Tom Mullen: In Memoriam

I received the first of a string of bad news phone calls yesterday afternoon. The first was that Tom Mullen, former dean of Earlham School of Religion and beloved Quaker minister, had been life-lined via helicopter from Richmond to Methodist Hospital in Indianapols. My friend who called said, "I doesn't look good." In updates from other friends throughout the afternoon and evening, it became apparent how bad it was -- cerebral bleeding, a stoke, in a deep coma, on life support. It was hoped he would survive until his family could gather.

He did, but not much longer. I got the call this morning that he had died.

A true loss.

I first met Tom on a rainy autumn day in 1978. I was visiting Earlham School of Religion, thanks to constant phone calls from Keith Esch, and thinking about transferring there. When I came downstairs after visiting with the man who would be my advisor, there on the floor sat a fellow in blue jeans and not-new shirt, playing with my 3 year old son. Benji, as he was known back then, was vastly entertained by this fellow -- his ready laugh, silly expressions, and willingness to play with a little kid. As we gathered Benji up to head home, and loaded him and us into the car, I asked my wife, "Who was that?" "Tom Mullen," she said. "One of the professors." Well, Tom didn't look like one of the professors -- at least my image of what they should look like. And yet he, probably among all the instructors I had there, influenced my life and ministry the most.

One of my next encounters with Tom was after transferring to Earlham School of Religion. It was while playing basketball with the ESR "team" -- "Yahweh's Warriors" (good name for a bunch of Quaker-types, eh?). I remember a good outside jumpshot, sharp elbows, a passion for the game, and more than a few fouls that never seemed to be called. I endeavored to make sure I was on his team everthereafter.

I read Tom's books and laughed out loud -- as did most every Christian who read them. At least those of us who note the absurdity of life sometimes and silliness of our earnestly making our way through them. Most of his books were funny, but they had a depth and spiritual nuance that too many readers (and critics!) missed. They saw the stories, but failed to notice the spiritual layering that anchored them.

I took Tom's "Writing for the Religious Market" class, which, in a very big way launched my writing career. While arguing with him one day over lunch about whether there was any value in rock and roll music (he was agin' it), he said that while my arguments did not convince him, he thought they were interesting and would make a good book. If I'd write, he said, he'd see that some editors saw it. So I did and he did and one of them bought it and Rock and Roll: Proceed with Caution became one of my biggest selling books.

One of the things I so loved about Tom was his sense of fun -- from telling jokes to just having fun. He taught me how to use humor wisely and well. And didn't seemed too bothered that I was sort of a smart ass. Indeed, he even seemed to appreciate that part of me and didn't act like it detracted from the possibility that I might be an effective pastor and writer. He encouraged me to find that part of my writing voice that had humor in it. When I wrote my third book, Lunch Is My Favorite Subject, I made the setting the fictional Mullenville High School in honor of Tom (a dubious honor, I know) and tried out my humor voice. One which I've kept for many years, in varying degrees, depending on the book.

Tom quickly became my writing coach, my mentor, and my friend. He always instructed me wisely and well -- and kindly, too. Even when I messed up -- which was often -- I could count on his counsel to be true, but caring.

I often joked that I modeled my life after Tom's -- Tom wrote, so I wrote. Tom married a woman (actually 2!) named Nancy, so I married a woman named Nancy. He had diabetes, so I got diabetes. He gave humorous after dinners speeches, I gave after dinner speeches. He taught writing at Earlham School of Religion, I taught writing at Earlham School of Religion. When he got Crohn's Disease though, I told him I was done imitating him.

And while my life has not really been an imitation of Tom Mullen's, I could have done far worse than imitating him. His kindness, ready wit, caring, love of his family, generous Christian faith, and so much more make him a hero of the faith to me. The kind of man that I hope to grow into.

I have a ton of wonderful Tom Mullen memories -- as does everybody who knew Tom. And today I am beset with a grief that is deep and profound. I loved Tom. I love Tom. I will miss him in this life. The thought of not seeing him at Earlham School of Religion or Yearly Meeting or some other Quaker gathering fills me with a huge sadness. No more hearing the same old jokes, but told with a brand new enthusiasm and twinkle in his eye. Not in this life.

A wise prophet once wrote, "He is worthy of Paradise who makes his companions laugh." If that's the case, then, if I get there, I'd like my room next to Tom's, please."

Godspeed, Tom. Blessings on your new adventure. I look forward to hearing some new stories from you when I arrive.

Love, Brent

PS Yes, Tom, I know that you and Zinnsser would say there's too much "clutter" in this piece (and some misspellings) -- deal with it.

Just As I Am: A Bad Christian's Confessions on Faith

I am Pavlov’s Fundamentalist. I grew in a very theologically conservative Quaker congregation where altar calls were more prominent than the Friends peace testimony. To this day if I hear more than one verse of “Just As I Am” (“with every head bowed and every eye closed, as the organist plays softly through just one more time … just in case, just in case the Spirit is working on some soul’s heart. Let’s tarry here for that poor sinner.”), I have this almost uncontrollable urge to go forward and get re-saved. Or is that re-re-re-re-saved? I told you, I heard lots of altar calls as kid and teenager. Feelings of guilt and unworthiness sweep through and over me.

I don’t. Go forward that is. But “Just As I Am” (and other altar call songs such as “There’s Room at the Cross,” “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior,” and the like) still send a shiver of sin through me. Literally. I tend to shiver, like a cold wind just blew through the room. And, in light of my upbringing, I’m happy it’s a cold wind and not the hot breath of Hell-fire.

Which is not a bad thing, I guess. I need to be reminded from time to time that, in spite of feeling like the character in Todd Snider’s song “I’m An Alright Guy,” that I am not an alright guy. True, like the fellow in the song, I don’t have a “lotta bodies in my trunk,” but I still know in my soul that there are plenty of times that I don’t live up to the faith I profess.

Too much of my life is like the chorus from the song, too –
“I know I aint perfect but God knows I try
I think I'm an alright guy
I think I'm alright”

Yep, I try to be an alright guy – but I rely too much on my own efforts in doing so. And the harder I try, sometimes, the more I realize that being an alright guy is difficult work that is best done when empowered by the Spirit. It is a surrender – as in “I Surrender All.”

