WORSHIP.
Our manner of worship is the natural (as it seems to me even the
inevitable) result of the full recognition of the reality of Divine
inspiration—of the actual living present sufficient fulness of
intercourse between the human spirit and Him who is the Father of
spirits. Who that truly expects to hear the voice of God can do
otherwise than bow in silence before Him?
“Devotion,” says Bishop Butler in one of his sermons,[8] “is retirement
from the world He has made, to Him alone; it is to withdraw from the
avocations of sense, _to yield ourselves up to the influences of the
Divine presence_, and to give full scope to the affections of gratitude,
love, reverence, trust, and dependence; of which infinite Power, Wisdom,
and Goodness is the natural and only Object.” No words could more fully
or worthily express the intention of a Friends’ meeting—of one of those
“meetings for worship” which are, as is well known, “held on a basis of
silence,” but in which free course is allowed to whatever Divine
influence may prompt of vocal prayer, preaching, testimony, or prophecy;
those meetings in which each one, it is felt, should in the first place
enter into the inmost sanctuary of his own heart, and be alone with God;
being still, that His voice may be clearly heard within, before the lips
can be rightly opened to show forth His praise or His counsels to
others. From the depths of that stillness words do from time to time
arise—words uttered in simple obedience to the upspringing of the
fountain from within. This is what we mean by being “moved by the
Spirit,” and I do not see how a worthier or a truer expression could be
found for the perfect ideal of spiritual worship.
That mysterious diversity which is interwoven with all our likeness, and
belongs to the very nature common to us all, makes it impossible for one
to judge for another as to the manner of worship most likely to be
vitally helpful to him. I cannot tell how far my own feeling about
Friends’ meetings may arise from an idiosyncrasy. I do not pretend to
feel, as did some of the early Friends, that all pre-arrangement is in
itself unlawful or sinful. I can well understand the point of view of
those who believe that the majestic and time-hallowed words of such a
Liturgy as the Anglican afford the nearest possible approach to a worthy
manner of public worship. I can even understand, though with less of
sympathy, the feelings of those who dread lest the utterances of their
untutored fellow-worshippers should disturb their own endeavours to
attain to a devotional frame of mind. But though, for these and other
reasons, I am prepared to admit that the extreme of simplicity and
freedom maintained in our own meetings might not prove helpful to every
one, and though I have no desire to conceal the too obvious fact that we
continually fall very far short of our ideal, I yet must avow my own
conviction that that ideal of public worship is the purest which has
ever been recognized, and also that it is practically identical with
that which seems to have been recognized in the days of the apostles. I
further believe that there are many, in these days especially, to whom
it is the one manner of worship which is still practically possible, as
being absolutely free from anything entangling to the conscience, or
open to controversy. I have already[9] spoken of the indescribable
relief which it afforded to my own mind at a time when I was sorely
harassed by difficulties—common to how many in these days!—as to the
sincerity of appropriating for my own use forms which, however
beautiful, are open to so much and such serious question. What I felt I
wanted in a place of worship was a refuge, or at least the opening of a
doorway towards the refuge, from doubts and controversies—not a fresh
encounter with them. Yet it seems to me impossible that any one harassed
by the conflicting views of truth with which just now the air is thick
should be able to forget controversy while listening to such language as
that of the Book of Common Prayer. It seems to me that nothing but
silence can heal the wounds made by disputations in the region of the
unseen. No external help, at any rate, has ever in my own experience
proved so penetratingly efficacious as the habit of joining in a public
worship based upon silence. Its primary attraction for me was in the
fact that it pledged me to nothing, and left me altogether undisturbed
to seek for help in my own way. But before long I began to be aware that
the united and prolonged silences had a far more direct and powerful
effect than this. They soon began to exercise a strangely subduing and
softening effect upon my mind. There used, after a while, to come upon
me a deep sense of awe, as we sat together and waited—for what? In my
heart of hearts I knew in whose Name we were met together, and who was
truly in the midst of us. Never before had His influence revealed itself
to me with so much power as in those quiet assemblies.
