Weil's wall

My last post used traditional religious language. I talked about God, and discerning God’s will, and what we might mean when we claim that this is what we are doing. But I also alluded to the fact that some Quakers don’t use “God-language” at all.

A comment on the blog picked up on this, and talked about how language can function either as a barrier or a bridge. And I recognise that my own use of religious language can create a kind of barrier: some people will feel excluded by it, or will conclude very early on that what I am saying is not for them. What should we do when communication meets this sort of barrier?

I was reminded of a paradoxical suggestion that Simone Weil makes in “Gravity and Grace” - that the identical thing can sometimes be, at one and the same time, both a barrier and a means of connection. She gives the example of two prisoners in adjoining cells who learn to communicate by tapping on the wall between their cells. The wall is both the thing that divides them, and their means of communication (hence connection). I think this story has something to say to our issues about religious language.

There are three unsatisfactory ways in which Quakers can (and sometimes do) respond to a wall created by the use of divergent language. Better options are available, but they are hard work and require patience.

One unsatisfactory response is to recognise that the wall is there, but to try and persuade ourselves that it doesn’t really matter. This is the response that says, ultimately the things we are concerned with can’t be put into words anyway. This move wants to replace speech with silence. But Quaker practices around silence can easily (if we’re not careful) turn into silencing. The Quaker path isn’t primarily about silence - rather, it’s about a kind of dialectic between silence and speech. The Quaker silence, at its best, is vibrant: a place where people can be heard into speech. The price we pay is that sometimes people are heard into disagreement, and we need to reconcile ourselves to this.

A second unsatisfactory response is to try to pretend that the wall doesn’t really exist at all. This is the move that says, we’re using different words, but we all really mean the same thing. It sounds tolerant, but it’s a repressive form of tolerance, because it tries to stifle the possibility of genuine divergence. In truth, there are four possibilities: we use the same words and mean the same thing; we use the same words and mean different things; we use different words but mean the same thing; and we use different words and mean different things. And we can’t rule out any of these four options at the outset.

The third unsatisfactory response is what you might call the Pink Floyd option: “tear down the wall”. In other words, if particular forms of language turn out to be divisive, we need to abandon them at once. But what would happen in Weil’s prison, if you tore down the wall between the prisoners? Perhaps the prisoners would meet each other face to face. Perhaps. Or perhaps they would turn their backs on one another and each hide in a corner of their respective cells, because the necessary foundation of trust for face-to-face communication hadn’t been established. I’m put in mind of something therapists sometimes say, about respecting the client’s resistances. When it comes to the Pink Floyd option, I want to know when and how the wall comes down, and who decides.

Is there a better approach? Yes: it’s to leave the wall in place for now, but start tapping on it from both sides and see what happens next. One person tries to explain why they use the language that they do, and how they understand it. The other person does likewise. And pretty soon the linguistic barrier between them has become the starting-point for fruitful discussion, and the thing that stopped them talking has become the thing that they talk about. Perhaps after a bit of tapping, the prisoners decide that they will jointly dismantle the wall, or a bit of it - a few bricks, so they can speak directly as well as tapping. Or they make a plan that one day they will walk out of their respective cells and meet somewhere else entirely (Rumi’s field?).

You may have heard of “Chesterton’s fence”. This is the principle that says, never dismantle a fence until you understand why it was put there in the first place: more generally, don’t change a system until you know why it is the way it is. I’m proposing a comparable principle of “Weil’s wall”: which goes, when faced with an apparent barrier to communication, ask whether you can turn it instead into a basis for connection.

Four and a half problems about discerning the will of God

1. Counting the problems

Quakers don’t vote.

Quakers vote in elections, like everyone else.  Indeed, Quakers are positively encouraged to take part in politics and public life, and I suspect many of us go to the polling station from a sense of duty even when we don’t really feel like it.

But when it comes to our own decision-making, Quakers don’t vote.  This is the case, whether it’s a local group deciding what colour to paint the meeting-house walls, or a national meeting of a thousand or more deciding whether to support equal marriage.  If there is strong disagreement, the likely conclusion will be that we’re not yet ready to make a decision.

