I reckon I have spent about half my life so far in Pennsylvania, off and on (high school, university, later working in Philadelphia, even late, returning to live in western PA), so it's not surprising that I know a bit about the Quakers. After all, this state (officially a commonwealth) was founded by the Society of Friends. Who else would have named their first town 'city of brotherly love' rather than, say, Charlesborough (for the king)? William Penn would be pleased about the Liberty Bell (probably), but, I suspect, less pleased about the giant statue of him atop City Hall.

Although once you'd explained that they sometimes put a giant sports cap on the statue, he'd probably decide that this undignified gesture made the whole thing less vainglorious. Practically Quakerly, in fact. I might be wrong, though: although Quaker urban legend credits early leaders such as Fox and Penn with 'wise' and moderate views, a Quaker theologian disputes this. Not that it would matter to Philadelphia. I'm just personally curious as to how he'd feel about the funny hat.

What I wanted to talk about, though, was not hats but meditation. By meditation I mean what takes place in Quaker meetings for worship. That's what they call a meeting in which everyone sits silently until the Holy Spirit moves someone to speak. After about an hour the designated member calls time, and everybody gets up and socialises. Sometimes there is coffee and cake.

This is my absolutely favourite type of worship. Unlike the weekly services of absolutely every other kind of Christian church I've ever attended – from Orthodox Presbyterians who only sing versified psalms, and those a cappella, to Orthodox Greeks, who swing censers at people and play peekaboo behind the iconostasis – Quakers do not appear to believe that the word 'worship' means that you should spend the time trying to flatter the Deity. Or talking, oh Baptists who haven't had your money's worth if the preacher hasn't been at it for 45 whole minutes. Quakers worship by listening. This was a novel approach in the 17th Century. Today, it is unheard of.

When is the last time you witnessed anybody trying to accomplish anything by collectively shutting up for a whole hour?

Now, I like church music. Well, most of it. I enjoy playing piano and organ. Music can be an aid to meditation. Well, it would be if the congregation wouldn't chatter through the prelude. Okay, Baptists: I know how you love to talk. But I miss Quaker meetings. I miss the communal silence.

Baptists and other evangelical-type church folk are afraid of silence. They're completely terrified of meditation. I've heard pastors say that meditation is dangerous. Just like that church lady on Twitter the other day who insisted that yoga was 'ungodly'. According to her, you cannot assume the lotus position without worshiping that idol with the elephant's head.

I cannot assume the lotus position. But that is because I have TMJ and balance issues. Not because I couldn't talk to heaven while doing it.

I can meditate in a train station. I can meditate happily at a Quaker meeting, too. I once tried to get my father to come to a meeting for worship. He refused; not because he didn't think his Quaker ancestors were good people. He was secretly afraid he'd fall asleep and snore. I let him off the hook.

The trick to meditating, as the Quakers will tell you, is to let your mind go still. Yes, irrelevant thoughts will suddenly rush in to distract you. Let them float in and float back out – which they will, in a huff, when they find out you aren't paying them any attention. Then you can sit there, still, in that wonderful hypnagogic state, until the Spirit tells you something. It might be something small, or something grand. But it will be something healing.

I've spent some time in meetinghouses that looked like the one in the photo: 300 years old and more. I love their unadorned quality. Unfortunately, in those meetinghouses, full of birthright Quakers who'd been doing it all their lives, I never heard anything exciting. Usually, after about 20 minutes of peace and quiet, somebody would stand up and comment on how beautiful the spring/summer flowers were this year, and how that reminded them of God's love. Or how the fall leaves made them think about the wisdom of age, or how the winter snow brought the thought that spring would come.

This used to happen a lot at Arch Street meeting in Philadelphia. Not surprising, really, because it was where the history tourists used to come. Ben Franklin went to Arch Street meeting on his very first day in Philadelphia. It wasn't the same building: that one was a couple of blocks away. They probably said the same things about the autumn leaves, because it was early October. Ben fell asleep. He'd walked all the way from Boston.

I used to attend a meeting in Charlotte, North Carolina that was really different from these staid historical exercises. For one thing, there was no ancient meetinghouse: just a modern house that had been taken over by the local Friends. Who didn't mind music at all. Of course, there was no singing during meeting. But a bunch of us would come early, I'd oblige at the piano, and we'd sing our way through the Quaker songbook. They liked Sydney Carter. I love Sydney Carter. We had a good time.

Instead of ancient wooden benches, we arranged metal folding chairs in a square for our meditative meeting. There was listening – and an amazing amount of talking. You see, we had a little flock of people in recovery. Recovering Catholics, recovering Baptists, even a recovering Buddhist. All people who, for one reason or another, were having trouble hearing the Spirit through the noise of what everyone else was saying. Now they could hear, and they had things to share.

And questions. One man, a lifelong Quaker married to a Baptist, had a puzzler for us: why was his wife allowing his daughter to participate in 'sword drills'? What was this martial-sounding exercise, why did it involve Bibles, and what was it doing in a church? For a pacifist, this was troubling.

There was much laughter as those of us who knew the answer dredged up our funniest stories of competitive Bible verse searching. The questioner was reassured that no actual weapons were deployed. He still thought this militarisation of scripture was unnecessary. We told him he had a point.

Meetings can be serious. People shared heartbreaking stories. We listened to them and spoke if we felt moved. One story stands out in my memory because it recently became relevant to me again. A birthright Quaker woman recalled her friend, a young man when they were both young, a fellow protestor against US involvement in Vietnam. She and he were sitting with others in a circle in a public place, singing and protesting. Her friend was holding his baby daughter.

Suddenly, he stood up. He handed the child to the woman. Walking a distance away, he doused himself with gasoline and set himself on fire. He died in front of his horrified friends and his baby.

'I'm still angry with him,' she confessed. We didn't offer platitudes. We grieved with her. A short time ago, when I saw another young person commit the same desperate act, I remembered the woman I heard in meeting.

You don't need a group to meditate, although it is nice. And you don't anybody to tell you what to meditate about. If the idea of silence frightens you – or if silence is sheerly unattainable where you are – may I suggest music? No, not that '3 hours of spiritual raga' you can find on Youtube. Not unless you find raga really, really restful, which is unlikely unless that's your tradition. Find something you like. I suppose some people can meditate to metal.

Meditation won't steal your soul. It won't solve all your problems at once. But it's amazing what it can reveal, if you can manage to stay awake and not snore. Take time to be still.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

11.03.24 Front Page

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