Cat Chapin-Bishop: Open Letter to My Christian Quaker Friends

On Quaker Pagan Reflections, my dear F/friend Cat has posted a two-part open letter which poses questions and challenges for those of us who seek to transcend the illusory boundaries between Christian and non-Christian Quakers.

In Part 1 (also republished on Quaker Universalist Conversations, the blog of the Quaker Universalist Fellowship), Cat writes about becoming a convinced Friend while remaining "loyal to and part of the Pagan community that formed for me a soul capable of hearing a spiritual call...."

Cat invites Christian and non-Christian Friends alike to trust that "the Spirit is a magnificent translator. To those of us who are...staying low and open, also being courageous and present, She will grant the ability to 'listen in tongues'."

What is required is to stay low to the Truth, not to hide it or apologize for it.... Do not share one syllable more of your Scriptures than the "Spirit that gave them forth" is speaking in you—but equally, do not share one syllable less.

When speaking from Spirit, use whatever language That Spirit lends you—and if that involves quoting from the Bible, speaking of your experiences of Christ, or sharing any other words that may be uncomfortable, for me or for you, do it! Do not be "nice" to anyone: be bold!

But do not speak beyond what is given you to say: be low.  Only be faithful in your speaking.

It's not enough to speak your truth, as you experienced it once, years ago.  You must speak from love, in the present moment, and from Spirit, also in the present moment.

In Part 2 (also republished on Quaker Universalist Conversations), Cat voices a different challenge, one which calls for greater self-awareness on the part of all Friends who wish to be advocates for others.

I am beginning to suspect that we Quakers have a disturbing tendency to objectify, through our pity or our zeal, those we want to feel ourselves to be "helping." I think I've seen us do it to our youth; I think I've seen us do it around race; I think I've seen us do it around social class, educational background, and mental health.

Somehow, deep down, many of us with privilege begin to think of ourselves as saviors, and to see those with less privilege as Others, as objects, as charity cases....

[While] it is indeed good to speak out against injustice, we need to do so with some humility.  Listen before you speak on the concerns of others.  Is it Spirit's yearning for justice that's driving you to your feet, or your ego's yearning for importance?

If it's the first, rise up!  If the second... hang back.  Wait and see if there's a better leading about to break in.

Be bold but low; it turns out to be a theme.

Blessings,
Michael

n Part 1, Cat writes about becoming a convinced Friend while remaining “loyal to and part of the Pagan community that formed for me a soul capable of hearing a spiritual call….”
She invites Christian and non-Christian Friends alike to trust that

the Spirit is a magnificent translator. To those of us who are…staying low and open, also being courageous and present, She will grant the ability to listen in tongues.

In Part 1, Cat writes about becoming a convinced Friend while remaining “loyal to and part of the Pagan community that formed for me a soul capable of hearing a spiritual call….”
She invites Christian and non-Christian Friends alike to trust that

the Spirit is a magnificent translator. To those of us who are…staying low and open, also being courageous and present, She will grant the ability to listen in tongues.

- See more at: http://universalistfriends.org/weblog/an-open-letter-to-my-christian-quaker-friends-part-1-of-2#sthash.qBZl231y.dpuf

n Part 1, Cat writes about becoming a convinced Friend while remaining “loyal to and part of the Pagan community that formed for me a soul capable of hearing a spiritual call….”
She invites Christian and non-Christian Friends alike to trust that

the Spirit is a magnificent translator. To those of us who are…staying low and open, also being courageous and present, She will grant the ability to listen in tongues.

Centers of production

Over on Quaker Pagan Reflections, Cat has published a new post called "The Saturday Farm." Cat's key theme is this:

I keep thinking of a comment Joel Salatin made in Yes Magazine once, about how Americans have become used to thinking of our homes as centers of consumption, but how once, thinking of your home as a center of production...was the norm.

Saturdays at home have become very productive days. And that productivity--the willingness to substitute patience, skill, and thrift for consumption--I've come to think of as a species of farming.