So I am thankful when I hear those old songs. They remind me to cast myself upon the ocean of light and life (as George Fox says) that covers the ocean of darkness and death. To remember, that as we used to mis-sing, “There’s a wildness in God’s mercy/ like the wildness of the sea.”

“Just As I Am” – indeed. A not alright guy who is loved by God more than I can imagine. Thank you, Jesus.

-- Brent

Straight Lines

Have you ever taken a ride out in country and looked at the straight rows of crops and marveled at just how perfectly spaced they are? Yeah, me neither. At least until about 20 years ago. That's when I married Nancy and thereby married into a family of farmers. So I started noticing things like straight even rows -- especially when I watched them plow or plant or harvest.

Still, I didn't think much about how they did it. Until I started taking care of the land at Ploughshares when began our stewardship here about 5 years ago. Trying to mow in straight lines so as not to mow down the trees we planted (especially since many were 6" seedlings and almost invisible from tractor seat height) was difficult.

There must be some secret to it, I figured. And here's what I've discovered -- yes, there are a variety of techniques for creating straight rows -- including giant planters equipped with GPS. But I've also come to realize that none of them seem to work for me (well, I haven't tried putting GPS on my golf cart with it's pull behind sprayer!). I can't go straight to save my life.

Today, as I sit and look at my office window, I can see my tracks through the prairie where I was out spraying for thistles. The first two rows look pretty straight -- I must have gotten off to a good start. And then the cart tracks start to wiggle and crisscross even. Yikes! I knew I was getting off track (though I didn't know how far off until I looked out of my second floor office) so I decided to go back to my tried, if not completely true method, of picking a point on the horizon and steering the golf cart toward it. The rows after I remembered to do that are somewhat less wavy than those before. Not perfectly straight mind you, but somewhat less wavy.

As I was steering toward my point horizon, I began to think (which is probably how the other lines got too wavy -- thinking too much and paying too little attention to driving) how similar this was to how I now try to live out my faith life. For many years, I looked down at where I was going -- trying to avoid that or hoping to keep in the right track or... Well, you get the idea. And my life, like most lives, was pretty wavy, bumpy. And I was dissatisfied with the results.

Now, with what little wisdom I've gained with age, I have quit watching the row immediately below me and have begun focusing on the horizon -- in this case the love and care of God. I try (and don't always succeed) to keep my spiritual vision up and out -- looking to God.

My life's rows are still wavy. But I think they're less so when I remember to steer this way. I find myself relaxing into the tasks before me more, too, instead of worrying whether or not they are perfectly done. I notice life around me and the scenery that surrounds me.

Now, if I can just remember to always keep my eyes on God.

-- Brent

I'll Go Where You Want Me To Go, Dear Lord -- Well, Probably Not: A Bad Christian's Confessions on Faith

I grew up dreading missionary conferences at our church. Long hours (some lasting 70-80 minutes at least!) sitting in the Fellowship Hall listening to the good missionary families drone on and on about their work in India, or Formosa, or Kenya. Endless series of slides of people with unpronounceable names (at least to my Midwest tongue/ear). The pleas for money and more missionaries -- "who out there in the congregation is feeling God's call?" It wasn't me! And then chop suey. Yes, chop suey -- no matter if the missionaries were from Kenya, India, or Formosa -- where even they didn't eat chop suey. I still hate chop suey.

Then, as things were winding down, we'd sign that old missionary hymn, "I'll Go Where You Want Me to Go, Dear Lord."

I’ll go where You want me to go, dear Lord,

O’er mountain, or plain, or sea;

I’ll say what You want me to say, dear Lord,

I’ll be what You want me to be.

Except I'd always sing it under my breath like this:

I’ll go where You want me to go, dear Lord,

Let's skip the mountain, or plain, or sea;

I'm happy right here in Ohio, dear Lord,

Africa is for others -- not me.

Yep, even as an adolescent I was a bad Christian, I guess, even though I wanted to be good. Sort of. Following God's call halfway sounded about as far as I honestly wanted to to go. My biggest fear as a kid was that somehow I would hear "the call" to Africa. Terrified me. All I knew about the "Dark Continent" came from missionary meetings and Tarzan on TV, but it was enough to know that it didn't appeal to me. So I was pretty sure that's where God would call me. The Lord and his mysterious ways, you know? God seemed like the sort of chap (and back then, God was male) who would send me right where I didn't want to go.

After all, He had a long history of doing that. Ask Jonah.

I was glad when I reached the age that my parents quit making me go to the missionary meetings. I had escaped without hearing the call.

Of course, I did sorta hear a call to other "missionary" work -- with high school kids in Young Life and various church related youth groups, as pastor in local congregations, and so on. But still, they didn't involve any huge move. Nice and safe in the Midwest. And very spiritually enriching.

But I still harbor the fear that the call will come to Africa. And I wonder what my response will be? I'm clinging to the wisdom (as I perceive it) of what the great writer and theologian Frederick Buechner said -- “The vocation for you is the one in which your deep gladness and the world’s deep need meet—something that not only makes you happy but that the world needs to have done.”

I'm trusting that God knows that I do want to go where "he wants me to go." Just, please, "dear Lord," not Africa!*

-- Brent

*of course, I know, that somehow I will end up in Africa before the end of my life. I once said, after a miserable night in a cheap hotel in a small city in Indiana (when I was from civilized Ohio) that I'd never been so glad to leave a town and would never, ever, under any circumstances return. Only to have God laugh and say, about 15 years later, "Oh yeah?" I ended up moving to New Castle and spending some of the happiest years of my life there. Hmmmmm....

On Being a Gentleman Farmer

When I was being introduced before giving a speech recently, the fellow doing the introduction said this -- "Brent is a gentleman farmer. He lives on 50 acres being reclaimed into prairie and woodlands. That mean he raises grass and trees. Now, as I understand it, grass grows on its own. And trees do, too. So he gets to sit and watch them and read books and think deep thoughts. My thought is -- 'That's the kind of farmer I want to be!'"

Everybody chuckled, of course, including me. It was a witty introduction. But part of it nagged at me a bit and I remembered that part whilst working -- that's right, "working" -- the farm this weekend.

