Rest in Peace, Harlie

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

My little cat Harlie has died.

She was all of those things, bright, beautiful, great (in her old age) small (enough to ride around on my shoulder) when I got her. And she was very wise, and very wonderful. When I cried, she always came and found me. She was my first pet that was all mine and nobody else's. I saw dozens of kittens (in rural Canada the papers were full of free litters) before I found my tiny treasure. She was the only girl in a litter of boys. Her mother's name was Razz, so they'd called her Zarr, because she looked just like her mother, only with the bicolor sides of her face reversed. As a romantic and artsy eleven year-old, I re-named her Harlequin Phantom. Harlequin for the multi-coloured coat of the Commedia dell'Arte character, and Phantom for the Phantom of the Opera, because of her white half-mask. It was promptly shortened to Harlie, but I bristled whenever anyone suggested she was named after a motorcycle because of her purr. "It's with an IE at the end!" I'd sputter, as if it made a difference.

She and my dear old dog Caila were best friends as babies, and uneasy allies as adults. When they were roughly the same size they'd wrestle and play. Harlie never got over the betrayal of Caila growing up to be ten times her size, but I don't think she forgot her old friend. They'd sleep on the same couch, not touching, but close.

I was looking forward to bringing Harlie to live with me at the meetinghouse. I thought we'd have a good ten more years of lap sitting and window gazing together. I'm really sad that I didn't get to say goodbye, but so glad that she died peacefully, happy, and sleeping, which was her favourite thing to do. My mum sent me a very sweet and brave e-mail with the news. Poor mummy kept it to herself all weekend because she didn't want me to be upset over the Thanksgiving weekend. It was very kind of her.

Anyway, goodnight, Harlie-cat.

Worship

In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,

but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.

~ Rumi
(translation by Coleman Barks)

Who will take care of us?

Today, in a very vocal Cambridge meeting for worship, I was struggling to listen to all that was said, as important work was being done inside me. I walked into meeting in tears...I'd had a hard morning and ended up losing my composure. I was feeling a little bit despairing. I thought...I've got the medications, I've got the doctors, and I'm doing the work, but there are still broken parts of me that I can't get ahold of. Sometime my hurts come alive and take over, and I'm left feeling very helpless. I wrote about this in an older blog post, where I admitted my struggles with depression and anxiety.

On Friday night, I went to see Peterson perform. At one point in the performance, he takes on the persona of an sweet, goofy, enlightened minister with an adorable English accent, who talks about Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus, and of the pain we go through when our Omnipotent God won't fix what we need fixed, won't save who we need saved, won't cure the one who desperately needs to be cured. I was distracted by phonecalls from an irate housemate in the middle of this most moving section, but what I did manage to see lodged somewhere deep in my heart. I missed half of the end of that scene, but the preacher was saying something about how we can help one another rise, how we can cure one another.

A few days ago, I read a powerful post from Nancy, a blogger I'd somehow missed for a long time. She spoke of envisioning God not as Father, as Deus Omnipotens, but as a helpless baby:

Do you hear what I hear? I now confess to a heresy. I don’t hear a still, small voice. I don’t hear the Word. I don’t hear the Almighty. I don’t, as Annie Dillard suggests, have any inclination to wear a helmet to Meeting for fear of the forces let loose from the universe.

I hear a cry, like a baby.

I first heard that cry on the eve of first Gulf War. Canadian soldiers were heading to war for the first time since World War II. A huge multifaith group had gathered in our city—some 200 Hindus, Catholics, Muslims, Bahais, Evangelicals—all in the same room, all in agony. We sat in silence, with some rising to sing, some to chant, some to pray with beads, to weep, to return to silence. I heard it then, the cry of a baby, helpless, abandoned, forgotten.

"…a child, a child,
Shivers in the cold,
Let us bring him silver and gold…"

...

God is so in need of our protection. We have the task of keeping God alive among us, feeding God, helping God to grow. It’s the reverse of the old image: now it’s we who carry God through hard times, so that it’s our footprints in the sand.

Otherwise, I’m afraid God might die.