I particularly like this definition of productivity: the willingness to substitute patience, skill, and thrift for consumption.

Nothing appeals to me more than finding that my family, friends, colleagues and I can produce what is of true value out of our own gifts and steadfast efforts.

Take a look at Cat's whole post. It's beautiful.

Blessèd Be,
Michael

Oh. Um...yeah....

Goddess has been tapping Walhydra on the shoulder for several months now, saying *ahem, ahem* in her sweetest pretend-polite little voice.

Finally she has conked Walhydra on the head—in the friendliest way possible, of course.

"Um, Dear. You need to read this blog post."

The post to which Goddess refers is "The Dark," by Cat Chapin-Bishop, on the the blog she shares with her husband Peter Bishop, Quaker Pagan Reflections.

Cat writes:

It's dark, my friends. Yule is almost here, and the wheel is still turning....

Without the moon, the Dark is all there is.

Now, that's not a bad thing. Frightening to us sometimes, because we know Dark (we moderns) no better than we know Moon....

But, you know, you can walk a trail in the woods in the dark—in the full dark, the real dark, the dark without the moon—if your feet are wise, and if you know your way.

And you can deal with the dark, the growing dark, the Midwinter Dark, as our ancestors did, once upon a time.

How did our ancestors live, back in the days before electricity banished the darkness?...

Peter had read somewhere...a study of some group of humans...who lived communally, in a world without artificial light beyond firelight and the moon. And those who studied them noted how they dealt with the dark time of the year.

They slept. A lot.

Moderns are mainly sleep deprived. We nap, or sleep in for long hours when we vacation, but mainly, we do without. Unimaginable, then that entire groups of people would curl up and go to sleep when the sun's light fails. That, by five or six on a winter's night, whole families are at rest...and will stay so until six thirty or seven the next morning.

Except they don't. Sleep is different, it turns out, when it is not artificially staved off by lamplight, but allowed to run the full length of a winter's night. At times, it was more like a light doze, or a meditative wakefulness. And then, with little to divide it from waking, sleep would return again. People roamed in and out of dreams and waking several times each night. There was a different quality to it, not just a different quantity....

Cat then describes the experiment she and Peter did some years ago:

[To] the extent that we could, we decided to set aside the time between Yule and Imbolc--February 2nd--for the Dark. We would use no electric light, no computers, no television, no telephone except for emergencies, and no radio for that time. Oh, at work we would use such things, as we had need.... But to the extent we could, we did without them....

Whether it was the dimmer lighting, the quiet of a life without email and television, or simply ceasing the struggle against the Dark, we found ourselves aware of our sleepiness. We might not have gone to bed at seven, but we often were asleep by eight or nine.

It was good. The nights were soft, and the Dark was gentle.

And when, by Imbolc, the days were lengthening and the nights were growing shorter once again, we felt the returning light, in a way that's simply untranslatable unless you have also lived a season with the Dark. Each tiny sign of the return of spring--not the opening of the buds, but the swelling of them; not the disappearance of the snow, but the thinning of it, and the way it reflected the fire of the sunset later every evening--became pronounced.

This is the power of the Dark.

"Oh. Um...yeah...." Walhydra mumbles.

She realizes how much Cat's words speak to her condition.

"Yeah," Goddess murmurs, a little snidely. "I figured you'd notice that. You've not been paying much attention to body and spirit for a long time now."

"I haven't?"

"Um. You've stopped daily tai chi practice. You've stopped sitting meditation. You've stopped your morning prayers and devotional reading. You've stopped riding your bike...."

"Oh."

"You know, Dearest, that I'm all in favor of modern meds, within reason, but I'm beginning to wondering whether your SSRI experiment last November has gradually dulled your natural awareness?"

"Oh."

Now that she considers it, Walhydra realizes that she has gradually fallen out of the habit of all those deep self-care practices she was doing at the height of her grief-induced despair and anxiety last winter.

She didn't quit them as soon as she started to feel real again in February, when the meds had finally gotten her brain back to a healthy level of serotonin.