What are Quakers doing?  Is this decision-making by consensus:  an attempt to find a lowest common denominator that everyone can live with, even if nobody really likes it?  I suspect that in practice it’s sometimes like that, but most Quakers would say this isn’t what we’re aiming for.     

Sometimes the aim is described as trying to find the sense of the meeting.  

A more traditional explanation is that Quaker decision-making is a process of discernment -  specifically, discerning the will of God.

I think there are four and a half problems with this way of putting it.  That is to say, there are four problems that are widely discussed among Quakers; and there’s a possible further problem, but as far as I can tell nobody seems much troubled by it, which is why I call it a half problem.

Here are the four familiar problems.

First, some Quakers don’t talk about God at all - they don’t “use God-language”.  Secondly, some Quakers who do talk about God, don’t think that God has a will:  this way of picturing God seems too human-like (or “anthropomorphic”).  Thirdly, some Quakers think the idea that you might actually know anything about what God wants is presumptuous, or fanciful - how are you supposed to find out?  And fourthly, some are simply repelled by the idea of discerning the will of God, because it reminds them of all the evil that has been done over the ages by people claiming to act in God’s name.

And here is the half problem. 

Does Quaker decision-making assume that there is always a right answer, and that our task is to find it and act on it?  At first sight, talk about the “will of God” suggests a kind of spiritual SatNav that tells us, at each junction, whether to turn left or right.  Is this what we think is happening?  Or do we think there are usually a number of good answers, or possible answers, so that our task is to pick one of them?  In which case, how do we choose?  If we’re looking for the best answer, that’s not very different from looking for the right answer.  On the other hand, if the aim is “identify all the permissible answers, and then choose one that everyone can live with”, then that’s not very different from seeking consensus, and certainly doesn’t seem to have very much to do with God.

Although I think the four familiar problems are important, I want to focus instead on the half problem, about whether Quaker decision-making assumes that we’re looking for the right answer.  It seems to me that this cuts across some very familiar Quaker debates about God and about decision-making, in quite an interesting way.  

I want to start by drawing on some ideas about theatrical improvisation.

2. Improvisation, blocking, and acceptance

Broadly, speaking, actors can do two things.  They can memorise a written script, and enact it; or they can improvise.  The vast majority of public performances are scripted, with an occasional role for improvisation (perhaps to cover up when something has gone wrong). Pure improvisation is much rarer, though it is often used as a training exercise for drama students.

Keith Johnstone’s fascinating book Impro: Improvisation and the Theatre is both a defence of improvisation, and an explanation of the techniques needed to make it work.  Central to his analysis is the notion of an offer, and the possibility of either blocking an offer, or accepting it.

Two actors, A and B, are asked to improvise a scene.  One of them makes the first move:  for instance, A might say, “When do you think this bus is going to arrive?”  A is making an offer to B - which you could spell out as, “Let’s act a scene that begins from the premise that we’re waiting at a bus stop”.

B could accept the offer:  “I think it’s due in 10 minutes, but it’s often late”.  Or he could try something more inventive (but still accepting): “Good God, you’re Gerald!  I haven’t seen you in 20 years!”  Or alternatively he could try to send the scene down a completely different track of his own choosing:  “What do you mean?  This is a doctor’s surgery!”  In this last case, B is refusing to accept A’s offer:  he is blocking.

Offers run all the way through improvisation, not just at the start of a scene.  And blocking isn’t invariably a bad thing - but repeated blocking, especially at the start of a scene, prevents the action from developing, and may mean that the scene has to be abandoned altogether.  By contrast, acceptance opens up possibilities, and allows a scene to move forward.  

There will, of course, be many different ways of accepting an offer - some more interesting or imaginative than others, but none obviously “right” or “wrong”. 

For instance, an offer might be ambiguous, and the acceptance might resolve the ambiguity (in a way that itself amounts to a further offer).

A:  What are you in for?

B:  Appendicitis.  What about you?

A’s offer is consistent with a scene set in a hospital, a prison, or a sports stadium hosting a multi-event athletics competition.  B chooses the first option, and the scene can now develop from that point (unless A blocks).