Yes, I do fit the stereotype of the city gentleman farmer -- sort of Eddy Albert's Oliver Wendell Douglas character come to life. I grew up in the city and lived mostly in cities or towns until about 5 years ago. Now I still work weekdays in downtown Indianapolis and take care of the farm chores in the evenings and on weekends. I do own a tractor (modern -- not at all like Douglas's antique on "Green Acres") and various implements that get used on it. A flail mower, log splitter, bucket loader, box scraper, and more. And there are the various other implements -- chain saws of various sizes, chains for pulling logs and stumps, a spray tank, a pickup truck, and on and on.

And they all get used -- which is what made me think of that introduction. Yes, the 6,000 trees that have been planted over the last 3 years will grow on their own -- so long as Nancy and I keep them free of weed entanglement and damage from deers who like to munch on tender young shoots or rub the bark of young trees. That means weeding, mowing, and tying strips of dryer fabric softener sheets on each one (the deer hate the scent as much as I do). Let me tell you, that's a lot of cutting and tying.

It also means controlling invasive species -- like bush honeysuckles which takes over a woods and chokes out all new growth and the understory (wildflowers, etc). Hence the chain, chainsaws, and -- gasp -- bush killer herbicide.

The prairie has to be burned to kill off the woody growth and destroy weeds. Some, though, don't seem to mind the fire. So the bazillion thistle rosettes (that's a baby thistle, I've learned) that sprouted after the fire, have to be dealt with. So I've had to learn about herbicides and the effects and choose the most environmentally friendly ones I could find. Thistle is an invasive species in this part of civilized county, so if I don't control it, the county will -- and probably in a way that is less safe than what I use.

All this is to say, that this weekend has been a reflection (driving around spraying weeds or mowing with the tractor gives one a lot of time to think while doing) about the wonders humankind has wrought. One hundred and fifty years ago this land was prairie and woods. Then it became farmland and it's taking a powerful amount of work to restore it to the pristine way it was when God had charge of it. There was no bush honeysuckle here -- humans brought it in because it was pretty. There was no creek erosion on the scale we have now (the West Branch of the White Like Creek that goes though our land has washed out 1/2 acre at minimum of trees and carved itself a new creek bed) because there were no subdivisions with all their rainwater runoff.

I've appreciated, as Earth Day approaches, how many of us are more conscious of ecological stewardship than in the past. But know how much still has to be done. And how much work it is.

Gentleman farmer? Bah. I may not raise money making (or losing) crops -- but I'm working the land God gave us in hopes of being a good steward. And in hopes of spotting a few more wood ducks, deer, bunnies, and even the occasional coyote.

Excuse me now. I've got to pull on my boots and fire up the John Deere -- time to pull some more honeysuckle. "Green Acres is the place to be..."

-- Brent

Sweet Hour of Prayer -- Not! A Bad Christian's Thoughts on Faith

One reason that I am a bad Christian is that I am a bad pray-er. I know that St. Paul says that I should "Pray without ceasing" but I'm more likely to cease without praying. The idea of spending an hour on my knees sends a shiver down my soul -- and probably Jesus's, too. He must know that he'd hear the same thing over and over again. Either, "Thanks, thanks, thanks" or "Please, please, please" or "snore, snore, snore."

I've tried praying the hours. That works so long as I am in a community that is praying the hours and is expecting me to be there. I've tried getting up early (like Luther) or staying up late(like my wife), but neither much works for me. It's not that I don't care for prayer -- it's just that the usual proscribed forms don't work for me.

I known I have much to learn about prayer. Sometimes I feel that my prayers are hitting the ceiling above me and bouncing back down. At other times, I feel that my prayers bring me close to God and feel enfolded in his ever-loving, everliving arms.

What, I wonder, makes the difference? Why is it so easy to connect one time and the next it seems as if all the lines are down? Why can’t prayer be easier? At least for me.

Perhaps it has something to do with how sporadic my prayer life often is. Perhaps it’s because I pray when I feel like it or need something. Perhaps I need to become more intentional in drawing close to the heart of God.

I know that an active prayer life feeds and nourishes my interior life. An active prayer life helps keep my “on the straight and narrow.” As Brother Lawrence wrote 400 hundred years ago, “when we are faithful in keeping ourselves in His holy presence, keeping Him always before us, this … prevents our offending him or doing something displeasing in his sight (at least willfully).”
But an active prayer life does more than keep me from going astray (which I have to admit, I have a tendency to do). For Brother Lawrence continues his thought, saying “[prayer] also brings to us a holy freedom, and if I may say so, a familiarity with God wherein we may ask and receive the graces we are so desperately in need of.”

You see, prayer opens me to the hiddenness within where I become aware of who God is and who I am. Prayer gives me time to focus our thoughts on the important things of life and faith and helps me connect with God.

When I think of that way, I see prayer as a glorious invitation -- an invitation from God to meet with Him. This meeting is not scheduled to take place in a high temple or on a holy hill. Rather it is an invitation to meet God close to his heart.

This is an invitation I often take too lightly. I disregard it because of the busy-ness of my life (and mine is full, to be sure). And there is grave danger in that. As Henri Nouwen said, “it is clear that we are surrounded by so much outer noise that it is hard to truly hear our God when he is speaking to us. We have often become deaf, unable to know when God calls us…”

Communicating is more than keeping the lines open. I may have a phone line that has a telephone answering machine, a fax machine and a modem all in working order. Yet, if I do not use it to call people or send them e-mail to them, I shouldn’t wonder why, when I come home at night, there are no messages waiting for me. I have to reach out and touch someone.
Richard Foster, in his book Prayer, tells his readers that is not the case. Foster says “God has graciously allowed me to catch a glimpse into his heart ... Today the heart of God is an open wound of love. He aches over our distance and preoccupation. He mourns that we do not draw near to him. He grieves that we have forgotten him. He weeps over our obsession with muchness and manyness. He longs for our presence.”

I would do well to remember this as I think about prayer as an invitation. It is first and foremost an invitation to God’s heart. I am called, by faith, not to a life of rules and regulations, but to a relationship with the lover of my soul. A relationship with One who wants me to share with him and who wants to share with me the joyousness of life in the Spirit. Why is it easy to neglect the key to this relationship when I see the obvious peril of doing so in our other relationships?