And it's not that she's stopped believing in the Divinely Real upon which those practices kept her focused.

But she sees in retrospect how, gradually, beneath conscious awareness, she has increasingly cut corners on herself..."because I'm too busy...because I've got to get to work...because I'm too tired...," etc., etc., etc.

On the other hand, since Fall Equinox, Walhydra has noticed Hubby Jim getting more and more cuddly at night and in the morning—and chosen to stay with him, rather than get up "on time."

It's so sweet, so full of good vibes, to stay huddled together under the covers. Playing spoons. Feeling the weight of the two cats, Sonic and Shadow, as they cuddle up...or bounce around wanting breakfast.

This exchange of cozy snoozefulness has increased as the days have gotten shorter. On non-work mornings, Walhydra lies in bed with JimJim for hours. Waking, deciding not to do tai chi, fading into sleep, waking....

About a decade ago, Walhydra realized that she no longer delights in fall and winter the way she used to. It took a few rounds of so-called "seasonal affective disorder" before she recognized that the shortening days definitely get her down.

At this time of year when everybody is "supposed to" be getting excited about the holidays, getting busier at work and at home, planning for family and parties and gifts and cards and....

Oy, veh!

At this time of year, Walhydra feels less than ever like being sociable and pretending to be nice to people (not a good thing for a public librarian). What she wants to do is hide out, eat, read and go to bed early.

A few years back she finally came up with a slogan for this, based on the same sort of anthropological and evolutionary biological studies Cat refers to:

"Between Samhain and Imbolc, our mammalian brainstems are trying to tell us to put on a layer of fat and hybernate until spring."

*sigh*

Goddess nods her head. "You see? I told you. Even though you know all this stuff, you haven't been paying attention to it. Again."

"Grrr...."

"Oh, don't grrr at me. You know I'm not into guilt-tripping. Just a friendly conk on the head."

Walhydra smiles reluctantly.

"Now, be a good girl and say 'Thank you' to Cat."

Thank you, Dearest Cat. Thank you for speaking in this great, unending, Meeting for Worship in cyberspace.

Love to you.

And to all the gentle readers.

And so it is.

Blessèd Be.

"Lord of the Dance"

For Cat, with thanks for her latest series of blog posts, "Is There Still a Pagan in Quaker Pagan Reflections? Part 1 and Part 2" and "The God with Arms."

Since the early 1990s, this Robert Lentz icon, "Lord of the Dance" [see Note], has been on the wall above my God Altar.

It hangs to the right of a gray and black Huichol Ojo de Dios, a gift from my first lover George.

To the left of the ojo is a picture of the Eyes of Bodhnath.

The icon says more than I could possibly say.

And so it is.

Blessèd Be.

Note: The following is from the website of Trinity Stores, which used to sell the icon. Sadly, the Church forbade the continued sale of this "heretical" icon, and it's almost impossible to find anywhere.

"One of the most ancient masculine images of God in Europe is a benign antlered figure. This image predates Celtic civilization, but was embraced by the Celts for its beauty and truth. The Horned God was a protector of all animal life. He was especially linked with the masculine sexuality and spirituality. He was considered Lord of the Otherworld and guided souls to their destination after death. In Celtic art he is usually shown sitting cross-legged and wearing a torque -- the Celtic symbol of authority.

"Christian missionaries tried to stamp out the image of the horned god when they came to northern lands. Monastic scribes re-told ancient legends with an increasingly sinister twist. In time, the Horned God was pictured in the popular imagination as a demonic figure who rode through the night skies in search of damned souls. There are still places in England, however, where Christian men don stag antlers and dance for ancient feasts.

"In Celtic mythology, individuals like Merlin sometimes assume the personality of the Horned God. In this icon, the Horned God is connected with Christ. Christ sits before us in the posture of the Horned God, totally naked, but without shame. His confident nakedness emphasizes that what God has made is good. Behind him are ancient European petroglyphs of the Horned God. He bears the wounds of his crucifixion to signify that he has risen and has taken a more cosmic character than he had during his life in Palestine. He is beating a drum and inviting us to dance; reminiscent of a medieval English carol that describes him as the 'Lord of the Dance.' "

Is it Spring yet?