My first response was a split second of awe as I realized the truth of what she had just said. Immediately on the tail of that awe was terror. I closed the browser. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to think of it. I thought I'd let go of most of my old preconceptions of God but apparently somewhere inside me I was still clinging to the idea of a warrior God. The God who with his brawn could swoop down and save me. Deliver me. The God who could do anything.

I sat in meeting today and thought about asking God for healing. Asking God to swoop down and remove the wounds in my soul. As Friends rose in meeting and spoke of pain, of chemical weapons, of torture, of sorrow, of forgiveness, of guilt, of all the brokenness of the world, I remembered my childhood sorrow when my prayers for relief went unanswered. Why didn't the all-powerful God use some of his Power to take away all the pain that I witnessed and felt? He was all-knowing, so it's not that he didn't know of the pain. He was all-loving, so it's not that he didn't care about the pain. He was all-merciful, so certainly he must know that the innocent should not suffer. He was omnipresent, so it wasn't that he was busy somewhere else...

I sat in meeting and I thought about that. I thought about the all-poweful God. And I thought about the helpless infant God.

Again, I recoiled from the baby. If God needs me to take care of him, I thought,

then who will take care of me?

I felt small and still and cold inside. I thought of the old standard I used to sing in a piano bar in New York, my feminist concience always smarting a bit as I'd form each co-dependent word...

There’s a somebody I’m longing to see
I hope that he, turns out to be
Someone who’ll watch over me

I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood
I know I could, could always be good
To one who’ll watch over me...

I smiled to myself a little bit. But really...

Who have I in heaven but Thee?

I thought of Jesus, speaking to Peter:

"Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?"

He said to him "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you."

He said to him, "Feed my lambs."

A second time he said to him, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?"

He said to him "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you."

He said to him, "Tend my sheep."

He said to him a third time, Simon, son of John, do you love me?

Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?"

And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you."

Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep."

I read the passage over and over. I thought of the old chestnut "He has no hands but thine" and I know that I try to remember that in terms of my own behaviour. I work hard to become God's hands, to do what I can of God's work, to relieve what suffering I can in God's name. I looked around the meeting house at the people who were praying, at the ones who were fidgeting, at the ones who had spoken to my condition and the ones who I'd struggled to hear.

A Friend stood. "Between the love and the horror lies our work."

More Friends spoke. About languages, about communication, about becoming the change we want to see in the world.

I thought about a Canadian children's show I used to watch when I was little. The host always ended with a song called "Take Good Care of Each Other".

And once again I was struck still in meeting by a cliche, and I realized that we are what we've got. In almost every case, God's love, God's healing, God's mercy, and God's power are transmitted from one human being to another. I thought of how often I raise my eyes to the sky in search of relief, and turn away from the people in my life who could be agents of God's peace to me.

Oh, where am I going here?

I will lift my eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my salvation.

Yes, of course I will. but I will also lift my eyes to my Friends.

There was something more...but I've gotten distracted. And I think this is where meeting ended as well. But I felt such an urgency. We must turn to each other in love, and learn to trust each other. We are the ministers of God. God is watching over us, and God is taking care of us. But God needs us to do that.

The God in me cares for the God in you?
The God in you cares for the God in me?

That Big Question

Quaker Bloggers, does this question look familiar?

Perhaps in a future post you could explain to those ignorant of your readers what you consider to be the central tenets of Quakerism? My brother in law is from a quaker family, and I've tried to have him explain it to me, but all I get is 'pacifism' and a lot of fuzziness - his community seems to have contained both vague deists and definite Christians, and variations on just about every other thing I've always thought of as 'Quaker', and I would love to know what are the non-negotiable central tenets common to all Quakers - or are there any?

Kate, a Catholic, left this Query on my blog. I just stared at it for a minute and then rolled up my sleeves. I think it's the question that we're all always more or less threshing on these Quaker blogs. Kate stated it in wonderful Plain fashion:

what are the non-negotiable central tenets common to all Quakers - or are there any?