I have a choice. I can spend time with God in prayer or not. If I do not, I do not just deprive myself of the joy of the life of the Spirit, I also deprive God of joy from spending time with me.

Perhaps that hour of prayer is sweet after all.

-- Brent

Association of Bad Christians

Well, I was outed recently. Actually, I guess I outed myself. I picked up a copy of Diana Butler Bass's new book A People's History of Christianity: The Other Side of the Story and, while reading along, found this "'When someone asks me what kind of Christian I am,' says Brent Bill, a Quaker writer, 'I say I'm a bad one.' He goes on to say, 'I've got the belief part down pretty well, I think. It's in the practice of my belief in everyday life where I often miss the mark.'"

While it's probably not the smartest thing for guy who writes books on spirituality to admit, the above quotation is accurate. I am a bad Christian. By bad, I mean, just not very good at it. In spite of just shy of 60 years of attending Sunday School, worship services, summer camps, revivals, prayer meetings, religious colleges, seminary, being a pastor, reading books, memorizing Bible verses.

I mean, I know what a good Christian should look like -- she or he exhibits the fruits of the spirit:

• Love
• Joy
• Peace
• Long-suffering
• Kindness
• Goodness
• Faithfulness
• Gentleness
• Self-control

But often, when I look in the mirror (even if it is looking through a glass dimly to quote St. Paul), I see a man who believes those things but doesn't always live them out very well. I want to be loving, joyful, peaceful, long-suffering, kind, good, faith, gentle and full of self-control. But I am just not any of those things nearly enough of the time.

Which, in the past, has been awfully discouraging. Every day in every way I am not getting better and better. Or am I?

That's what I've been thinking about these past few days. As I told Diana when she interviewed me for her book, "I see myself as a pilgrim -- traveling the faith path to the destination of being a good Christian -- and into the eternal presence of God." Since today is Easter, I decided that, instead of the faithful women who went to the tomb and heard the GOOD NEWS, I would have been one of the fellows on the road to Emmaus, heading away and thinking about all the happened. It takes Jesus to come walk alongside me and instruct me before I get it anywhere close to right. And I don't think I'm the only one.

A number of us, even on Easter (or maybe especially on Easter) recognize that we are bad Christians. We want to be like Jesus, we try to live in the way of Jesus, we know that we believe in Jesus -- but we mess up a lot.

So perhaps we need to band together and support each other on this pilgrimage together (less for protection from bandits and baddies who would attack us on our way, than from "good" Christians who like to take potshots at us for not being good enough). So I propose forming an "Association of Bad Christians" -- A group for folks who are just not very good at being Christian -- who don't always do do what Jesus would do and aren't always peacemakers, humble, kind, loving, truthful, ... and know it. But who wish they were.

Members must self-nominate. After all, part of being bad is recognizing one's badness. Denominations, theologians (Calvin, Luther, or anybody dead or alive), judicatories, local congregations and their officials are not allowed to name prospective members.

In fact, I've set up a group on facebook for anybody who is interested. Perhaps we'll have a membership card and motto (in Latin? Greek? Hebrew?). An official Bible verse? Who knows? The only thing for certain is that a bad Christian knows he or she wants "to be a Christian inna my heart" -- and does so only by the grace of God. On Easter or any other day.

He is risen. Risen indeed!

-- Brent

Pure-It-Tree or Orchard or Garden: A Parable

"I've been thinking, Jesus, of trying my hand at parables." So said the follower who thought himself one of the few true apostles and very wise and close to understanding everything Jesus said. Jesus sighed and settled himself on the most comfortable rock around. His hopes were not high.

"The kingdom of God is like a fruit tree," said the would-be parablist. "The only one of its kind, it grows straight and true. It produces one kind of fruit -- uniform in texture, appearance, color, and taste. And it must be pruned hourly lest any unsightly, un-uniform fruit appear."

He smiled at the wisdom of his parable.

Jesus thought for a moment and then asked. "So the kingdom of God is like a fruit tree? Singular."

"Yes," replied the would-be disciple.

"Then how does it produce fruit? Can a solitary tree produce fruit?"

"Hmmm, I hadn't thought of it quite that way before," said the story-teller. "Okay, let me try again. The kingdom of God is like an orchard with only one kind of tree. The trees all grow straight and true and produce one kind of fruit -- uniform in texture, appearance, color and taste. And they must be pruned hourly lest any unsightly, un-uniform fruit appear." He smiled again. Thanks to his deep understanding of what Jesus was getting at, he knew he had come up with a great parable.

"One kind of fruit, eh?" asked Jesus.

"Indeed. All alike in every regard."

"Which fruit is it?"

"Ah, I'm not sure I get your meaning, Jesus. Fruit -- it's just a metaphor."

"That's not what the apostle Paul says. As I recall, my friend Paul said that there were all kinds of fruits of the kingdom -- 'But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.' "

"And," continued Jesus, "I don't think God created an orchard. As I recall, it was a garden, somewhere over east of Eden. 'And the LORD God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food.' Perhaps your parable needs a bit of work."

The parablist said, "Nope, I think it works pretty well as it is. And I think somebody needs to get work pruning -- I've been discerning some unsightly and un-uniform fruit popping up. Fruit that doesn't suit my taste, I mean the criteria, as I understand it, for what is good fruit and what isn't."

Jesus sighed. Loudly this time. He hauled himself up off the rock and climbed back on the cross.

-- Brent

The Association of Bad Friends

"So you're a Quaker?" I get that question a lot since I travel a good bit schlepping my books. People always seem a bit intrigued -- as if surprised any of us still exist. I usually answer, "Yes, a bad Quaker." Eyebrows generally raise at that. Then I go on to explain that, though I have been a member of the Religious Society of Friends all my life, I'm just not very good at being a Quaker. I find that I frequently fail to live up to the ideals of our Religious Society -- I'm not always peaceable, humble, truthful, ... well that's enough confession. While confession might be good for the soul, too much is enough to send a depressive like me into an emotional tailspin. But now you know why I say I am a "bad Quaker."

I have been comforted to find that I'm not the only one. Indeed, there are a number of us out there. Not that I'm going to name any. As I've discovered in my 58 years of Friendship, those who some people consider bad Quakers are often quite good Friends and some quite bad Friends are considered good Quakers.