New Chaste Moon after Imbolc, Ash Wednesday, Year of the Rat
Having hidden under the covers since mid-October, Walhydra has been wondering how to go about poking her head out again, crocus-like.

Some of her readers may recognize the sense of awkwardness which can accompany recovery from depression.

After months of moaning to friends and avoiding strangers, now Walhydra has to go about telling folks how much better she is feeling. Not the sort of thing a melancholic person usually enjoys—unless, perhaps, it includes modestly accepting congratulations for having made such wise medical choices.

What's more, in difficult moments, Walhydra catches herself indulging nostalgia for the perverse comfort of hiding beneath her own seeming despair and helplessness.

Fortunately, this latest round of depression has been far too viscerally unpleasant, and Walhydra's real-world responsibilities, far too important. After the annoying detour in December, she is glad to report that the SSRI experiment is now working well. Whenever she realizes that the nostalgia is tempting her, she quickly tells herself: "It's the chemistry, stupid."

Of course, now that her chemical balance is being artificially maintained, Walhydra knows she needs to be an adult again. She needs to face and deal responsibly with a maze of family, medical, financial and legal matters of far more consequence to others than any mazes she's lost herself in before.

That's part of the "becoming mortal" business she acknowledged before Yule. Walhydra has no children of her own (at least in this lifetime). She hasn't until now been responsible for assuring the wellbeing of loved ones…except, of course, for playing fair as an equal adult partner in the blessèd relationship with hubby Jim.

However fraught with risk her previous descents into the underworld might have seemed, it was Walhydra who would be most directly hurt by inaction or ineffective action. Now there's her mother, Senior Witch, her sister and brother, her father, the retired Lutheran pastor, and his second wife, the two step-sisters and their three children…etc., etc., etc.

It's no mystery why Walhydra crawled under the covers of depression back last Spring.

Obviously, though, Walhydra's prolonged crisis hasn't really been just about brain chemistry. In fact, because of the "annoying detour," her best Virgo efforts to engineer a recovery of psychic orderliness before Senior Witch's Christmas visit backfired. Instead, Walhydra was in the midst of side effects-induced panic attacks for the first three days of that visit.

Life's real presence yanked the covers off and said, "deal with it!"

Walhydra's real crisis, in other words, has been a crisis of faith. Not, the gentle reader should understand, a crisis of losing faith. A crisis, rather, of using faith when nothing else was available.

"It's all well and good," Walhydra grumbles, "to say, 'It's the chemistry, stupid.' But when every little challenge, real or imagined, seems enormously ominous, you still have to act—or at least to keep yourself from fleeing in panic."

Now, Walhydra is always wary of talking about faith in public. She is very firm in her private faith—even when she doesn't practice it very well. However, the public faith words are all taken, and they carry too much controversial, contradictory baggage.

Walhydra's friend Cat put it very well recently, when she described Cuban American Quaker minister Benigno Sanchez-Eppler's concept of religious code-switching.

[Beningo has spoken] on what's it's like to have a rich, active spiritual life with roots in (literally) two languages, since his spiritual development occurred in Spanish in his youth and in English in his adulthood. Some of the language with which he has mapped his spiritual experiences does not translate well from one tongue to the next, and, to truly communicate his deepest experiences, he finds he must have access to both languages at once—something linguists apparently term code switching. The point Benigno made over and over again was that "code switchers are not confused."

And what I believe he meant—what seemed clear from the context, where he was discussing tensions between strictly Christ-centered Quakers and universalist Quakers, like myself, who draw upon many religions traditions in understanding our spiritual leadings—was that those whose religious experiences span multiple mythologies or
traditions are not playing pick-and-choose, designer-style spirituality.... Rather, we are code-switching—using the metaphorical language best suited to reflecting the lived spiritual experience we are trying to convey.