Though there's the tired old joke that if you ask three Quakers "What is a Quaker" you'll get four answers, it's true that the most confusing thing for everyone is that there's no Creed or Catechism. A lot of us are really hung up on that, for varying reasons. Given the huge variety of theological diversity among Friends, this question becomes enormously difficult to answer. As a compromise, people often go into long historical lectures, or simply state their own particular set of beliefs.

There is an extraordinary essay called The One Testimony that Binds Them All Together. In it, Friend James Healton says:

To an outside observer, and indeed, many people inside the Society of Friends, there is little rhyme or reason to the assemblage of doctrines and practices historically emphasized by Friends. Frankly, it does look as though the founders of the Friends movement collected together all the most eccentric beliefs and practices ever dreamed of, and some not dreamed of, among Christians, put them into a hat and then drew out nine or ten of them at random and decided that would be Quakerism!

But, in fact, there is a powerful unity and purpose underlying all the elements that go together to make the basic contours of Quaker theology and practice.

Now, Friends who debate or question the exact nature of the unique divinity of Jesus will find a lot to waggle eyebrows at in the essay. But the central importance is that Christ has come and changed the world forever. Friends believe that the Kingdom is here. Friend James says:

(T)raditional Christians accepted that Jesus fulfilled the prophecies concerning His death and resurrection, but there was much more that they either entirely overlooked or postponed until after death or the "Second Coming."

James Healton gives a biblically-based list of things the Quakers believe are possible here and now, not in Heaven or a "New Earth" or at a "Second Coming", but now, because of the Presence of God in the world. He prefaces each item with with "Because Jesus is the Christ". Other people may quibble. Others will want to argue the exact meaning of "Christ." I myself would say "Because of Christ". For example,


Because of Christ:

"God's people beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks and no longer prepare for war. They are secure, knowing that the day long foretold by the prophets has come and that ultimate triumph over evil will be achieved through following their victorious King."

Because of Christ:

"God now rules His people directly, rather than through prophets, priests and kings. As the prophets foretold, "a king will reign in righteousness" and the fruit of His reign will be righteousness and peace. He will be their shepherd to guide them in the paths of justice and mercy. God's people will not be ruled by one man or a few, or even by the majority, but by God Himself, present in all and leading all together."

Because of Christ:

"The Spirit has been poured out upon all flesh so that all God's people are prophets. Women as well as men may prophesy, one by one, in order that all may be encouraged and all may be instructed by what all have learned from the Father."

The whole list is very extraordinary, and I originally posted it here because although I obviously cannot speak for all Quakers everywhere, and some (many) of them might (would) have (many) issues with the language, I think that this list of beliefs is a solid representation of "what Quakers believe". But it made the post so long I feared it was becoming unreadable. So I urge you to go read them yourself in James's article.

So, what do I think is the "powerful unity and purpose underlying all the elements that go together to make the basic contours of Quaker theology and practice."?

God is here, now, in his Fullness. There cannot be More God or Less God anywhere. God is everywhere at all times, available to all people at all times. All of the prophecies can be fulfilled, here, now.

"It is accomplished."

We believe that not only is God here, but that there is that of God in each person, which makes them Holy, and Precious and Sacred, which can lead them into the fullness of expression of Divine Love. If we believe that God is in others, we can do them no harm. If we believe that God is in ourselves, we must discipline ourselves to be faithful to his Inward leading and teaching.

Because of the Good News of Christ, we must now go about the work of fulfilling all that the Presence of God makes possible. Which is everything. We sit in silence and still our hearts and listen for the leadings of God that will bring us to our part of this work. We sit in silence and we offer up our hearts and minds and hands to God to do this work. We sit in silence and we offer thanks for the gift of Christ, God in our midst. We sit in silence and rejoice that God is with us.

We bring the fruit of our silent worship into the world. All of the testimonies, practices, queries and disciplines of Friends spring from the belief that God is here, that God is living, and above all, that God is living within us.

We follow this commandment and strive to take it to its extreme logical conclusion:

Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets. Matthew 22:37-40 and Mark 12:30-31, Luke 10:27.