So, other than obvious exceptions (like John Dillinger above), I think "bad Quaker" needs to be a form of self-nomination. One has to name one's-own-self a bad Quaker -- no one else can do it for thee.

I was thinking about this for lots of reasons (for one, there's a good deal of talk around these parts of Indiana about who's a good Quaker -- as defined by a certain Yearly Meeting's book of Faith and Practice -- and who's not), but mostly because one of my favorite self-named "bad Quakers" by the name of Jacob Stone sent me an email containing the following questions -- "Should we form the Association of Bad Friends??? Or Rogue Quakers of America???"

Whilst RQA has a certain ring to it (and slightly parallels the RSF), I think I'd go with the Association of Bad Friends (ABF). I've never thought of myself as a rogue -- I do like to heckle the herd from within, not lead it off into a new direction. And I think "of America" is a little too parochial. There are bad Quakers across the globe, aren't there?

So, I am hereby feeling led to begin the first local chapter of the here-to-fore non-existent Association of Bad Friends. You can only self-nominate. If you'd like to join, just reply to this blog or send me an email at brentbil@brentbill.com.

Non-Friends are eligible to join the Friends of the Association of Bad Friends (FABF) -- so long as they would consider themselves bad Friends were they actually Quakers.

I'll be designing membership cards shortly.

-- Brent

P.S. As Jacob also noted -- "When I think about being a recalcitrant Quaker I am always reminded of a line from Rumi's poetry: 'Your sweet blasphemy is the truest devotion.'" Indeed.

Discerning Questions

I just returned from Memphis, Tennessee where I was presenting a series of workshops on "The Sacred Compass: The Way of Spiritual Discernment" at the Baptist College of Health Sciences. BCHS has about 900 students and focuses on undergraduate health care education. Karen Smith, the Director of Campus Ministries, did a wonderful job putting the program together and she and the students, faculty, and staff made me feel very welcome.

I ended each session by offering a "Query" for the students and staff to ponder -- based on the Quaker tradition of using questions for reflection and as spiritual exercises. The final session was titled "Discerning Questions" and I offered a whole host of queries that they could use as part of their discernment processes. And I offered them the opportunity to ask questions of me about spiritual discernment. Now, by and large, they were a pretty quiet group (I joked a time or two that I had done the impossible -- turned Baptists into Quakers -- that's how silent they were), so during the "Discerning Questions" session, I asked them to write their questions, which I would then try to answer. I hoped to get one or two really good ones and end our time together by answering things close to their hearts and souls.

I got more than one or two. And the time ran out before I could answer more than one or two. I didn't get a chance to read them all until after I got home, but when I did, I decided they were too good not to share. So here they are -- no answers, just the questions (well, most of them -- there were a couple along the lines of "Is it God's will for the Memphis Tigers to have a #1 seed in the NCAA basketball tourney?" That's just silly -- everyone knows God is Buckeye's fan).

The questions:

• What do you think is the most important tool or tools to carry with you on your journey through life toward God's will?
• In my prayers I include "Let God's will be done," but how do I know it's God's will?
• What is God's will?
• What should you do if you feel called to do more than one thing, or maybe many things. Okay, maybe so many things you don't know how you will do them all in a life span?
• What is spiritual discernment?
• Is it wrong to ask for a sign from God?
• How, after make so many journeys that have failed, do you know what direction to go?
• Why is it so much easier (or seem to be) for folks to discern God's will/plan for other people?
• It seems easier to see God's involvement through "the rear view mirror." How do we discern where God is moving ahead?
• What if you think you are going in the right direction but don't like it or feel empty about it?
• How can you effectively listen to God related to the direction one might be going?
• Should I always seek God's approval before I make any life choices?
• How do I listen and hear what God wants for me in my life?
• I feel like I'm being used to do God's work. But recently I have been feeling disconnected from God. How do I reclaim my connection to God -- to follow his plans for me?

Really good questions. Thoughtful. Important. Questions we all need to wrestle with.

As the session ended on Friday, I had time for one more question and one more PowerPoint slide (I gave a lot of my presentation on PowerPoint). The question was "How do you figure out what God's will is for you versus what you think your purpose in life is?" The final slide I had prepared to share was this, "The vocation for you is the one in which your deep gladness and the world’s deep need meet—something that not only makes you happy but that the world needs to have done. --Frederick Buechner."

I think that says it all. God brought it all together -- six sessions, caring staff and students, wise questions, and an answer that fits the Sacred Compass and its leading us to the face of our loving God.

-- Brent

Here They Go Again -- and So Here I Go Again

Well, it's been an interesting day. I was invited to give the morning sermon at a lovely little Meeting just around the corner from the farm. That went pretty well (considering the quality of the preacher) and we had a nice visit over lunch with a couple of F(f)riends from there. As we ate lunch at a local eatery, another Friends pastor walked in -- one who has had some controversy about him. One of the friends we were with is clerk of the Yearly Meeting committee that has been charged with (hmmmm, will try to choose my words wisely here) um, "visiting" with this Friend to ascertain his "fitness" for continuing as a Quaker minister.

Hogwash. The fellow in question's congregation is growing, people are coming to hear about God and faithful living, he is growing spiritually and certain factions want to quibble about nuances of theology? Which, frankly, Quakers have never had as their long-suit. Just try to pin down George Fox or William Penn or Mary Dyer about the subtleties of theological belief. Can't be done.

But anyhoo, I soon learned that this was a big topic of discussion at the local Yearly Meeting's board meetings yesterday. And I was reminded of a response to a post I had made concerning Quakers and the Pastoral System.

In part, the writer said, "Also, the pastoral system itself, of having a paid staff member, seems to tend to cause a Yearly Meeting to move more toward typical Protestant ways. ... In my experience and reading, it would seem that the pastoral system usually leads Yearly Meetings to move away from the testimonies and toward typical Protestant forms, theology and ethical views. And though Friends pastors are called recorded ministers and are supposed to be different from ordained clergy, in day-to-day relations with the members of the Meeting I couldn't see any difference from the ordained ministers in other denominations.I don't think it has to be this way, but a paid staff does seem to lead to such changes."

Well, this seemed a little harsh at the time to me, but after conversations today, I'm beginning to think, regretfully, that perhaps this is too true. Especially at the Yearly Meeting that is located closest to me.

