Our Friend Gerald
Hewitson's Swarthmore Lecture,
Journey into Life, is
an uplifting and heartening read. It occurs in two formats: the
original version published by Quaker Books; and the version he
delivered at Yearly Meeting, which is, or will soon be, available on
the Woodbrooke website or on CD from Woodbrooke. I heard the
lecture, but haven't been able to listen again to it yet, so I'm
focusing here just on the printed version. Gerald's readiness to
rework his lecture for oral delivery provides impressive witness to
his understanding that texts, and especially spiritual writing, like
the lives they commemorate, are always work-in-progress, needing
regular rewriting to accommodate them to the new situations in which
they find themselves.
His
lecture tells his own spiritual journey from a poor background in
South Yorkshire through higher education to a career in teaching, and
more than thirty years of committed service as a Quaker. It is a
story read in the light both of Quaker testimonies, from the earliest
Quakers to modern materials collected in Quaker Faith and
Practice, and of the Bible. He
uses the Bible not, as evangelical Christians do, as a source of
proof-texts, but as the source of 'patterns and examples' by means of
which the visionary can articulate his own experience to himself and
others.
The
high points of this spiritual journey are presented straightforwardly
as moments of vision and revelation. When first Gerald goes to
Meeting (at Bangor) a voice speaks in his head to him: 'Why have you
been travelling the face of this planet? There is no need to journey
any more. You are home'. Much later, during a term's residency at
Pendle Hill, he has personal revelations of 'great compassion in the
heart of the Universe', alongside a 'burning anger at social
injustice' and of something which many mystical writers would have
well understood, and which he describes as 'the entire flower of our
being'. Another 'seeing', which comes when he finds himself, newly
retired, in 'the dark night journey of the soul', he describes as
'the love of God streaming through the universe for each and every
one of us – endlessly, ceaselessly, cascading as a benign flood.'
In
these moments he applies to himself a phrase of George Fox: 'Now I
was come up in spirit through the flaming sword into the paradise of
God. All things were new, and all the creation gave another smell
unto me than before, beyond what words can utter.' Fox's experience
will be familiar to most lovers (think, say, of the love poetry of e
e cummings), as well as to those facing their own death or the death
of what they love (think how Dennis Potter, dying of cancer, said of
the cherry tree, outside his study window, that it had the
'blossomiest blossoms he'd ever seen').
Fox
is here blending two kinds of language, the mystical/experiential and
the Biblical, and he is able to do so because he believes that the
words of the Bible were themselves heightened visionary utterances:
'the Scriptures were the prophets' words and Christ's and the
apostles', and what... they spoke they enjoyed and possessed and had
it [directly] from the Lord.' In other words, the words of the Bible
were an outward expression of an inner experience, which Fox and all
convinced Friends share and can confirm from their own experience.
Or, as Gerald puts it (speaking of a whole life and not just words on
the page), 'The outer work of our hands is the result of the inner
work of our heart.' This is not a view of the Bible likely to appeal
to a modern sceptical cast of mind: which, in varying degrees, most
of us share. But Fox's use of the Bible is at least in part a reflex
of the language available to him to talk of ultimate reality. Had he
been born in another age, as Gerald implies, Fox might well have used
a different 'thought frame' to reach his readers. Like all mystics,
Catholic and Protestant, Fox makes a clear distinction between the
practice of contemplation and the credal statements (or Quaker lack
of them) which I think of as the nursery slopes of the spiritual
life.
In
trying to return readers via Fox and his contemporaries to the
biblical roots of Quakerism, Gerald has a very specific quarry in
mind, the many members who have come to Quakers in flight from
wounding experiences in other religious traditions, whether Catholic
or Protestant: people for whom the experience of the Bible, and of
words like 'God' and 'Christ', to say nothing of 'sin' and
'crucifixion', are really difficult to disentangle from the hurts
that accompanied their previous delivery. But he insists that ways
can be found through these hurts to a fuller appreciation of the
truths they enact or point towards. He offers in his own story an
instance of the process. Exposure when young to a Pentecostal
preacher's ranting, 'being called to the front to be prayed over',
has meant that 'language such as “the blood of the Lamb”, “God
sacrificed his son for us”, “needing to be saved” can still
raise the hairs on the back of my neck”.' But his time at Pendle
Hill also included the experience of an American Quaker praying for
and over him, thanking God 'for the meticulous attention paid to our
lives'. The new context, his growth away from the reactive and angry
child, and his ability to trust what was being offered, led him to
feel he was 'encountering Truth'. At the same time, the earlier-noted
vision of his own self as a flower was articulated for him 'in black
American idiom' as '”who we say we are” [which] needs to be
related to “Who we be”'. Probably this articulation of the
spiritual journey – metaphoric, allusive, leaving the word 'God'
out of the frame – will appeal more directly to readers than the
Quaker praying aloud to God in thanks for Gerald. But, the text
insists, both are complementary ways of apprehending and expressing
the one truth.