Our whole lives spring out of a desire to be faithful to the promise of the Good News: that the kingdom is now. That the kingdom is here. That the kingdom is among us. That the kingdom is within us.

There's also a lot of confusion on why we don't have creeds or outward sacraments. I'll do my best here.

No Creeds: This is what gives birth to the whole question. How are you defined if you don't have a Creed?

Friends worry that written creeds can never express the truth about the infinity of God which we experience, and that they can lead seekers to passively accept “truths” that they do not know experientially to be true. Because we believe in the urgent immediacy and reality of God's Presence in our lives, we believe that the personal experience of God is the foundation of faith. There can be nothing passive about our belief.

“You will say Christ saith this, and the apostles say this,
but what canst thou say?

Art thou a child of Light and hast thou walked in the Light,
and what thou speakest is it inwardly from God?”

Margaret Fell, quoting George Fox

As Quakers, we believe in Continuing Revelation. We don't believe that God is ever finished revealing Godself to us. We are continually being taught more. We learn from the richness of past revelation and measure new insight for consistency and coherency with what we've already been taught, but to codify doctrine or creed, to freeze it at one point in time, is foolhardy and dishonest.

No Sacraments: Though there is nothing wrong with outward expressions of faith and Grace, we believe that Grace is never limited to one time, place or occasion. While we believe that we are all agents of Grace to each other, no human intervention (i.e. outward baptism) is required to call down the Presence and Grace of God. We believe that we are in communion with God every time we turn our hearts to him, because God is already present.

A good way to get an idea of how Friends try to go about this work is to read our "books of discipline" known these days as Faith and Practice. Each Yearly meeting has its own and though they differ substantially in their wording, they all express the "how" of living our faith.

I feel like everything I've said here is well expressed in the section of New York Yearly Meeting's Faith and Practice entitled "Seeking the Spirit":

My faith is firm in the blessed, the eternal doctrine preached by Jesus and by every child of God since the creation of the world, especially the great truth that God is the teacher of his people himself; the doctrine that Jesus most emphatically taught, that the kingdom is with man, that there is his sacred and divine temple.
--Lucretia Mott (1793-1880),
in "Margaret Hope Bacon, Valiant Friend", 1980

There is that of God in everyone. This principle of the Inward Light, the Christ Within, illumines for us every corner of religion, philosophy, ethics, morals, daily living, social relationships, and international relations.

Before we can express this faith to others, whether in words or in deeds, we must first experience the reality of the Inward Light in our own souls. Then we are released to be faithful to this Spirit. The corporate and personal disciplines Friends have used are the means by which we have found and experienced the presence of God. Through these disciplines we have been able to remain faithful in our witness to the world.

Cast aside, now, thy burdensome cares and put away thy toilsome business. Yield room for some little time to God.

--Anselm (1033-1109), Proslogium

"Seek, and ye shall find," said Jesus. From the beginning Friends have emphasized the search. We do not have the whole truth. But we can search diligently for understanding and use some of the guides that help us grow toward the Light.

Okay, Friends. My gosh, that was huge. Pile-on time. How did I do?

As if this is not long enough, I do feel the need to disclaim...I've seen everything I've here attributed to Quakerism lived out by people of all faiths, Catholics included. Most of the faithful Catholics I know do not passively swallow their creed but strive to make it live for them, and their faith transforms their lives. They work faithfully to improve the world and spread God's love to their neighbours. And what I've described is the ideal of Quakerism. We're all in here paddling together in the Ocean of Light and Love, and we all fall short of what God has opened to us.

Quakers and Catholics share a belief in the literal Presence of God in the world, though they express it very differently. In this way Quakers are closer to Catholics that to Protestants.

I'm not sure if there is anything else I need to say, but just a blessing of Love to all of you reading this.

People, look East.

This First day Jeff and I went to Fresh Pond Meeting. I've been once before that, and I just love it. It's small and full of children and everybody seems to know everybody else without being clannish or cliquey. Every community has its quirks...I'm not starry-eyed on that account. But my soul was fed in worship there, and I know I'll be back.

