Speaking of Brian McLaren, whom I mentioned in that last post, so very long ago, K and I had the chance to hear him speak at the Baltimore Presbytery's Big Event 2007, which was held a couple of weeks ago at Woods Memorial Presbyterian Church in Severna Park.
I was as impressed by McLaren in person as I have been with his writings. His speaking style is very direct, relaxed, and unforced, yet energetic. He spoke persuasively of what's wrong with churches today, and about ways that we can lift up what is right about them. I won't try to reproduce all he said, since essentially his speech was a scaled-down version of his book, A Generous Orthodoxy.
Among the several things he said that resonated with me was that too many churches and their congregants operate under a less than helpful way of seeing themselves in relation to the world around them. As members of faith communities (and having practiced in a couple of different traditions, I don't limit "faith communities" solely to Christian congregations) and as members of an individualistic, materialistic, and consumeristic society, we tend to think of ourselves first and foremost. Our responsibilities to our churches or communities tend to come a distant second, and only reluctantly do we consider our relationship to the wider world. According to Brian McLaren, faith communities often reinforce this unhealthy perspective by chasing after prospective adherents, waving the multiple benefits of membership like a person waves doggie treats to entice a runaway pet back home. This church offers a better sound system, that one offers day care, this other one won't give you a hard time for driving to Sunday services in a Hummer. McClaren regards this emphasis on meeting members' needs, as opposed to an emphasis on the beliefs and practices that define a faith, as problematic.
I reflected on the way this mode of thought manifests itself in American Buddhism and in unprogrammed Quakerism. In both traditions I've witnessed a particular emphasis on the virtues of openness and inclusiveness and non-judgement, often to a fault. Just to be clear, I'm not talking about faith communities being open and inclusive with regard to people of different skin colors, political beliefs, sexual orientations, socioeconomic levels, or countries of origin -- there's not nearly enough of that sort of openness and inclusiveness anywhere. Rather, I'm referring to the sort of relativism that drains spiritual practice of its rigor, and faith communities of their distinctiveness.
When I was involved with Zen, I heard no small number of practitioners affirm that they were drawn to Buddhist practice because it makes no doctrinal or creedal demands on people. While this is indeed a great blessing, as it allows individuals of any faith or no faith to practice meditative modalities such as zazen or vipassana, it's not the only blessing, nor is it the defining characteristic of Buddhism. Practicing Buddhist meditation solely as a way to experience peace and quiet and "a chance to get my head together," as I heard one woman say, seems to me dismissive of Buddhism's long, rich history as a multifaceted religion.
Of course, there's nothing wrong with taking up Buddhist practice because of the peace and quiet it affords, and communities should be open enough to embrace seekers where they are, to let them find their own connection points and inroads. But since American Buddhism in general shies away from affirmative, clearly articulated statements of what Buddhism is, there's little to challenge practitioners to see themselves within the broader context of a religious tradition. That sort of counterweight, I believe, is necessary in order to raise practitioners' vision from their own navels, and extend it outward to their community and to the world.
I see a similar dynamic in liberal, unprogrammed Quakerism. I love that our tradition opens a space for people of many paths, whether Christocentric, Universalist, pagan, agnostic, or otherwise. At the same time, I worry that in the absence of an active acknowledgement of Quakerism's Christian origins, meetings run the risk of becoming bland, equivocal places where attenders can use an hour's silence on Sunday to practice zazen, read a book, or do their knitting. All of these things are positive activities in and of themselves, but they do not make for a gathered worship experience.
A couple of years ago I attended a newcomers' breakfast at a large local meeting. The breakfast was billed as an opportunity for those new to the meeting to learn about Quakerism from "seasoned" Friends, members and longtime attenders alike. I was distressed to hear speaker after speaker extol Quakerism for what it is not: not oppressive, not judgemental, not elitist, not closed-minded, not fundamentalist, not doctrinaire . . . also not Catholic, not Episcopalian, not Baptist, not (horrors!) Evangelical, not even necessarily Christian. People spoke again and again of finding a refuge in Quakerism from the hellfire and brimstone of their upbringing, but very few spoke of what makes the faith distinctive or spiritually powerful in its own right.