If
we want to use a single word for this activity of finding ourselves
in the Bible and in early Quaker writing – and, equally, of finding
them in us, as we and they model one another – that word is surely
'translation'. Gerald uses this word to describe the challenge he
finds in translating 'seventeenth-century Quaker speech into the
modern day speech which might be preferred by some readers', since he
has 'barely learned to speak it, let alone translate it.' But he also
offers a striking instance of translation, when John Woolman talks of
his sense of his 'Inner teacher', the 'Christ within', as 'the
presiding chairman.' This phrase is more fully 'translated' 150 years
later by Thomas Kelly: 'it was as if there were in him a presiding
chairman who, in the solemn, holy silence of inwardness, took the
sense of the meeting'. Woolman and Kelly are both using a familiar
idiom to represent an experience for which there are no adequate
words: translating that experience into something homely and ordinary
– a bit like what Christians think happens in the Incarnation. What
is true of early and later Quakers is also true of the stories of the
Bible. For a vivid example, think of Paul's account of a spiritual
rapture in which he was caught up 'into the third heaven' (2 Cor.
12.2) – maybe an out-of-body state: Paul doesn't know – and heard
words that 'cannot and may not be said by any human being'. As
Gerald puts it:
'the
Bible is, at heart, the continuing story of encounter, so it provided
patterns and examples whereby their [Quakers'] new found, newly
discovered experience was described and understood';
and
again:
'their
Biblical reading did not dictate the terms of the encounter, but
helped them capture the sense and meaning of their experience.'
All
the same, this new experience, and its new or more traditional
articulation, cannot be had without cost. Gerald insists on the
(self)-sacrifice that must accompany the journey; and on the pain
that is part of the process: and the first such pain is the serious
consideration that my own view of the world really is limited ('think
it possible that you may be mistaken'). Here Gerald uses an extremely
familiar metaphor (not, as such, biblical, though the Bible uses it
frequently): childbirth, where pain is 'the price that must be paid
for new life' – especially the new life in the spirit to which
Quaker Faith and Practice
constantly witnesses. Gerald starts by modelling 17th-century Quaker
experience, as well as modern Quaker experience, on modern
understandings of psychotherapy. But he rapidly returns to his
difficult project of translating the modern experience by way of the
seventeenth-century, biblically-inspired, Quaker one, when he
adopts/adapts their terminology of crucifixion: 'crucifying the
will', 'going to the cross'. We may find this more difficult than
the psychotherapeutic model to work with: but since 'thought frames
are simply that – a limited perspective on the world' - the
rewards may be as great as the pains, if we make the effort. The
struggle to develop what Buddhists call 'beginner's mind' is the
first pain we must face en route to our new and fuller life.
But,
unlike some doom-laden theologies, the end of this process is not
pain at all, but, on the contrary (a word which Gerald uses twice),
'delight'. Hence that amazing and humbling story of Mary Dyer,
climbing the ladder onto the gallows in Massachusetts in 1660 and
offered her life if only she would come down. She replied that she
could not deny the will of God, in obedience to which/whom she had
put herself in such jeopardy. 'Then one mentioned that she should
have said, she had been in Paradise. To which she answered, “Yea, I
have been in Paradise these several days.”' Mary Dyer doesn't use
the word 'delight' to express her sense of herself, and it might have
felt strange, if not masochistic, had she done so. But that word
seems to me the heart of any true spiritual understanding, the thread
that joins Quakers to the source (God, life, spirit) of their
vitality and will eventually return them fully to it:
'the
voice of that Presence... delights in our unbounding glory'
'the
Quaker answer [to the mystery of the human condition] however
provisional and hesitant, has a delight in life, an acknowledgement
of the richness and complexity of the human experience, and a
wholehearted responsive affirmation to the world and all it offers.'
Better
still, though we can obviously take delight in this book reading it
by ourselves, Gerald hopes to make it a resource for Quakers meeting
together. So the book ends with a series of activities readers can
undertake in small or larger groups. Here Gerald's gifts as a teacher
come to the fore. As does the sense that the book cannot be finished
until we are finished with it, and it is finished with us. Or that
the book is truly prophetic, in pointing us beyond itself, and
ourselves, to that at which it, and we, imperfectly gesture. I do
recommend it to you, and think it would be great for any of our
smaller group meetings (like the Spiritual friendship groups) to work
on.
Many thanks to Roger Ellis for this blog post.