A Friend gave ministry on the topic of "Sing and Rejoice". Often in worship my mind isn't passively quiet, but silently humming away at any of the dozens of hymns I internalized as a child. I was in the middle of a verse when he stood to speak. One that's been with me as the year turns is an advent hymn. Though as Quakers we believe that the Kingdom is among us, that Christ is here, there are still many powerfully moving themes that have to do with the themes of Waiting and Fullfilment, themes that have been resonating with me deeply.

People, look East. The time is near
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look East and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way.

Furrows, be glad. Though earth is bare,
One more seed is planted there:
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
People, look East and sing today:
Love, the rose, is on the way.

Birds, though you long have ceased to build,
Guard the nest that must be filled.
Even the hour when wings are frozen
God for fledging time has chosen.
People, look East and sing today:
Love, the bird, is on the way.

Stars, keep the watch. When night is dim
One more light the bowl shall brim,
Shining beyond the frosty weather,
Bright as sun and moon together.
People, look East and sing today:
Love, the star, is on the way.

Angels, announce with shouts of mirth
Christ who brings new life to earth.
Set every peak and valley humming
With the word, the Lord is coming.
People, look East and sing today:
Love, the Lord, is on the way.

There are a lot of things I love about the song. I'm not bothered by theological or historical inaccuracies (What? God wasn't born in a snowsorm?!) because the truth it holds is fresh, and the hope and cheerfulness and good will in every line is apparent. When was the last time you heard the word "Mirth" in a hymn?

Even the hour when wings are frozen
God for fledging time has chosen.

I've known that to be true in my own soul!

I'm digging the church calendar a little this year. A lot of things that I once recoiled from when I was asked to believe them literally I can now warm to and love as full and beautiful illustrations of the journey of the soul to God, and of God to the soul. I like seasons, and I like this cyclical story of change and growth, of laying down and renewal.

In other news...I'm moving in with the Quakers in January! Yep. I'll be a Friend's Center Resident at Cambridge. In return for scrubbing and mopping and swabbing the deck, I get a room right beside the meeting house, a short walk from work. It will mean that I can pay off my student loans for my one unsalvageable (in terms of getting a degree) year of college as I start up a new one. I won't have to worry about how many hours I am or am not getting at work, and I can afford to visit my family more often. It's a wonderful blessing. I'm really going to miss my posh Davis Square dwelling, but it's really worth it. Pray for me!

Remembrance.

Here in the States, it's Veteran's Day. In Canada, it's Remembrance Day.

re·mem·brance
n.
1. The act or process of remembering.
2. The state of being remembered: holds him in fond rememberance.
3. Something serving to celebrate or honor the memory of a person or event; a memorial.
4. The length of time over which one's memory extends.
5. Something remembered; a reminiscence.
6. A souvenir.
7. A greeting or token expressive of affection.


Either way, it is a day for sorrow. A day to count and mourn our dead, to hold tenderly the boys (and now girls) we sent away to be mangled inside and out, whether they came home or not. To cry out for the end of war, and the end of blood.

When I was a little girl in Canada we handed out and pinned little red felt poppies to our coats. They still do that there. I'd see all the people go by with the festive red spot on their lapel and know it was solemn, but not quite why. At school we learned by heart and recited this poem:

In Flander's field, the poppies grow
between the crosses, row on row,
which mark our place - and in the sky,
the larks, still bravely singing, fly
scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago,
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow,
loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flander's field.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
to you, from failing hands, we throw
the torch - be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
we shall not sleep, though poppies blow
on Flander's field.

I guess I've never really thought about the poem until now. As a little girl, I felt a cold shiver at "We are the Dead." I trembled with sadness at the thought that short days ago they loved and were loved, and now, they're dead. The words seemed weighty with importance and grief. Though it was heavy, I'm afraid that the sorrow I felt for the poor Dead soldiers wasn't actually all that different from the sorrow I felt for the Velveteen Rabbit or Old Yeller. Deep, but largely imaginary.

When I read the poem again this year, remembering, I was startled at what sounded like a call for revenge. At what seemed like a threat.

