFSC's Middle East program here in Southern California. When Sis's husband Jerry, a CNN Bureau Chief, was kidnapped and held hostage in Lebanon in 1983, neither the Reagan Administration nor CNN did anything to help; in fact, they tried to silence the families of those who came to known as the "forgotten hostages." After a long, agonizing period of waiting and praying, Sis finally found the courage to "speak truth to power." She didn't just write polite, carefully worded letters. Aided by Friends such as Landrum Bolling (former president of Earlham college), she took her case to the media, and to her own faith community. In the movie, she is shown squirming in her pew as Episcopal clergymen conduct a "peace and justice" service. Unable to stand it any longer, she rises and exclaims, As she passionately explains her concern, some shout, "Shut up and sit down," while others insist, "Let her speak." Leaving the church in an uproar, Levin rushed out. Neither she nor her church would ever be the same. This kind of impassioned behavior was typical of George Fox and early Friends. By entering the public arena and speaking out from the depths of his heart, Fox felt that he was following in the footsteps of Jesus, who confronted the religious leaders of his time on their home turf, the Temple of Jerusalem. Nowadays few of us have the courage to take such risks. We prefer to withdraw into our cozy meetinghouses and meditate. We are reluctant to confront one another or the powers that be. "Comfortable" has become our favorite watchword. As a result, most of us are what Anne Wilson called "traditional Quakers." Courage was the distinguishing characteristic of Quaker life in its spiritually vital early days. In the first decades of the Quaker movement, over 15,000 Friends were arrested and confined to horrible dungeons where many died. Others lost all their property and legal rights. Those who traveled around England spreading the good news of the Peaceable Kingdom came to be called "the Valiant Sixty, " and for good reason: most suffered persecutions comparable to those endured by Soviet dissidents. When Russian historian Tatiana Pavlova first read about early Quakers, what impressed her most was their willingness to run risks and make enormous personal sacrifices. As a Russian familiar with totalitarian repression, she found it incredible that a hundred and sixty-four Quakers signed a petition asking to take the place of those who had been imprisoned for their religious views. When I encounter stories of such courage and faith, I wonder, "How does one get that kind of courage?" I suspect that for most of us, it starts with small actions. It might be something as minor as refusing to sign a draft card or to take an oath. There are basically two forms of courage: the first arising from a natural, and the second from a spiritual base. Both involve discipline. Natural courage is associated with the warrior; spiritual courage with the peacemaker and healer. Warriors live by a code that emphasizes courage, loyalty and duty. These virtues are essentially externally motivated, and so are their rewards: medals, public recognition, and "glory." A soldier's courage is not to be taken lightly, however. Gandhi used to say that one could not be a true peacemaker if one did not have at least as much courage as a warrior. The courage of the healer and peacemaker springs from a deeper source, the power of love. As the Gospels put, "perfect love casts out all fear." Those who are motivated by love are willing to take risks that go far beyond the call of duty. They are sometimes willing to "lay down their lives for their Friends" even when their only reward is resistance, rejection, or even disgrace. Evidence of this self-sacrificing love can be found in all spiritually centered activists. Woolman affirmed that he was "moved by a motion of love" when he worked tirelessly on behalf of the oppressed and met with frequent rebuffs from Friends. Sis Levin became a peacemaker first out of love for her husband, but finally out of a love of truth and justice. Working with Muslims who were victims of war, she learned to appreciate them as much as she appreciated Christians and Jews. Not all acts of courage and love are as conspicuous and newsworthy. Many equally significant acts of faith go unsung and unnoticed, except by the Spirit that knows and sees all. It takes courage to face divorce or rejection and not become bitter. It takes courage to face a long-standing, festering conflict and continue to hope and work for reconciliation. It takes courage to face illness or the loss of a loved one and not lose faith in God's love. It takes courage to affirm the gospel of love and forgiveness in a world seething with violence, self-righteousness, and grievance-collecting. Perhaps the greatest act of courage is to face up to deep-seated problems in oneself and in one's faith community, and do all one can to bring about change. The spiritual life