I am not saying that God or the gods or Spirit is a metaphor.... Instead, I'm saying...that, because we humans don't understand the gods..., we only ever understand them through metaphors—imprecise, inadequate, but powerful echoes of a reality we can only dimly touch.

Some of us have heard the voice of Spirit speaking in many different metaphorical/ mythological "languages." We have become bilingual through experience. We are code-switchers, and it can be hard for us to communicate in ways that others will hear and respect.

But we are not confused—except to the extent that all of us, attempting to meet the eyes of God, necessarily are...

"So," Walhydra says, staring her audience down. "I'm a code-switcher, and I am not confused. See if you can keep up with me."

Privately, Walhydra tends to use the "code" of her native religion, Christianity.

For decades she has quested on Pagan, Buddhist and other paths, having discovered in seminary that the outward forms and doctrines of orthodox Christianity didn't really compute for her.

As Walhydra wrote to Cat in response to another blog post,

When I came out in 1973, I realized that I had to make a choice between striving to meet the expectations of "acceptable" Christianity, on the one hand, or embracing and living what Mother-Father God created me to be, on the other.

If one hears YHWH say "Forget the safety of cultural and religious orthodoxy and live with me"—and if one accepts that daunting challenge—fear, awe and joy become ongoing vibrations in one's life.

It's difficult ever after to really explain to anyone else what it is that one trusts so implicitly...or why.

In the past few years, though, Walhydra has been looking for the pre-theological core of her faith, her spiritual enthusiasm [from Greek enthous, entheos, possessed, inspired : en-, in + theos, god].

Guess what? She found its roots in the positive visceral childhood experiences of Lutheran Sunday School, her father's sermons, her mother's organ-playing, and the hymn-singing of the congregation's old ladies.

What an interesting surprise!

This actually makes sense, though. Ever since childhood, the real Jesus—who is far more real than any of the "Christianities" seem able to express—has been Walhydra's hero.

Walhydra imbibed all of those Sunday School stories and sermons and hymns, to the point that Jesus became a real presence for her, a divine human of fierce integrity and fierce compassion. Whenever anyone makes false claims in his name, he lets her know. More to the point, whenever Walhydra causes harm or tries to hide, he lets her know.

So...back to the winter faith crisis, which stretched from Samhain through Yule and beyond.

While the SSRIs were swirling around, tripping homeostatic switches back and forth, Walhydra was trying to do her job (pretending to be nice to library customers). At the same time, she was trying to psyche herself for the visit from Senior Witch—plus her brother, sister-in-law and Bard sophomore nephew, a beautiful, brilliant trio from the sacred land of Massachusetts.

[Note from the amanuensis: More on this visit in another post.]

How did using faith work through all of this? Every morning when she awoke, every moment throughout the day when swirling neurochemicals threatened to pull her under, Walhydra would stop herself with a deep breath.

"I'm just in the present," she would whisper, and try to center down into the divine Presence.

If that wasn't enough, she would reach for whatever outer world spiritual geegaws might help her remember that she is okay. That she is loved by the Divine One, even when all she can do is sit there in chemical panic.

If she was fortunate enough to be with hubby Jim, that blessèd man would spontaneously whisper "I love you" and give her his warm Leo hug—without asking for explanations or striving to "fix things."

A month later, Walhydra is sailing into the new year, starting new projects at work, and mentoring a bright new library associate on her staff.

A week before Imbolc, just when Walhydra was itching to plunge back into the blogosphere, another of her online friends gave her the marvelous gift of sharing the dream she had had about Walhydra the night before. Somehow this wonderful soul had glimpsed the shimmering, gorgeous colors beneath Walhydra's drab black uniform.

"Drat!" Walhydra thought, secretly delighted. "My secret is out."

So, here we are. A new moon. A new year. Having survived the ”Super Fat Tuesday Bowl" and blessing ourselves with the ashes of the One who holds us all.

When Walhydra finally lifted her covers, she noticed something nice. A year ago in March, she had bought "on faith" an orchid plant which she was told would have a cluster of small white blossoms if it bloomed.

Well, here it is.

Spring is here.

