Belief

 I was asked the other day what Quakers believed, or, more precisely, what I believed. I realised that I was completely unable to answer this apparently simple question. I was left floundering.

I could have given a formulaic answer, something on the lines of 'being guided by the light' or 'answering to that of God in everyone' or, as I have often done, pointing to the Testimonies, but, instead I 'fessed up' – as the modern phrase puts it – and said “I don't know”. And then “I don't do belief.”

That answer came from quite deep: a knowing that I needed to be honest in response to a genuine question, but also a knowing that I feel deeply uncomfortable about claiming any form of belief. I had not until that moment formulated why that was.

I know what I experience. I know what comes to me in the silence. I know what moves me in the words of others. I know what makes me reflect and feel compassion. I know what challenges me and makes me feel uncomfortable. I know that I have blind spots and prejudices that are far clearer to others than they are, or ever will be, to me – but belief? No. I don't do that: it pretends to certainties where there are none. I think that is because it is a substitute for the hard work of not knowing, of being open, of being receptive, of discovering.

I do know that marinated in our collective silence, in attending to the words that arise, sometimes in the mouths of others, sometimes, even against my will, on occasions in my own mouth, I become more mellow and less hasty to judge; more inclined to listen and to see different sides; to be less partisan. This makes me understand why we speak of Quakers being 'seasoned', much like we season timbers before they are fit to use: Quakerism is not a slate of beliefs to be acceded to, but a process of putting aside and untangling, or even, to borrow yet again from modern parlance, of unplugging; of simply being in the presence of being; of being with others and what envelops us all.

I feel the more we name and label what we experience the more we diminish those experiences; the more we package them and put them into boxes, the safer and the less demanding they are: packed, wrapped and contained. For me this lacks integrity and authenticity: it takes us away from the raw stuff of simply being, and the honesty of not knowing.

In some ways I feel as if beliefs are like Christmas wrapping paper – tinselly and appealing, but insubstantial – when the real gifts are inside, and what you might do with what is inside.

I am on a spiritual journey, but it is no package tour – the point is the journey, not any supposed destination: is that why I do not 'do belief'?

Published in The Friend of 30 July 2021