And another result of the practice of silent waiting for the unseen
Presence proved to be a singularly effectual preparation of mind for the
willing reception of any words which might be offered “in the name of a
disciple.” The words spoken were indeed often feeble, and always
inadequate (as all words must be in relation to Divine things),
sometimes even entirely irrelevant to my own individual needs, though at
other times profoundly impressive and helpful; but, coming as they did
after the long silences which had fallen like dew upon the thirsty soil,
they went far deeper, and were received into a much less thorny region
than had ever been the case with the words I had listened to from the
pulpit.
In Friends’ meetings also, from the fact that every one is free to
speak, one hears harmonies and correspondences between very various
utterances such as are scarcely to be met with elsewhere. It is
sometimes as part-singing compared with unison. The free admission of
the ministry of women, of course, greatly enriches this harmony. I have
often wondered whether some of the motherly counsels I have listened to
in our meeting would not reach some hearts that might be closed to the
masculine preacher.
But it is not only the momentary effect of silence as a help in public
worship that constitutes its importance in Quaker estimation. The
silence we value is not the mere outward silence of the lips. It is a
deep quietness of heart and mind, a laying aside of all preoccupation
with passing things—yes, even with the workings of our own minds; a
resolute fixing of the heart upon that which is unchangeable and
eternal. This “silence of all flesh” appears to us to be the essential
preparation for any act of true worship. It is also, we believe, the
essential condition at all times of inward illumination. “Stand still in
the light,” says George Fox again and again, and then strength comes—and
peace and victory and deliverance, and all other good things. “Be still,
and know that I am God.” It is the experience, I believe, of all those
who have been most deeply conscious of His revelations of Himself, that
they are made emphatically to the “waiting” soul—to the spirit which is
most fully conscious of its own inability to do more than wait in
silence before Him. The possibilities of inward silence can be but
distantly referred to in words. The clearness of inward vision which
sometimes results from it must be experienced to be fully understood;
the things revealed to that vision are rather to be lived in than
uttered. But the fact that a strenuous endeavour to lay aside all
disturbing influences, and to allow all external vibrations to subside,
is an important, if not an essential, preparation for the reception of
eternal truth, seems to be indisputable. To be quiet must surely always
be a gain. To rule one’s own spirit, and to acquire the power of
proclaiming at least a truce within, must surely be recognized by the
least “mystical” as a rational and wholesome exercise of self-control.
It is, to my own mind, a singular confirmation of the depth of truth in
the Quaker ideal, that it embraces in its application such widely
varying degrees of spirituality. The “inward silence” which to the
mystic means the gateway of the unspeakable, the limpid calmness of the
mirror in which heaven’s glory is to be reflected, commends itself also
to the sternest rationalist as the beginning of fortitude. And the
experience of some of us (whom I may, perhaps, venture to describe as
rational mystics) proves the exceeding value of the habit of seeking
after inward silence as a real life-discipline. Not only at the times
set apart for definite acts of worship—though, whether in public or in
private, it is from the heart of this stillness that the voice of
deepest prayer and praise springs up—but also in all the daily warfare
of the Christian life, in encountering joy or sorrow, temptation or
perplexity, the first condition and the highest reward of victory is
equanimity. “Be not thou greatly moved;” “Fret not thyself, else shalt
thou be moved to do evil.” There is no need to multiply the words of the
wise on this head. We all surely have gone through times when “he opened
not his lips” expresses the only possible attitude in which we can hope
to win through. Silence and resolution, indeed, seem almost like
different aspects of the same thing. And silence is assuredly an art to
be acquired, a discipline to be steadily practised, before it can become
the instinctive habit and unfailing resource of the soul. The wise Roman
Catholic teachers all enjoin this discipline upon those who desire to
learn “perfection.” Friends inculcate it rather by example than by
precept, though abundant recognition of its importance is to be found in
Quaker writings. But I am specially concerned with the practical results
of our manner of worship; and I am bound to say that, to myself, the
practice of quietness in life is markedly facilitated by the habit of
joining in a worship “based on silence.”
The connection between our practice of silence and our belief in
inspiration is, I think, obvious. How can we listen if we do not cease
to speak? How can we receive while we maintain an incessant activity? It
is obvious that “a wise passiveness” is essential to the possibility of
serving as channels for any Divinely given utterance. On this subject of
being “moved by the Spirit,” there seems often to be the strangest
difficulty in people’s minds. They imagine that Friends claim the
possession of something like a miraculous gift—something as baffling to
ordinary reason as the speaking in unknown tongues of the Irvingites.