Once you’ve grasped these concepts, you can see them play out in the improvised drama of everyday conversation.

A:  Have you ever been to St. Kilda?

B:  Yes, isn’t it fascinating.  A shame about the military installation, though.

A:  Have you ever been to St. Kilda?

B:  I haven’t, but the Scottish island I really love is Jura.  Do you know it?

A:  Have you ever been to St. Kilda?

B:  Why would I want to do that?  It’s just a lump of rock.

The first example is a straightforward acceptance.  The second is a a more nuanced and qualified acceptance, but still allows space for the conversation to develop.  The third is a hard block, and is likely to kill the conversation altogether. 

When we talk about discernment, it sometimes sounds as if we think that God holds the entire script, but might dictate it to us line by line if approached in the right way.

Bu what if that’s the wrong model?  What if we’re in something that’s more like an improvisation, where God and ourselves are both participants?   In which case, the questions that arise in discernment might look something like this:

- Is there an offer here?

- What is being offered?

- What would blocking look like?

-  How might we accept the offer?  

- What would be a boring way to accept?  

-    What would be an interesting way to accept?

3. Improvisation and God

The parable of the talents is in chapter 25 of Matthew’s Gospel.  Here it is, in the English Standard Version.  At the start of the story, a man is going on a journey, and he calls his servants and entrusts to them his property.

To one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away. He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them, and he made five talents more. So also he who had the two talents made two talents more. But he who had received the one talent went and dug in the ground and hid his master's money. Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them. And he who had received the five talents came forward, bringing five talents more, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me five talents; here, I have made five talents more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’ And he also who had the two talents came forward, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me two talents; here, I have made two talents more.’ His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master. He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you scattered no seed, so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here, you have what is yours.’ But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sown and gather where I scattered no seed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to everyone who has will more be given, and he will have an abundance. But from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The master in the story doesn’t set any particular task.  In fact, he leaves no instructions:  he just leaves a certain number of talents with each of the servants.  It’s clear that he wants them to do something:  but what, exactly?  He has no script for them.  But he hopes to be favourably surprised by what they do.  

This is a story about improvisation, and so it begins with an offer.  Two of the servants accept the offer, and we don’t know all the details, but we know that it works out well.  The third blocks.  Worse still, he makes his blocking move at a point where it is too late for the master to change course.  If he had blocked before the master left, then the master could have made other arrangements:  for instance, he might have given the single talent to someone else instead.  But as matters stand, the part of the scene that involved the third servant is frustrated beyond hope of rescue.  No wonder the third servant is cast into outer darkness at the end.

Interesting question:  what would have happened if the third servant had accepted the offer, traded, and lost the lot?  Would he still get consigned to outer darkness? I would very much like to think that the answer is no.  Blocking often guarantees failure, but acceptance doesn’t guarantee success, and there’s always an element of risk when there isn’t a script to follow.  If the master wasn’t willing to accept that risk, then he should have left more precise instructions.  

Quaker debates about God follow a familiar pattern.  Should we use the word “God” at all (or should we talk instead about the Divine, Spirit, etc)?  Is God immanent or transcendent? Personal or non-personal? Objectively real or symbolic?  And I’m suggesting we focus on a different question, one that cuts across these debates.  Namely, is listening to God like following a script, or is it more like taking part in an improvisation? And, as will be clear from the discussion above, I think the latter answer is well worth reflecting on and exploring.  If for instance we get a strong leading that we need to do something about X, or pay attention to Y, or find out more about Z, then I don’t think the script/SatNav model fits very well with what is going on.  But if we understand these leadings as offers, and if we think our task is to decide whether or how to accept them, then that seems to make much more sense.  This way of looking at things takes the “will of God” seriously, but leaves us with a more radical and interesting kind of freedom than does the simple binary choice between obedience and disobedience.

I came across this quotation the other day (from a novel by Ron Hansen), and I think it reflects some of what I’m trying to get at:

We try to be formed and held and kept by him, but instead he offers us freedom.  And now when I try to know his will, his kindness floods me, his great love overwhelms me, and I hear him whisper, Surprise me.