This struck me as a problem for a couple of reasons. For one thing, none of these presumably weighty Friends made a particularly compelling case for why one should go to Quaker meeting on Sundays, rather than to the yoga center, book club, or Baltimore Ethical Society lecture. For another, by defining the tradition in the negative the speakers unintentionally gave the false impression that Quakerism has done away with intolerance, judgementalism, closed-mindendess, and elitism, that it has evolved through some happy dialectic beyond the narrow confines of religious doctrine and indeed basic human pettiness itself. It struck me as a glib, tepid, "I'm okay/you're okay" gloss on Quakerism that said little about the passionate, evangelical fire that fueled George Fox, at the same time that it implied that Quakerism is a somehow more socially enlightened institution than other faiths. Ask members of FLGBTQC whether they've always been made to feel welcome in their home meetings, even the liberal and unprogrammed ones. Look around the average meeting house on a Sunday morning and count the people of color, or people of lower incomes. A couple of my friends, a same-sex couple who had expressed keen interest in exploring Quakerism were so appalled by the self-congratulatory smugness on display at that newcomers' breakfast, by the implicit condemnation of all of those other, "less evolved" faith traditions, that they never came back to the meeting.
I'm not seeking to air dirty laundry, here. I simply think that rather than seeking to show how accommodating they can be to this consumer group or that consumer group, faith communities should, with love and humility, present a generous vision of what they are, and what they have the potential to be. Quakerism is a beautiful tradition with gifts of the spirit that go far beyond pluralism alone. Its deep roots in Christian mysticism should not only be acknowledged, but watered on a regular basis. We should honor and respect its various branches while always remembering that they come from a single trunk. Not that this is an easy thing to do, in a tradition whose practices span the range from defiantly anti-liturgical to proudly pastoral.
In his talk at Woods Memorial, Brian McLaren posited a different way of viewing one's place as a person of faith in relation to the world. Rather than the ME --> faith community --> world paradigm that most of us tend to operate under, McClaren described a series of concentric circles. The largest, the world, included all of creation and encompassed a smaller one that symbolized a community. Within its bounds lay the smallest circle, which signified the individual. Viewed in this way, a person's journey of faith becomes just as much about his or her community (church, family, etc.) and about the world one shares with that community, as about oneself. I find this view excitingly optimistic, as it reflects an interdependence among individuals, their communities, and the wider world, an recognition that each circle has a responsibility to the others.
Communities, whether those of the religious or secular variety, should certainly strive to make themselves open and welcoming places for their members, and to endeavor to meet their needs. But communities should also continually challenge their members to look beyond their individual desires; to help them understand and respect the unifying principles that make the community what it is; and to give them the tools to meet not just their own needs, but those of others. For their part, individual seekers should keep in mind that no community will be an exact fit; that the frustrations one experiences in a community context are often (but by no means always) a natural, healthy part of spiritual growth; and that one of the great gifts of participation in a community is the opportunity for service. This, said McLaren, is the challenge of discipleship.
This has been a difficult post for me to write, mostly because I realize how much I myself have benefited from the acceptance and pluralistic spirit in both American Buddhism and unprogrammed Quakerism. For extended periods of my life I've been a one-foot-in, one-foot-out type of seeker, praying with the Primitive Baptists one week and meditating at the Shambhala Center the next. But I've tried to remain mindful of the fact that each of these traditions has a beauty and an integrity and an identity all its own; and that though one might find commonalities among faith communities, there are profound differences among them as well, and those differences should be respected.
I don't subscribe to the tired dictum that says all roads lead to the top of the same mountain. Even if that's true, you can only walk one path at a time. Sometimes, to extend the analogy, the path is so steep and rocky that you're forced to find another route. But even if you find the "right" path, it should be steep and rocky enough to build your strength, allow you to test your limits, and to reveal unexpected vistas to your sight. Otherwise, what's the point of climbing the mountain?
I've been mulling about plain dress since you started discussing it, Kevin.