In either case, I'm afraid you're going to be
disappointed. Rather, it is a reference to The Death of the
Author, an essay by the French
literary critic and author Roland Barthes (it's original French title
itself being a play on the title of Le Mort d'Arthur,
but that's too tangential a path for me to dive down here), and of
the literary theory concepts that derive from it.
The essential principle
of the essay, and the related (but separately posited) theory of the
“intentional fallacy”, is that the author is not the authority
when it comes to the meaning of a piece of work. Once an author has
created a work, they might tell you what their intent was, you might
infer it from other sources, but intent is not the determining factor
of meaning. I don't say that this theory is universally accepted in
the study of literature; I also probably don't understand it
perfectly, not having studied literary theory or analysis, so please
don't rely on my explanation (or lecture me too harshly if you know
it better – I'm glad to learn more, but please keep it friendly).
This may be seen
as related to the most generally accepted theory of pedagogic
epistemology (the study of knowledge is, in the context of learning),
where various forms of constructivist
theory are dominant – social constructivism being particularly
notable, but that distinction isn't relevant here. This is the idea
that, rather than being transmitted from instructor to learner,
knowledge is constructed in the mind of the learner; the job of the
instructor is to provide the material, environment and stimulation to
permit that construction. While you might memorise facts by rote,
true knowledge and understanding are only attained when the learner
constructs their knowledge internally – and that each person's
construction of the “same” knowledge may be quite different.
We may see meaning,
then, as also constructed in the mind of each person. Intention is
one thing, but meaning is another. In one of the English language's
little quirks, one can impart meaning without meaning to – the
source of many a verbal “foot in mouth” moment. We must then not
confuse the meaning we see in text, or art, or music, with the
intention of the person who created it, nor should an author attempt
to control what others see in their work. You might see meaning in my
writing that I did not intend; I can deny that intention until I am
blue in the face, but I cannot take away the meaning that you have
perceived. Whether my intention is at all relevant to the meaning is
an area certainly open to debate, as literary theorists have
persisted in since the rise of post-structuralism and postmodernism.
Meaning, whether you might consider it mistaken or not, is in the
mind of the consumer.
So, back to Fox. George
Fox is held up as the originator of the Religious Society of Friends,
of Quaker learning and teaching and principles; his influence is
unquestionable, but the uniqueness of his impact is debatable, and
many strands of thought went into the faith and practice of the early
Friends. For the sake of discussion, however, let us take “Fox”
as a shorthand for the dominant strain of thought of early Quakers.
This thought was unquestionably and specifically Christian,
unquestionably deeply critical of paid ministers (or “hireling
priests”) and of any priestly class, deeply disapproving of the
hierarchical and authoritative structures of the Church, dismissive
of empty profession of belief, and scathing of taking received wisdom
in the interpretation of scripture. It was unabashedly evangelical,
with not a little resentment of Quaker “outreach” of the time
stemming from the habit of disrupting church services or nights in
the tavern with outspoken and vociferous exhortations on the
wrongness of people's current habits and how they should change their
lives. “Ministers” were recognised for their gift of spoken (and
sometimes written) ministry, and had – at least in principle – no
authority beyond that.
Where in the
Quaker world are Quakers like those of Fox's day? Where we have kept
our silent meetings and minimisation of an effective priestly class,
we have abandoned our forceful outreach – and in many cases any
expectation of Christianity. Where we have kept both outreach and
Christianity, we have reduced or effectively abandoned the practice
of silent worship and the rejection of paid ministers. Indeed, I'm
not aware of any branch of the Society still going in to the
steeple-houses to berate those present for their spiritual
moribundity (and no, I'm not suggesting we should).
Have we then failed the
charge set us by the early Friends? Has the Quaker way become diluted
and corrupted, falling short of the dream?
I don't think so.
You see, that dream was
always one of a living faith, a faith not held down by the
understandings and expectations of the past. If we clung tightly to
the understandings of Fox and his contemporaries, that faith would,
long before now, have become as dead as those early Friends
considered that of the churchgoers. So each of us, as individuals and
as branches of the Religious Society of Friends, looks back at the
work and teachings of early Friends, and sees in them different
meaning. There can be much to be gained by trying to work out the
intent behind them – as I have done in one of the more popular
posts on this blog, concerning “that of God in every one”.
However, that is only the intent, or if you prefer, the intended
meaning. It does not limit the meaning that we see now. Indeed, given
our habit of waiting on the Spirit and seeking to inform our insights
through inspiration from the Divine, we might hope that the meanings
we construct now are so guided.
Yet if that is true,
how are we so diverse in our understandings, in the way that the
teachings of the early Friends have evolved among us? Well, in what
some might consider a surprising (or hypocritical) move from me, I'm
reaching for an explanation from the Bible. I do not consider it
hypocritical myself, as I believe in finding wisdom wherever we might
find it. I might reach in the same way for an explanation from the
Pāli Canon, or the Bhagavad Gita, the Tao Te Ching, or even the
writings of Aleister Crowley, though growing up in the UK, even in an
irreligious household, leaves me more familiar with the Bible. It is
a biblical quotation that will be familiar to many Quakers, often
used here in Britain in the context of nominations:
There are different kinds of spiritual gifts, but they all come from the same Spirit. There are different ways to serve the same Lord, and we can each do different things. Yet the same God works in all of us and helps us in everything we do.
You may recognise this
as 1 Corinthians 12:4-6 (the translation in question is the
Contemporary English Version, which I found on Bible Gateway
and, at least for this section, I quite like). I very much doubt I
will be the first person to use it to argue for any sort of
universalism. You see, we all – in all the branches of the Society,
at all points in our history – may be assumed to have been working
faithfully and seeking to serve “the Lord” as we understand it.
The same may be said for all faiths, indeed, but here I am speaking
only of Quakers.
There are different
ways to serve the Spirit, and we fulfil several different ways across
the worldwide family of Friends. None of us are wrong simply by being
different from one another, or different from the early Friends. As
we read scripture, or Quaker writings, or other holy books, or even
literature, we see meaning, and that meaning is there – and is
meaningful to us. The Spirit moves us, and it moves us in different
ways, but we need not be afraid of that.
Fox is dead. Long live
the Spirit.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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