From the Particular to the Universal

October 15, 2019 § 2 Comments

A Friend commented on my previous post and my reply got so long that I decided to make it its own post. I had started out focused on what different people want from the life of the spirit, but soon found myself in deeper territory.

An awful lot of Friends, in my experience, are not in the life of the spirit for the radical personal transformation Ellis Hein describes (though I am myself). They want religious community, meaningful companionship in their journey. Or they want a spiritual grounding and a tradition from which to work as transformers of our world. Or, even if they are “mystics”, they want to engage with the world and with other seekers after truth, rather than to withdraw from the world—they are attracted to the Quaker way of “practical mysticism”; and, again, they want religious community in which to deepen their relationship with whatever they are experiencing. And most, I suspect, do not want someone to preach at them about how they must do all this or someone demanding that they name their experience a certain way.

This is the genius of liberal Quakerism, it seems to me, that we recognize that there are a lot of totally legitimate desires, temperaments, or even desiderata, for anyone on spiritual journey. In fact, these are the impulses that have shaped Quakerism from the beginning. I suspect that George Fox wanted some of the things I list in the paragraph above himself, maybe all of them. But I think he got ahead of himself.

Fox was a genius, but he fell into the same trap he sought to escape: he didn’t want anybody to tell him what he should do with his soul, then he turned around and started telling others what they should do with theirs. He demanded faith in Jesus Christ, and not just any Jesus Christ—his understanding of Christ.

I would love to ask Fox and Burrough and Penington how they knew that what they were experiencing was Jesus Christ. And why they took the leap that Don Badgley alludes to in his comment on my last post, the leap take by traditional Christianity itself, from the proclaimer to the proclaimed. Jesus pointed his disciples toward the Father; now we point to the son. How did we get from the universal to the particular, and why is the particular more precious, more deserving of worship, than the Deeper Truth and Source of Love that the Galilean mystic had found the way to.

This narrow gate to heaven was built almost immediately, certainly by the writing of John’s gospel: no one cometh unto the father but by me. Really? One might claim that hundreds of millions of Buddhists (for instance) are writing with a cheap Bic pen—though that’s a very arrogant thing to say—but to claim that they can’t write at all is just ridiculous.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the particular. Airy, lofty statements about the absolute and universal and eternal God, who is too transcendent to put into words, seem to me to be speculation that meets some kind of need for the importance of our own way of believing and worshiping, but not very spiritually satisfying in the life I’m living. Yes, some of us get hints about how cosmic “God” is. But where do you go from there? Most of us want something more relevant to our lives. Hence the experience of Jesus Christ.

But my question is, what about the experience of “Jesus Christ” suggests, let alone proves, that the spirit we’ve encountered inwardly is the risen spirit of Yeshua, the Galilean we encounter in Christian scripture? (And which Jesus are we talking about—John’s preach-the-long-sermons Jesus? the Lamb of Revelations? Mark’s much more accessible and “human” Jesus?) And why would we leap to the conclusion that this particular spirit is, in fact, nothing less than God God’s self?

The answer to the first question—how do we know we’re experiencing the Yeshua of Christian scripture resurrected?—or put another way, where does our experience get its name tag?—pretty much has to be the cultural context in which we live. Would a Babylonian mystic in 585 BCE have named the spirit he encountered Jesus Christ? Or are we claiming that she either did not have a legitimate spiritual experience at all or that the spirit she experienced was some kind of demon, a false god. That’s the traditional exclusionist answer I was taught as an evangelical Lutheran child.

The answer to the parenthesis—which Jesus are you experiencing?—is also, I suspect, a matter of accident and subjective preference: which tradition are you drawing from, which Jesus appeals to your own temperament? Quakers have always loved the Jesus of John’s gospel, never mind his relentless anti-Semitism and wordy theologizing. I happen to prefer Mark’s Jesus. My point is that they are not at all the same. They have all been filtered for us already by the cultural contexts and subjective preferences of the evangelists, Paul, and the other writers of the books of Christian scripture.

The tradition claims, of course, that God, or God’s spirit, inspired all these writers and therefore their Jesuses are all the same, even though they talk and act differently. But how do we know that? Objective observation contradicts the idea. This is just a canonical decision made by the tradition for doctrinal reasons.

The answer to the last questions—how do we conclude that, in experiencing Jesus Christ as risen spirit, we are at the same time experiencing God God’s self—again, this conclusion seems to me to depend on culture. The trinitarian idea of the Son’s equality with the Father wasn’t even settled at the Council of Nicea in 325, whatever the writers of the Nicean creed would like to have hoped. In fact, it was still in debate in George Fox’s time.

On top of this cultural accident of whether we are Quakers or Baptists or Catholics—or Buddhists, or traditional Hopi—we add our own need to make our religious lives as significant as possible. At least, Christian communities do. In practice, actual individuals seem quite content to talk about universals and absolutes, but what really matters to them is a sense of personal relationship, a meaningful and coherent way to understand their experience, and a community with which to celebrate and explore their experience.