And so it is.

Blessèd Be.

"Jewel Orchid," Ludicia discolor

Double zap

Walhydra got a double zap this evening, reading the latest from two of her favorite bloggers.

On Pagan Godspell, Sara has quoted this delicious poem by Kabir:

The Time Before Death

Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think…and think…while you are alive.
What you call “salvation” belongs to the time before death.

If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive,
do you think
ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten -
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment in the City of Death.
If you make love with the divine now, in the next life you will have the face of satisfied desire.

So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is, Believe in the Great Sound!

Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for, it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.

And on Quaker Pagan Reflections, Cat has given us this gentle leading from Quaker meeting for worship:

"Up!"
Early in meeting for worship today, I was all caught up in my head--in ideas about what is ministry and what is faithfulness, and whether or not I'm "doing" Quakerism "right."

And then an echo of the Song of Songs came to me: "I am my Beloved's, and my Beloved is mine." And everything changed, and the words washed away in just being with the Beloved. And the Light grew so bright and good around me and inside me, that I could just about bear it:

There is an hour, every week, during which I get to drop all the hard work of trying to be something, and just be what I'm supposed to be. I don't have to be strong, or wise, or clever. I don't have to anything at all, because the Beloved is there, and it's just fine...

At those times, the image comes to me, of myself as a tiny child, almost too young for speech. Have you ever seen a little girl, one just barely walking, make her way solemnly to her mother? That's me. And when I get there, I lift my arms up in the air, stiffly, the way that toddlers do.

"Up!" I say, in that toddler way. "Up!" with all the quiet confidence of the completely loved, completely trusting child.

And I go up in those warm, strong arms, and turn my head into that safe neck and shoulder, and I let go and clasp on, and I'm free in a way I have mostly forgotten how to be.

And you know, everything else--the hundred thousand words we use to strap ourselves in, corset-like, to being faithful to the Light we're given, all the Quaker or Pagan or philosophical apologetics--is really beside the point.

I am my Beloved's. And my Beloved is mine.

"Up!"

And everything follows from there.

What can Walhydra do save thank the grace which moved these two wise women to move her in turn...and to share her own contribution, from Hafiz:

I know the way you can get
I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of Love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.

Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to chant
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world
And throws sharp stones and spears into
The innocent
And into one's self.

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.

You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love's
Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so Playful
And Wanting,
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me.
For all I care about
Is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

From: I Heard God Laughing - Renderings of Hafiz
Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

And so it is.

Blessèd Be.

Love letters

Ever since Walhydra entered the cyberspace bulletin boards and listservs back in the mid-1990s, she has marveled at the power of online correspondence to create and sustain friendships among people who have never met. She is still in touch with some of her closest fellows from that era.

It's no longer a mystery to her to learn in biographies and histories of the lifelong, voluminous exchange of letters between friends and lovers of previous centuries, people who lived across continents or oceans, and who might not see each other for decades, if ever.

Now, with the blogosphere, Walhydra sees an even deeper level of intimacy...intimacy which is remarkable for its frankness, given that it is out there for everyone—including our government's spies—to see.

The longing—and readiness—to know people at a real level of personhood ignores the dangers of distance or chance discovery.

And so...Walhydra wants to acknowledge the writing of one of her newer friends, Cat Chapin-Bishop, who, with her husband Peter Bishop, publishes Quaker Pagan Reflections.

In particular, Walhydra wants to direct the gentle reader to Cat's latest piece, about family life a decade ago with Peter's then 90+ grandmother Nora.

Cat and Walhydra—and the amanuensis, of course—have been trading comments across each other's blogs, as well as across the larger Quaker/Pagan blogosphere.

A harmonic resonance gets going in such exchanges.

Yesterday Walhydra cried—thankfully—when the story of Nora connected with that of her own mother, Senior Witch.

In turn, last night the amanuensis was finally able to write "On waiting and squirming" for The Empty Path, having now understood what it was actually about.

Thank you, Cat. Thank you, all of you cyberfolks. Thank you, readers.

And Blessèd Be