I was shaken for a moment. How could this poem that my heart thrilled to recite at 8 years old be so blood-thirsty? And then I was quiet and listened, and I felt a deep sadness in understanding. It was not a threat. It was a promise.

The foe is the dehumanizing of our fellow children of God. The foe is the hideous disregard that we as a nation have felt for the precious souls of God that we mow down in the interest of our own "interests" and our callous turning away from the sufferings of the "collateral damage".

Tonight I realized that the souls in the poem have kept their promise. The Dead are swelling their numbers every day, and they do not sleep.

I've been opened tonight by the realization that I can only look at death in old black-and-white photos (that's a real, dead man up there. Why don't I wince?), and I turn my face from images of the real-live horror of the Dead. The babies with eyes full of flies dying of AIDS in Ethiopia. The Sundanese mother wasting with intestinal parisites, unable to feed her shrivelling newborn. The Afghani child with two bloody stumps where her feet once were. The trembling, desperate Iraqi teenager with a vest full of vengance, ready to die for what's "right". The trembling, desperate American teenager from South Carolina, with an armful of M-16, ready to die for what's "right".

And I'm sick at the thought that this useless little blog post sounds like just another cliche Quaker squalling about peace. That I had to wait until the arbirary date of 11/11, to be stirred by a dusty old worn-out poem, to think very much more about it than pinning a little plastic poppy to my coat. Tonight I don't know what God wants me to do about it, besides remember. What happened then, but mostly, what's happening right now this very minute.


Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?" "I don't know," he replied. "Am I my brother's keeper?"

The Lord said, "What have you done? Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground.

Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand.

When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth."
Gen 4:9-12

The Wrong Sort of Saint

There were many thoughtful responses and questions left in the comments of my last post. We could have several interesting conversations around them, especially about the Original Sin bit. Kate wrote a very good post about one take on original sin. Reading her post will probably give some further context to this one. I did want to clarify that when I said "I backslid into a steaming pile of original sin", I meant that I backslid into my old thinking about original sin. These days, Kate's conception of it is much closer to the way I feel.

But a comment of Liz's called out to me, and I've been sitting with it a bit:

it is hard for me to get a sense of how much you truly lament your plain-dress (in which case, you may wish to test the good order of laying it down) and how much you are just having fun

It startled me, because I didn't mean to give the impression that I lament my plain-dress.

The question that was disturbing me in my post wasn't so much the question of "Oh gosh, must I be so drab?" but a much bigger and older one: how much of becoming "good" has to do with transformation, and how much has to do with becoming your authentic God-created self? And are the two mutually exclusive? Are we supposed to replace ourselves with God? Scoop out the juicy Amanda-Pulp and pack in the Christ?

It is not I who live, but Christ in me

My current leaning (not necessarily leading) is to remember that we are all in the image of God, and to take that very seriously. Each of us posesses a unique and irreplacable reflection of God. I know that God is One, and that God is Infinite, and all of the billions of differences in every thing on the planet are still not enough to show all of the facets of God.

But we're supposed to try, and that's what we're here for. Being faithful has to do with being true to that facet of God it's been given to us to reflect.

Grey Jumpers vs Rainbow Socks sounds a bit silly in the context of these important questions. But of course, plain-dress is supposed to be the outward sign of an inward process. The process of becoming Godly.

My old pattern for being a Saint was very limited. There was a particular template, and my job was to pattern myself after that Master Copy. I felt that to become a faithful servant of God meant trimming away all the parts of myself that didn't fit the template of "Godly".

I've also been thinking of, God help me, Harry Potter.

"Dark and difficult times lie ahead, Harry... says Dumbledore "...soon we must all make a choice between what is easy, and what is right"

Well, duh, right? There are lots of times when being good is difficult. It's not easy to keep from snapping at highly irritating people, but it's right. It's not easy to give up your spare time to serve a good cause, but it's right. There are a lot of challenges inherent in doing the right thing. So when the stubborn or lazy or irritable parts of me get in the way of doing right, then it's proper to struggle against them, and "trample and thunder down" all that is contrary to good.