The setting up of a pastoral system is fraught with the potential for abuse and power-grabbing, unless the pastors are wise and able. And the setting up of Yearly Meeting staff (he says, as a former Yearly Meeting staff person) is even more fraught. If, as the conservative Friends warned over 100 years ago that the pastoral system would lead (gasp!) to a seminary, then Yearly Meeting staff could lead to a Pope. Well, at least a Bishop. Or people who think they are bishops and somehow appointed to protect the purity of ... Of what? Does God need protecting? Does thinking about God and how God works in this world and with God's people need parameters placed around it to keep bad theology (as decided by us) out and good theology nice and safe? Do we need protection from the Holy Spirit moving among Friends and possibly calling us to actually live the Gospel message?

The nation and world is in the midst of one of the darkest times in human history. Economics are a mess. Terrorists, in the name of religion, abound. War is everywhere. Incivility is rampant. And many people are calling for Good News -- hmmm, Gospel?

What will they get from us? Assurance that we have, via the Quaker Inquisition, rid ourselves of heretics who claim that God loves everybody as much as God loves us? Is that what they are asking for? Or are they instead hoping to hear a voice, shorn of theological hairsplitting, that is
that of Jesus, softly and tenderly calling, "Come Home."

Would that we would dare move from righteous wrangling to actually being the people of God that Quakers are called to be.

-- Brent

Indulge Me, Please

It seems I'm always hanging around the wrong people. My grandmother worried that I did that too much when I was a teenager. If she were still alive, I doubt that she'd be pleased that I am still hanging around the wrong people.

By wrong, she meant people who were prone to getting into trouble, didn't share the exact same faith as we did (the TRUE Evangelical Quaker faith -- not the more LIBERAL Evangelical Quaker faith as practiced in Oregon or Kansas or other places), and were, well, smart-asses.

Now few of my friends ever got into *real* trouble, but some held different beliefs (Catholics, fer instance), and a great many were smart-asses. Which I found one of their more endearing qualities.

"How will you ever be a minister with that smart-aleck bent you have?" she'd ask. I mostly murmured or mumbled an answer, but if I'd had a bit more chutzpah, I'd have suggested that a little bit of smart-assness helps the pastoral life go down. And that it was really needed if once was going to succeed as a pastor -- especially in the mixed up Quaker pastoral system, which is neither fish nor fowl, dairy or meat. It just ain't kosher. (But that's a whole 'nother blog. To see some of my thoughts on that, check out http://friendsinfellowship.blogspot.com/2007/10/neither-ceo-nor-slave-paradox-of-quaker.html)

But back to hanging around the wrong people. I recently returned from northern California where I got to spend some time with Gretta and Jacob Stone, directors of Quaker Center in Ben Lomond. Now they're the right kind of people in my book, but Grandmother Bill would probably see it different. For one, they believe much differently than I do (which in her book would make them "wrong"). And Jacob especially has this wacky humourous side that edges on smart-assness. Which meant we got along famously.

One night he was sharing one of his fundraising ideas. After all, many Friends groups are struggling for funds, so perhaps it was time for something new -- tithes and offerings and appeal letters don't seem to be working. How about, he suggested, the selling of Quaker indulgences?

Here's how it could work (with apologies, somewhat to Jacob for stealing his idea and going completely wild with it). Let's say you're like me -- a bad Quaker. I don't mean evil, I just mean, not very good at it. And as a bad Quaker someone has really ticked you off and you'd just love to smack some sense into them. Under the Quaker Indulgences Plan, you could donate $500 (in addition to your regular giving) to your favorite Friendly organization and in return they would issue you an one day indulgence from the Peace Testimony. Then you could skip calling your Lutheran brother-in-law, and just go slap the offender silly yourownself.

Or let's say you need to buy a new car. For $100 you could spend a day not looking at hybrids or 10 year old Volvos with millions of miles on them and head directly to the Audi dealer and try out a new S8 -- all 10 cylinders of it. A day off from the Simplicity testimony.

Maybe for $50 you could get an indulgence from taking oaths -- like, say, if you got called for jury duty. "Do you swear" -- and everybody else says "Yes" and you stand there silently while everybody wonders what kind of doofus you are for not raising your right hand and swearing along with the rest of them. The embarrassment saving factor is worth $50.

Well, I could go on -- but I hear Grandmother tsk, tsking in my inner ear. Or was that the Inner Light? They couldn't be in cahoots, could they?

-- Brent

A Poem for Christmas Morning

A Child in Starlight -- by Elmer Diktonius

There is a child,
A new-born child --
A rosy, new-born child.

The child whimpers --
All children do.
And the mother takes the child to her breast.
Then it is quiet.
So is every child.

The roof is not over tight --
Not all roofs are.
And the star puts
Its silver muzzle through the chink,
And steals up to the little one's head.
Stars like children.

And the mother looks up at the star
And understands --
All mothers understand.
And presses her frightened baby
To her breast --
But the child sucks quietly in starlight:
All children suck in starlight.

It knows nothing yet about the cross:
No child does.

Do You Hear What I Hear

“Do you hear what I hear?” the Harry Simeone Chorale asks in a popular Christmas carol.

I hear a lot of things. Carols come from my car radio, television advertisers me warn that there are only so many shopping days left, phone calls invite me to holiday gatherings – or inform me that the church is one shepherd short for Friday night’s live nativity and I need to be there at five sharp to don our costume. There’s shopping to be done, meals to be made, cards to be addressed and sent. Yes, it’s Christmastime … and it’s busy.

What about Jesus? Is there room for Him in the Advent Inn’s schedule, or is it full up? Taking time for moments of holy silence can clear some space for this Savior King who comes clothed in baby’s flesh. That’s because silence is where Quakers believe we encounter the real presence of Christ. Jesus comes to us in the peace of the silence, a silence which is an active going toward God, seeking a glimpse of the One whose coming we celebrate. If we take some space for silence this season, we will hear the Voice that speaks not only in words, but also in gentle tugs on our hearts and in the beauty our eyes behold in the lights, the sights, sounds, and people surrounding us this season. So stop. Relax your body and mind. Breathe deeply; slowly and gently. Savor the silence. And listen.

“Do you hear what I hear?”

