Reflection on ‘Aphorism 2’ (Reason and Light Combined)

“When you dwell in thought on important or profound matters, dwell also in the Spirit. Reason and Light combined give the truest fount of insight.”
–Aphorism 2

This is very simple advice, easy to understand in a literal sense, and making very little use of symbolism of imagery. Technically, ‘Light’ is imagery, but it is such standard imagery for Quakers that it barely counts; it is one of the terms we use, largely regardless of specific theological views, for the Divine, or an aspect of the Divine, or a way of looking at the Divine. Early Friends spoke of the “Light of Christ”, seeing it as an expression of the work of the Holy Spirit upon those who are open to it. Indeed, it is a clear reflection of the Pentecostal essence of the Quaker way, however different we might be now from those churches referred to as ‘Pentecostal’ today.

The idea of Pentecostal Christianity is a focus on the Holy Spirit’s work among Christians today, in reference to the events commemorated by the festival of Pentecost – the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles (and other followers of Jesus). This happened during the Jewish Feast of Weeks, Shavuot, commemorating Moses’ receipt of the law – the Torah – on Mount Sinai, as well as marking the wheat harvest in Israel. Shavuot occurs on the 50^th day after Passover (according to some traditions), and was thus also known in the language of the New Testament, Koine Greek (including by some Hellenistic Jews of the first century CE), as Pentēkostē, or ‘fiftieth’. That word is also used in the Septuagint, the key Koine translation of the Hebrew scriptures, to refer to the “year of Jubilee” that occurred every fifty years, but its use to refer to Shavuot is key to its importance as a term in Christianity. It was adopted to commemorate the events of Shavuot so long ago – counting the 50 days from Easter, which marks events that occurred at Passover, though Easter and Passover now no longer necessarily coincide.

Flashes of Clarity

It is inescapably true that we see, as the quote goes, “through a glass, darkly” (1 Corinthians 13:12) or, in more modern translations, “in a mirror, dimly” – assuming glass to be in the old sense, as in “looking glass”, though there is debate as to which sense was meant by the author of the epistle. This is clearly true, from the evidence of modern neuroscience, of our perception of the mundane, everyday world. We see the reflection of the world that our senses and our complex neural circuitry manage to produce, and it fills in the blanks with reasonable assumptions all over the place. It finds patterns anywhere it can, so we see dogs and sofas in clouds. We miss far more of the world around us than we see.

The Great Lord and His Sons

There was once a great lord. His realm was peaceful and prosperous. He had five sons, and he gave thought to how they should be raised.

He had not been raised to rule himself, as he had elder brothers. They had all died before their father, so the rule had fallen to him. So it was in his mind to raise them all to know what it is good for lords to know. He saw that it would be best for his realm if any one of them could take up the rule of the realm, govern rightly and judge fairly.

Yet his aunt had married the lord of another realm, and had had many sons. They had all wished to take the place of the lord their father when he died, and so had schemed and plotted and killed, and in the end gone to war on one another. All had died, in assassination or in war, and the last at the hands of his people when he claimed rule over a land broken by war. The lord of that realm now was the the great lord's aunt's grandson, and the power in the hands of courtiers ruling in his name. So it was that the great lord saw that it would be best for his realm, and for his family, if none of his sons should greatly desire to succeed him.

The Death of Fox

From the title of this post, you might have supposed that it was going to be a sort of tailpiece biography, covering the time shortly before and after the actual death of George Fox. Another possible interpretation would be that I was, out of all character, joining in with the sporadic habit of some Quakers online, bemoaning how unlike Fox most Quakers are today.

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).

What Is Ministry?

One of the hardest things, in my experience, about trying to explain Quaker practice to those unfamiliar with it, is getting down and detailed about Meeting for Worship. Okay, so we sit in silence, and wait for the spirit to move someone to speak; that much sounds simple. I've written before, in some detail, with thoughts on how to tell if the spirit is moving you to speak. After that, though, once someone is speaking, how do we understand what has been said in that spoken ministry? Even assuming that everyone who stands to speak is genuinely moved to speak, there are several ways to think about this.

The most obvious one is at one extreme, that these are genuine, literal messages from God/the Spirit/the Divine/whatever you're calling it. That the words themselves are chosen for you, and the speaker is merely a conduit, with no responsibility for what is said. At the opposite extreme, perhaps the Spirit only gives the germ of an idea, and the compulsion to share it. Then the words are the choice of the person speaking, as they try to express an idea, possibly a very nebulous idea, that has been placed into their mind. I have spoken to Friends who view ministry at each of those extremes.

As is usually the case, however, when there are extreme points of view, there's also the possibility of ideas that lie between them. I suspect that most Friends lie somewhere in that in-between space, as indeed do I, but there's a lot of variation possible. Ultimately, however, all such positions amount to something of the form that ministry is a collaboration between the individual and the Spirit.

Ownership of Ministry

Since I first started writing down and sharing written ministry, something has been troubling me. It may sound shallow and trivial, but it's a really complicated question with real implications on what I can and should do in future.

To what extent can I, or should I, claim ownership of the written ministry I produce? The law is very clear, because the law doesn't take into account claims of divine inspiration in writing. It came from my head, through my hands, onto paper (or keyboard), and its my intellectual property. What happened to get it into my head in the first place, the law doesn't care about (unless I was literally copying from existing creative work). When it comes to spiritual writing, however, there's so much more to it than that.