When it came to the question of plain-dress, I started re-examining this policy of trampling down and sanding off and trimming away. As I said in my post, I used to feel "That there are parts of me that...that must be stripped away, pruned, weeded, burned" and I realized that I'd been reverting to that idea. And not only that, but I wondered if I was taking the weeding and the sandpapering too far, trying to get rid of parts of myself that weren't sinful or wrong, but that just didn't necessarily fit this outside pattern I was holding myself up to.

Maybe I've been being too literal about the sorts of ways I am supposed to emulate the Master Copy. Maybe I've been confused about just what the Master Copy is. Maybe I've been looking at a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy, and things have been getting blurred.

I've been savouring this John Woolman quote.

"As Christians all we possess are the gifts of God...to turn all the treasures we possess into the channel of universal love becomes the business of our lives.

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about why I do the things I do, thinking of Aristotle, and how he said "virtue" is found doing a "good" thing because it is "good" and for no other reason, which of course begs the question of what is "good", and automatically it becomes a bit self-indulgent and time-consuming after a while, sorting out the sheep from the goats. I am tired of trying on this or that second-hand set of ethics, which will supposedly help me judge what is good or what is virtuous or what is Godly. And whenever I sit in worship and ask God "is this-or-that "good"?" I get the same question in response, every time "Is it loving? Does it further the cause of Love?"

When I've examined my behaviour and my belongings in the past, I've been examining them against these outside measures of "good"...which ever measure of Good I happen to be nearest. Is this Baltimore Catechism Good? Is this Secular Humanist Good? Is this Pragmatically Good? Is this Liberal Conservative Hicksite Plain Quaker Good?

And each of those "Goods" have had large dollops of Loving in them, and in the barest essentials, a lot of the "Goods" have been the same in each case.

But when it comes down to things like choosing the colour of my socks or the length of my hair, I could get a different answer from anyone's set of ethics. And when it begins to seem as though applying the question "Is it loving? Does it further the cause of Love?" is ending up with a shrug, I start thinking: "Well, then why do I feel guilty about this? Is this something that I need to prune out of myself so that I can be more like God?"

I think, well, maybe it's that I'll be more humble, and that will make me more loving.

Maybe.

I think, well, maybe the time I spend thinking about my socks will be better spent loving people.

Maybe.

And then I think, well, maybe I am just trying to cut myself to an outside pattern for reasons that have nothing to do with love.

Maybe.

I've wondered about the difference between ego and individuality. I've read about "losing yourself" in God, about being immolated by the Spirit until there is nothing left of you but God. And I've wondered about the deeper meanings of these ideas. How much has to burn away before it's just God? What exactly is it that remains?

All we possess are the gifts of God

I don't want to sound like I'm haggling with God..."You can have this, but I want to keep that. You can have that, but then I want two of these..." because it's not that at all. Turning all of my treasures into the channel of universal love probably doesn't mean destroying or obscuring or defacing them. If all I have is from God, then what am I doing taking a power-sander to it? As Kate said:

God does not want you to be smaller or less than you are now, but more, and larger.

Can it be that some of the things I've been trying to hack away at are the very things that God gave to me to be put to use in the service of universal love?

And of course...I'm not really talking about socks here. I'm talking about the possibility that one of the reasons I struggle so much in my spiritual life has been because I've been working against what I've been given, contorting and distorting myself into a pattern for the wrong sort of Saint. And maybe that does absolutely nothing to make me more loving. Maybe when I try to diminish myself, I'm diminishing the God in me.

In the meantime, the smaller plain-dress question is pretty moot. I'm not in the market for anything new, and the plain and not-so-plain clothes that I have are serving me well. It wouldn't be loving for me to own any more than I already do.

I'm also giggling because I was mocking myself a little about "precious precious unique little snowflake" and then, envisioning myself trimming all sorts of bits off myself to fit each set of ethics, I thought of the paper snowflakes I used to make as a kid. I'm sure there's some exhausting illustration in that which completely contradicts all I've just said. :)