-- Brent

'Tis the Season to be Jolly -- or Not...

"Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la, la la la la. ..."

Oh yeah? Well, not for everybody. I ws thinking about that while getting ready for Meeting for Worship yesterday. I was thinking about some of my best friends and how they and I might be considered by some an emotionally/mentally motley crew. I have friends who are bi-polar, depressive, in therapy, attending 12 step programs, etc. And I'm prone to depression and panic attacks -- thank Heaven (literally) for a good doctor and Paxil. We're a walking, talking illustration (it sometimes seems) of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).

I used to think this was a bad thing -- as in I should be ashamed (especially of my own "abnormalities"). But another thing I realized as I looked over my friends (and me) is that we are, by and large, sensitive folks, caring people, and very creative. Many of us are writers, musicians, artists, and the like. And not second rate either -- well, present company excluded. Some have had books on the New York Times bestseller list. Others sell every piece of art they create. I mean, I'm blessed with a rather amazing bunch of people who are my friends.

Most of my friends are also deeply spiritual people. Very spiritually aware. And this is sometimes a very tough season for us. For some reason, while everyone else is "Merry-ing" it up, I'm often more in a "Bah Humbug" mood -- or worse. Part of it, for me anyhow, is the disconnect between the festive and celebratory that often ignores the deeply spiritual aspects of the season -- the coming of the Christ. The coming of Light into this time of extreme physical (and sometimes spiritual) darkness of these shortening days. It's Light I need. And I'm not the only one. As one friend said to me recently, "A scary and dark season in some ways....need more Light."

As I thought about bi-polar, panic attacks, depressives, seizures, et al, I also wondered which Bible characters had those traits. Or saints. Others have thought a lot about this, but it was new to me. Which made me wonder not if encounters with the Spirit were symptomatic (i.e., which DSMIII classification does this fit in?), but rather if my friends and mine "abnormalities" were actually doorways into a deeper life of the Spirit.

Of course, since I think too much, other questions came to mind. One was, "Am I more spiritually aware as a person prone to panic attacks/depression than those who are not?"

Well, I thought, that's more than a little a bit spiritually arrogant.

But I did begin to wonder if Jesus was preaching today on the hills of Galilee, would He do a beatitude for us today? Perhaps something along the lines of "Blessed are the emotionally challenged, for they shall feel and see God's presence in amazing and scary and hopeful ways?"

All I know for sure is that I am grateful for my friends, my encounters with God, and my relatively panic-free life. That I am at a place where I feel that, while this might be a good day to die, it's an even better day to live. And that my friends share their joys and sorrows and ups and downs with me -- helping me to realize that Jesus laughs and cries in hearts and souls throughout time and eternity and that God will keep me safe though all of life. Even if it kills me.

-- Brent

Two resources I've found helpful are Therese Borchard's "Beyond Blue: A Spiritual Journey to Mental Health" on beliefnet.com (http://blog.beliefnet.com/beyondblue/). She writes with honesty and wry humor -- and I loved her "12 Bi-Polar Days of Christmas." And Dancing With God Through the Storm: Mysticism and Mentall Illness by Jennifer Elam.

Mary -- Drenched in the Speech of God

This is that special season when we sing carols, hear scripture, and say “excuse me” and “pardon me” as we elbow the other shoppers aside. In spite of that, we sometimes lose sight of one of the major miracles of Christmas. And that is that the central figures of the Christ event were people just like us.

Not that you would know that by the different depictions that pass our way this season. We see it portrayed serenely on Christmas cards, in Christmas plays and songs, and in living and plaster Nativities all around town. In them , the Christmas scene is idyllic. It’s the very picture of a 1st century nuclear family – mommy and daddy and new baby.

But the fact of the matter is that the first Christmas was far from idyllic. Because it wasn’t being staged by arranging paper mache figurines, it was being acted out by real people on the stage of life. Joseph, the Shepherds, the Magi and all the rest, even mean old Herod, were real folks in real time living real lives and trying to make sense of it all. And into their lives comes the miracle of God’s Son – Emmanuel, God with us, come to lead us back to God. And one of those characters of Christmas was Mary – a real, flesh and blood, teenaged girl.

Hildegard of Bingen’s “Antiphon for the Virgin” reminds of this --

Pierced by the light of God
Mary Virgin
drenched in the speech of God,
your body bloomed,
swelling with the breath of God.

For the Spirit purged you
of the poison Eve took.
She soiled all freshness when she caught
that infection
from the devil’s suggestion.

But in wonder within you
you hid an untainted
child of God’s mind
and God’s Son blossomed in your body.

The Holy One was his midwife;
his birth broke the laws
of flesh that Eve made. He was coupled
to wholeness
in the seedbed of holiness.

This poem takes us out of the Christmas we’ve created it in our image and reminds us of the miraculous nature of the coming of Jesus. We often confine our understanding of the miraculous to that of God becoming a baby – which is indeed a miracle. But there is more. There is something, I believe, miraculous about the boldness and obedience behind Mary’s “Yes” to God.
This was no easy “Yes.” This was hard and carried a societal stigma that makes the one we used to force on unwed mothers easy to bear by comparison. What God asked of this young woman was about the most difficult thing she could accede to.

To be sure, as the Bible reports, when Gabriel comes and says “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” Mary “was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” Who wouldn’t?

Gabriel continues “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”

Her response to this is remarkable, or maybe miraculous. Where in almost every other instance of encounters with heavenly messengers the receiver of the message asks for a sign to verify that it is from God, Mary simply asks, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” She doesn’t try to talk her way out of it. She doesn’t explain her unworthiness. She doesn’t ask “Why me?”

Mary, a simple (in a positive sense) trusting young woman simply looks into the face of the eternal and said “Yes.” How can she do that? Hildegard’s poem gives us a clue how – and I believe it is found in the line “drenched in the speech of God.”

What a powerful image.

“Drenched in the speech of God.” It’s a phenomenon with which we should all be acquainted, yet I fear too few of us are. Mary can say “Yes” because she has heard the voice of the Divine, felt it rain over her, and knew in her heart that it was God speaking. It reminds me of a more modern parallel in the Quaker tradition – George Fox’s hearing of a voice saying “There is one, even Christ Jesus, who can speak to thy condition,” and whose heart, upon hearing it, he says “leapt for joy.”