of an authentic faith community is sustained not by rules and procedures, nor by traditions and customs, but by acts of courage and commitment that spring from love. If Jesus had waited till all his disciples "felt comfortable" with his decision to risk death in Jerusalem, if George Fox had waited until a committee gave its approval for him to launch his equally dangerous ministry, it is doubtful that these men would have been allowed to proceed. Every meaningful action entails facing up to the possibility of rejection and death. The Resurrection and the Life Alana Parkes, a Quaker singer and musician, gave the following testimony about Easter in her album entitled "Grace in Your Face": "A couple of years ago, I went on a Quaker retreat for Easter weekend. The purpose of this retreat was to consider Jesus' death and resurrection, to figure out what that meant to us, and to our spiritual lives...On the evening of holy Saturday, we gathered in the dark and prayed together, and tried to imagine ourselves as if we were Jesus' friends waiting in the darkness after his death and wondering what would become of us. As I sat there, I was overtaken by a powerful spirit. I felt as if I were one of his friends, as if I were one the the women who had been his disciples. And I felt this powerful sense that my friend had been taken from me and I cried and cried that night. As I sat with my friends and prayed, we turned towards the morning and considered Jesus' resurrection. In that moment my sorrow was transformed and I felt this incredible joy because I learned something new about death: when Jesus said I will not leave you, I will leave my Spirit and my Comforter will always be with you, I knew that was true, and that was true for me. And over the years I was able to cry not only for the death of Jesus, but of my friend Hunter, who died of AIDS when he was only 23 years old....I learned that Hunter hadn't left me, his spirit was with me. And that knowledge has carried me as two of my other friends were infected with this terrible disease. I know that when they pass on, God will take them in His arms and hold them...." Alana helped to form a Quaker gospel choir whose lead musician, Frederick Evans, died of AIDS in 1994. Never have I heard an album so full of love and life and joy-- yet the specter of death was never far from the minds of its singers. "AIDS is not only all around us, it's in the middle of us," Alana avows. "As scary as this is, we try not to hide from it....What happens if you stop hiding? When we sing, we lift each other up, and are lifted. We love each other very much and love is the tide that carries us. We are so scared, we are so blessed. Find some friends. Look at what is in the middle of your life and sing it..." When I heard these words, and the music accompanying them, my heart opened up, and I wept tears of joy. I had just come back from taking a group of Quaker teens to an AIDS hospice center in L.A. The teens had served food and sung Christmas carols to the residents, and it was a very moving experience. During that time of sharing our feelings about AIDS and dying, we came closer together than we ever had before. It was a moment that none of us will ever forget. Death, and the hope of resurrection, are things that we cannot hide from. How we respond to this mystery says a great deal about who we are, and how we live our lives. There are basically four ways that people respond to the mystery of resurrection: 1) They deny it completely (the skeptical approach) 2) They accept it as an article of faith (the dogmatic approach) 3) They regard it as a symbol (the Jungian approach) 4) They keep an open mind and an open heart (the experiential/existential approach). I would suggest that the fourth approach helps us to get in touch with the heart of our Quaker faith. To deny the Resurrection entirely is to presume that one has certain knowledge and understanding of the universe and its laws. Such an attitude may seem "scientific" and rational, but it really isn't. A real scientist keeps a mind open to all possibilities, even the miraculous. On the other hand, to accept the Resurrection as an article of faith means that one is relying on secondary sources--written words rather than a direct experience. The believer runs the risk of placing a distance between himself and what the Resurrection is all about. Such a blind-faith approach may also lead to authoritarianism. The Jungian perspective appeals to the intellectually minded because it assumes that the Resurrection was a psychological rather than physical reality. The problem with this approach is that we usually do not stake our lives on mere symbols. If the Resurrection is simply an archetype, like that of the mythological Osiris, we can contemplate its meaning with calm detachment. There is no rolling away of the stone, no frantic women running from an open grave in amazement and terror, and no smell of fish when Christ communes with His