The Quakers, Past and Present

by Dorothy M. Richardson

They owed much to tradition, to their theological studies, to their familiarity with the recorded experiences of holy men; they recognized their church as the transmitter of this tradition, as the guardian of saintly testimony on the subject of their art. They recognized her, not as an end but as a means, not as a prison, but as a home for all the human family, keeping open her doors, on the one hand, to the unconverted, providing, on the other, a suitable medium, the right atmosphere and opportunities, whereby pilgrims in the spiritual life might develop, to their full, possibilities in advance of the common measure of the group. They chid her, they exposed abuses, and called for reforms; they challenged the “carnal conception” of the sacraments, and denounced the loose lives of her dignitaries; but they remained in the church.

The Quakers, on the contrary, appeared when few of those who were in authority were able to understand what had arisen in their midst. Fox brought his challenge by the wayside; untrammelled by tradition, fearless in inexperience, he endowed all men with his own genius, and called upon the whole world to join him in the venture of faith.

CHAPTER II
THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS

I

When Fox came back to the world from his lonely wanderings, he had no thought of setting up a church in opposition to, or in any sort of competition with, existing churches. His message was for all, worshipping under whatever name or form; his sole concern to reveal to men their own wealth, to wean them to turn from words and ceremonials, from all merely outward things, to seek first the inner reality. Many of the Puritan leaders were brought by their contact with Fox to a more vital attitude with regard to the faith in which they had been brought up. Several of the magistrates before whom he and his followers were continually being haled, unable after hours of examination and discussion not only to find any cause of offence in these men, but unable, also, to resist the appeal of their strength and sincerity, espoused their cause with every degree of warmth, from whole-hearted adherence to lifelong, unflagging interest and sympathy. But the general attitude, from the panic-stricken behaviour of those who regarded the Quakers as black magicians, incarnations of the Evil One, or Jesuits in disguise, to the grave concern of the Calvinist divines, who saw in the Quaker movement a profane attack upon the foundation-rock of Holy Scripture, was one of fear—fear based, as is usual, upon misunderstanding. A concise reasoned formulation of the Quaker standpoint, though it may be picked out from the writings of Fox and the early apologists, was to come, and then only imperfectly, when the scholarly Robert Barclay joined the group; meanwhile, the sometimes rather amorphous enthusiasm, the “mysterious meetings,” the apocalyptic claims and denunciations—meaningless to those who had no key—stood as a barrier between the “children of the light” and the religious fellowship of the Commonwealth church. Fear is clearly visible at the root of the instant and savage persecution of the Quakers, not only by the mob, but by official Calvinism, throughout the chapter of its power. The keynote was struck by the local authorities at Nottingham, who responded to Fox’s plea for the Inner Light during a Sunday morning’s service in the parish church by putting him in prison. It is usually maintained that his offence was brawling, but it is difficult to reconcile this reading with the facts of the case. Theological disputations were the most popular diversions of the day. There were no newspapers, nor, in the modern sense of the word, either “politics” or books; popular literature consisted largely of religious pamphlets; amateur theologians abounded; the public meetings arousing the maximum of enthusiasm were those gathered for the duels of well-known controversialists; while speaking in church after the minister had finished was not only recognized, but far from unusual. In this instance the minister had preached from the text, “We have also a more sure word of prophecy; whereunto ye do well that ye take heed, as unto a light that shineth in a dark place, until the day dawn and the day star arise in your hearts,” and had developed his theme in the sense that the sure word of prophecy was the record of the Scripture. Fox—whom we may imagine already much the man William Penn later on described for us as “no busybody or self-seeker, neither touchy nor critical ... so meek, contented, modest, easy, steady, tender, it was a pleasure to be in his company.... I never saw him out of his place or not a match for every service and occasion; for in all things he acquitted himself like a man—yea, a strong man, a new and heavenly-minded man—civil beyond all forms of breeding in his behaviour”—rose with his challenge, threw down the gauntlet to biblicism, and declared that the Light was not the Scriptures, but the Spirit of God....

But, as we have seen, religious England was not wholly Puritan. Fox’s world was waiting for him. From every denomination and every rank of society the Children of the Light came forth. Very many—notably the nuclear members of small independent groups—had reached the Quaker experience before he came. The beliefs and customs which have since been identified with the Society of Friends were already in existence in the group of Separated Baptists at Mansfield in Nottingham, which formed in face of the closed doors of official religion the centre of the little Quaker church. The singleness of type, moreover, in the missionary work of the early Quakers, extending, as it did, over the whole of Christendom, carried on independently by widely differing natures—“narrow” nonconformist ministers, prosperous business men, army officers and privates, shepherds, cloth-makers, gentlewomen and domestic servants, under every variety of circumstance, would be enough in itself to reveal Fox as the child of his time. But as we watch the movement, as we see it assailed by those dangers arising wherever systems and doctrines are left behind and reason gets to work upon the facts of a man’s own experience; as we find the fresh life threatening here to crystallize into formal idealism, there to flow away into pantheism or antinomianism, again to pour into a dead sea of placid illumination; as we see the little church surviving these dangers and continually reviving, we recognize that Fox was more than the liberator of mystical activity. He was its steersman. His constructive genius cast the mould which has enabled this experiment to escape the fate overtaking similar efforts. Seventeenth-century mysticism in France[6] and Spain was succumbing to Quietism. Molinos, the Spanish monk, a contemporary of Fox, popularized a debased form of Teresian mysticism, formulating it as a state “where the soul loses itself in the soft and savoury sleep of nothingness, and enjoys it knows not what”; while in France the practice of passive contemplation had gained in the religious life of the time a popularity which even the mystical genius of Madame Guyon—who herself, it is true, lays in her writings over-much stress upon this, the first step of the mystic way—failed to disturb.

For Fox, we cannot keep too clearly in mind, the relationship of the soul to the Light was a life-process; the “inner” was not in contradistinction to the outer. For him, the great adventure, the abstraction from all externality, the purging of the self, the Godward energizing of the lonely soul, was in the end, as it has been in all the great “actives” among the mystics, the most practical thing in the world, and ultimately fruitful in life-ends. He surprises us by the intensity of his objective vision, by the number of modern movements he anticipates: popular education; the abolition of slavery; the substitution of arbitration for warfare amongst nations, and for litigation between individuals; prison reform, and the revising of accepted notions as to the status of women. He delights us with the strong balance of his godliness, his instant suspicion of religiosity and emotionalism, his dealing with those extremes of physical and mental disturbance which are apt in unstable natures to accompany any sudden flooding of the field of consciousness; his discouragement of ranting and “eloquence,” of self-assertion and infallibility—of anything indicating lack of control, or militating against the full operation of the light.

But, enormously powerful as was the influence of Fox upon the movement which he liberated and steered, it was at the same time exceptionally free—even in relation to the comparatively imitative mass of the Quaker church—from that limitation which justifies the famous description of an institution as the lengthened shadow of a man. The partial escape of the Quaker church from this almost universal fate of institutions becomes clear when we fix our attention on the essential nature of Fox’s “discovery” and what was involved in his offering it to the laity, when we note that within the Quaker borders there arose that insistence on the “originality” of life on all levels that has, at last, in our own day, made its appearance in official philosophy.

II

The history of the Quaker experiment reveals in England three main movements: the first corresponding roughly to the life of Fox, and covering the period of expansion, persecution,[7] and establishment; the second, which may be called the retreat of Quakerism, the quiet cultivation of Quaker method; and the third, the modern evangelistic revival.