While Mary’s words from God came from the mouth of the angel Gabriel standing beside her, and Fox’s came from inside his soul, both were unmistakably from God to the ears of these listeners. And joy was the result.

Who can imagine what Mary felt when she first stood in the face of the mystery of the eternal? What might her thoughts have been? Surely she knew she was risking society’s, family’s and Joseph’s disapproval. But did she also know the supreme joy she would have cradling the baby in her arms? Could she even begin to dream of shepherds abandoning their flocks or wise men bringing gifts from afar to come and worship the baby king? Was there even a slight shuddering premonition of the cross that awaited her beloved baby boy?

We can not know Mary’s feelings, other than what we read in the scripture passage today. When the angel speaks she stands in reverence and awe and says “Let it be to me according to your word.”

For Mary, drenched in the speech of God, once her “yes” was said, she moved forward joyously with it. Her obedience and willingness to serve is something she embraced with a joy and serenity. This obedience and willingness came because she heard God’s voice, something that we would do well to prepare ourselves for in this season and year round.

Fox heard God’s voice because he prepared for it – reading scripture, talking with people of faith, praying. We don’t know what Mary did – the Bible doesn’t tell us. But we can guess that she was a person of deep spirit and prayer. When the angel comes, she’s not afraid or doubtful but only “was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.”

And then, “drenched in the speech of God
“… in wonder within you
you hid an untainted
child of God’s mind
and God’s Son blossomed in your body.”

It is then that the wonder of the incarnation, God come down in human form to live among and bring his people back to him, begins – with the simple “yes” of Mary – a yes made possible by being “drenched in the speech of God.”

-- Brent

Live Again from The Great Emergence

The Great Emergence is winding down -- the event that is, not the movement that Phyllis says is underway in American Christianity (and Judaism).

Phyllis is posing 3 questions --

1. How, in a religiously pluralistic society, do we maintain our particular faith witness without causing civil unrest or compromising/watering down our particular faith to nothingness?
2. What does it mean to be human? (This, she maintains, is one of the eternal questions and is especially pressing today, especially as the current generation seems especially self-aware or at least self-absorbed)?
3. What is the nature of the atonement?

Phyllis says that these are the questions that must be answered and how they are answered will determine the future of the Great Emergence.

Well, my battery is running low (and so is the one on my laptop), so more later...

-- Brent

Live (sort of) from the Great Emergence

It's the second morning of the Great Emergence and I'm looking forward to another great day. Phyllis Tickle has given some absolutely stunning presentations on why/how she has identified what is going on in American Christianity as "The Great Emergence." She has tied all sorts of ideas (sola scriptura, quantum physics) and people together (David Farraday, Albert Einstein, Charles Darwin) together, showing how a great emergence is moving through all of society -- not just faith.

As you might expect, most of her presentation is based on her book The Great Emergence. You can find her thoughts there, so I'm not going to recap what she's said here. You need to read the book -- spend some time with it and wrestle with its ideas. I, for one, have found her "story" persuasive -- as well as a cogent, concise description of what is going on in congregational life and the prime tensions of this time.

I will say that Quakers come off pretty well -- especially as she uses us as an example of how to deal faithfully and creatively with the question of authority. Just who/what is in charge? Scripture? Church structure? The Spirit of God? Of course, as those of us who are Friends know, we have been dancing with and around this question for 350 years and sometimes we get the steps right. The getting them right -- holding them in creative tension and allow them each to speak (the community of faith/Spirit/Scripture) -- is never easy, but is ultimately our goal and is spiritually fulfilling and rewarding.

On a personal note, I have been approached by a number of folks at this event who want to talk about Quaker spirituality and practice. Which confirms my long term belief that people are spiritually hungry for the best of Quaker faith. The question then, that I struggle with, is how do we come to live -- to model -- the best of Quaker faith and practice? How do our Meetings reach a place where they could seriously deal with what I consider the most pressing questions facing us -- What has God called us to do

• With this people?
• In this place?
• At this time?

Notice that none of these have anything to do with how do we attract more people? Rather they deal with the question of faithfulness to the call of Christ -- both individually and corporately. Does it really matter if we attract 20, 50, 150 people? Of course it does -- especially if our concern is staffing committees, finding Sunday school teachers, paying staff, heating the building, etc?

But numbers do not matter if we dare forget those things and get back to the initial call of Christ to follow him and his command to feed his sheep. What does that mean for you with your community of faith in your particular place at this particular time? That, I think, is one of the prime questions that the Great Emergence is posing.

--Brent

Quakers at the Great Emergence

Well, it's hard to believe, but the Great Emergence is almost here. I hope those of you who are attending are looking forward to it as much as I am.

Regarding a Convergent get together, there has not been a lot of interest expressed, but let's try this -- let's meet at 12 noon at St. Mary's Episcopal Cathedral on the front steps. It's supposed to be in the high 40s, so shouldn't be too unpleasant to meet outside. Then we'll go grab lunch someplace close and chat. How does that sound? I'll have a car if we need to drive somewhere.

Hope to see you soon.

-- Brent

The Great Emergence -- Is Emerging

Well, it's drawing nigh, a least. Based on Phyllis Tickle's book of the same name, The Great Emergence will be a time of worship, discussion, dreaming, interaction, and thinking about the current state of and future possibilities for Christianity.

Tickle's thesis that the Great Emergence that is upon us is a once in a five hundred year event should, by itself, lead to lots of lively discussion and debate. After all, that's a pretty audacious assertion, to compare what it is happening in the Emergent movement to the Great Schism, the Great Reformation, and other "Great" motions and seismic changes throughout Christian history.

And so is her statement that "It is not unreasonable to assume that by the time the Great Emergence has reached maturity, about 60% of practicing American Christians will be emergent or some clear variant thereof."

That's a pretty heady prediction. And one that has huge ramifications for those of us who gather in congregations, work with congregations, and teach leaders of congregations. What does the Great Emergence mean for us?

I invite you to join the discussion by attending the Great Emergence. And, if you're a Friend, to come early and join in a discussion of what it means for Friends. I propose meeting at noon on Thursday the 4th, (I'll look for a place) for lunch and discussion.

If you're going, and interested in such a meeting, please let me know asap!

--Brent