disciples. For those who staked their life on the Cross, the death of Jesus was not a mere symbol. A real man suffered and died on a real cross, just a real men and women have suffered and died for the Truth throughout history. What, then, can we know for certain about the resurrection? The most honest, the most scientific, and perhaps the most Quakerly, answer is: we don't know. And we never will know for certain. Even if tape recorders and video had existed in the time of Jesus, there would still be an element of doubt. There is a limit to scientific and human knowledge. What we do know is that there was something about Jesus that keeps pushing away the stone from his tomb. Generation after generation, lives are changed, incredible risks are taken, and painful sacrifices are made, because people know in their hearts that Christ lives and is dwelling within and among us. This, to me, is the real miracle of the Resurrection. Many leaders have used personal charisma to persuade their immediate followers to "martyr themselves." But Jesus was somehow able to influence people who never knew him to make the ultimate sacrifice. Paul knew Jesus only from a vision, yet this hard-headed, pious Jew was willing to gamble everything, even his life, on the Resurrection. Why? Because he knew in his heart, from deeply felt personal experience, that Christ cannot die, that Truth cannot be destroyed, and that each of us can, through our faith, can become embodiments of the Truth. Thousands of Quakers and millions of Christians have followed Christ's example and willingly, even cheerfully faced persecution and death. I don't know if I have that kind of faith. Reflecting on this question, a very honest Quaker woman once said to me, "I haven't been tested yet." Although I haven't had to face the ultimate test, I have, like most of us, been "quizzed" on my faith by daily challenges. Hardly a day goes by that I don't have to choose between trust and cynicism, between taking risks and playing it safe, between holding grudges and forgiving those who have hurt me. Each day I must choose between affirming and denying Life. Sometimes I make the wrong choices, and live to regret it But when I choose Life, when I choose to love instead of hate, to forgive instead of judge, to give of myself instead of hold back, I feel a joy and power that is impossible to put into words. Maister Eckard once said, "The important question is not whether Jesus was born in Jerusalem two thousand years ago, but whether Jesus is born in my heart today." That is also the most important question about Easter. What does it matter if Jesus was resurrected two thousand years ago if I am not resurrected today? Perhaps that is why the Quaker song puts the Christ story in the first person. In singing Sydney Carter's "The Lord of the Dance," we are obliged to identify with Christ: The whipped me and stripped me and they hung me on high, And they left me there on a cross to die. They buried my body and they thought I'd gone, But I am the dance and I still go on. They cut me down and I leapt up high, I am the life that'll never, never die. I'll live in you if you'll in me. 'I am the Lord of the Dance,' said he. As I reflect on the mystery of Christ's death and resurrection, I feel immense gratitude that a man named Jesus was willing to gamble his life on the divine potential of us flawed human beings. When a disciple said, "Show me the father," Jesus responded, "If you have seen me, you have seen the father." This statement has often been interpreted to mean that Jesus uniquely embodies the image of God. Such a view is in a way very comforting. It says, "I don't have to do any redemptive work. Jesus will do it all for me." But Jesus did not let his disciples off the hook that easily. What he made clear is that no savior, and no priest, and no paid minister can "do" religion for us. We must work out our salvation for ourselves, in fear and trembling, in love and hope, because just as God can become like us, we can become like God. Jesus says in a seldom quoted passage (it's far too revolutionary!): "To tell you the truth, anyone who trusts in me will not only do what I have been doing, he will do even greater things..." (John 14:12). What a staggering thought! If we trust in the divine potential within us, we will not only equal, but surpass what Jesus did. This is too radical an idea for conventional minds, but it has been the revolutionary faith of Friends since the time of Fox, and it has inspired incredible acts of faith, courage, and love. The redemptive power of God--the eternal Christ---lives in each one of us. And if we are willing to speak our truth, risk rejection and remain faithful to the Light, we will come to know what James and William Penn meant when they spoke of the "crown of life": Blessed are those who persevere under trial, because when they have stood the test, they will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love God--- James 1:12 |