But back to the Quaker particular. The spirit of Christ—my name for whatever spirit answered Fox’s condition and gathered the first Children of Truth into a people of God, which assumed a name more or less determined by cultural accident—is not a figment of cultural imagination, in my opinion. I believe the spirit of Christ is real.

For I am not saying that our forbears and contemporary Christian Quakers are wrong about their experience of the Christ; I am saying that they and we have usually overlaid that experience with interpretations that go beyond our own personal experience and come to us through our culture, the legacy of the tradition through which we attempt to understand our experience.

Nor is that overlay wrong, either, just because it’s essentially an accident of birth place, time, and culture. It’s just that we cannot with integrity make universal and absolute claims about it. We can only testify to its value for us, as individuals and as communities.

In my next post I want to get into why I believe Jesus Christ is “real” and why I think it matters to Quaker meetings.

§ 2 Responses to From the Particular to the Universal

  • Ellis Hein says:

    Steve, you stated:

    I would love to ask Fox and Burrough and Penington how they knew that what they were experiencing was Jesus Christ.

    You could start with Fox’s statement recorded in the Journal that sates:

    And when all my hopes in them and in all men were gone, so that I had nothing outwardly to help me, nor could tell what to do; then, Oh! then I heard a voice which said, ‘There is one, even Christ Jesus, that can speak to thy condition.’

    In my comment on your previous post, I quoted Edward Burrough’s introduction to Vol. III of Fox’s Works:

    And we found this light to be a sufficient teacher, to lead us to Christ, from whence this light came, and thereby it gave us to receive Christ, and to witness him to dwell in us…

    This word “witness” has to do with an observable event concerning an identifiable entity.

    Saul of Tarsus, when confronted about his persecuting the Christians, had the wits to ask, “Who are you?” “I am Jesus whom you are persecuting…” was the response. Again an observable event concerning an identified entity.

    At the end of Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of bones, God explains what it was all about. To me, the most profound portion is where God, in effect, says, “You will know that I am the Lord when I open your graves and raise you from your graves. I will put my spirit within you and you shall live. Then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken.” (not an exact quote of portions from Ezekiel 37)

    The proof is in the life and in the self-revelation of the life giver.

  • Thank you so much for this, Steve! Quickly – because I have little free time now, and also so that I don’t speak beyond my measure of Light:

    I self-identify as one of those Christian Quakers who believe they have been spoken to by, and feel themselves guided by, the “real” Jesus Christ. I’m also a Christian Quaker Universalist, like Fox, Barclay, and John Wilbur (curious? see Narrative and exposition of the late proceedings of New England yearly meeting (New York: Piercy and Reed, 1845), 317-318, available in the Digital Quaker Collection (dqc.esr.earlham.edu)), which means that, unlike the followers of Joseph John Gurney, I believe that Christ *can* save all people, in all ages, past, present, and future, and in fact *wills* to do so. I am a fan of the Gospel of John, myself, but not of the Church Fathers who weaponized the doctrine of the Trinity as they were hammering it out! This means that when Jesus tells Philip, “whoever has seen Me has seen the Father” (John 14:9), the question of whether Christ is “equal to,” “coeval with,” or “geometrically congruent with” God the Father ceases to be our business, just like the question “Lord, and what shall this man do?” (John 21:21) is not our business. To theologians who want to know how and when the Father begot the Son, I say “Get out of your Heavenly Parents’ bedroom! It’s private!”

    The question, “Lord, and what shall this man do?” brings me to the question of whether a billion Buddhists, past, present and future, are writing with cheap Bic pens or not at all: they are our beloved brothers and sisters, we should *wish* their salvation, and we should recognize that many of them are wiser than us, wish our salvation also, and can in fact help us achieve our own! – As the inwardly-known Christ should confirm for us.

    If the Johannine Christ spoke truly when He said “no man cometh unto the Father, but by me” (John 14:6), then reality must be such that Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, etc., all return to God, whatever God may be, through the same way, door, or tunnel that Christians return to God through. Christians have no business beating other people up for not calling that way “Jesus,” particularly if Jesus has not yet revealed to them *how* He is the way, door, or tunnel of return.

    The important thing that I think you’ve named here is that “an awful lot of Friends . . . are not in the life of the spirit for . . . radical personal transformation.” Years ago, a Voice that I believe to be Christ’s told me, in a Quaker meeting for worship, “I awaken whom I will, when I think best – and comfort *thou* the ones that are still asleep!” The memory of this message still restrains me from getting angry or judgmental with my co-religionists for not yet being ready, eager, or even interested in radical personal transformation. Turning up the heat so that they *will* desire that personal transformation is for Him to do. My assignment, in the meantime, seems to just be a comforter.

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