Speaking under correction, and with a sense that the matter reaches to
unknown depths, I should say that this was quite a mistake. What Friends
undoubtedly believe and maintain is that to the listening heart God does
speak intelligibly; and further, that some amongst His worshippers are
gifted with a special openness to receive, and power to transmit in
words, actual messages from Himself. Is this more than is necessarily
implied in the belief that real communion with Him is not only possible,
but is freely open to all?
We do not regard those who have the gift of “ministry” as infallible, or
even as necessarily closer to God than many of the silent worshippers
who form the great majority in every congregation. We feel that the gift
is from above, and that on all of us lies the responsibility of being
open to it, willing to receive it, should it be bestowed, and to use it
faithfully while entrusted with it. But we fully recognize that to do
this perfectly requires a continual submission of the will, and an
unceasing watchfulness. We know that to “keep close to the gift” is not
an easy thing. We know that the singleness of eye which alone can enable
any one always to discern between the immediate guidance of the Divine
Spirit and the mere promptings of our own hearts, is not attained
without much patience, and a diligent and persevering use of all the
means of instruction provided for us. We recognize the value of such
corrections even as may come through the minds of others; for, although
the servant is responsible only to his own Master, and we desire
earnestly to beware of any dependence on each other in such matters, yet
it has (as I have already mentioned) been thought right that some
Friends should be specially appointed to watch over the ministers in the
exercise of their gift. The “elders,” to whom this task is entrusted, do
in fact often offer not only encouragement or counsel, but at times
admonition and even rebuke, when they believe it to be needed. It is
thus clear that the Society has always held with the Apostle Paul that
“the spirits of the prophets are subject to the prophets.” The great
care and caution shown in all the arrangements of the Society with
respect to ministry bear witness to its recognition of the deep truth,
that, the more precious the treasure, the more serious the risks to
which the earthen vessels enclosing it are exposed.
The question is often asked, How can you distinguish between a message
from above and the suggestions of your own imagination?[10] The only
answer which can be given to this question is, that to do so for
practical purposes does indeed require all the heavenly wisdom and all
the humble sincerity of heart of which we are capable. Worship, to those
who believe that God is, and is indeed to be worshipped in spirit and in
truth, is surely the highest function of the human spirit. To attain to
such a transparency of heart and mind as shall admit of our serving as
channels for the worship of others, and for the Divine response to such
worship—ladders, as it were, on which the angels of God may ascend and
descend in the place of worship—is, indeed, an aim which must transcend
all merely human power. We need for it the continual renovation of Him
who is Light—“the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” But dare any, who call
themselves believers on Him, doubt that such renovation is open to us?
I can understand those who think all worship idle, or worse than idle; I
cannot understand those who think it can be acceptably performed without
the help of the Spirit Himself making intercession for us, and with us,
and in us, or that this help will fail any true worshipper. Yet, if we
do believe this help is given, are we not looking to be “moved by the
Spirit”? Is the expectation peculiar to any one body of Christians?
Surely not. What _is_ peculiar to us Friends is the dread of limiting or
interfering with the immediate influences of the Divine Spirit by the
use of fixed forms of words, and by outward observances or pressure of
any kind.
As I have already said, I do not feel that ours is the only lawful
manner of worship; I do not even think it at all clear that it would be
for all people and at all times the most helpful. But I do believe it to
be the purest conceivable. I am jealous for its preservation from any
admixture of adventitious “aids to devotion.” I believe that its
absolute freedom and flexibility, its unrivalled simplicity and gravity,
make it a vessel of honour prepared in an especial manner for the
conveyance of the pure water of life to many in these days who are
hindered from satisfying their souls’ thirst by questionable additions
to the essence of Divine worship.
I know that, in Friends’ meetings as elsewhere, one must be prepared to
meet with much human weakness and imperfection; many things may be heard
in them which are trying to the flesh—yes, and perhaps to the spirit
also. Certainly many things may be heard which are open to criticism,
from an intellectual and literary point of view. Let no one go to
Friends’ meetings with the expectation of finding everything to his
taste. Yet even mere taste, if duly cultivated, must recognize the value
of a certain weight and simplicity, arising, no doubt, from the habitual
practice of inward silence, by which they are often distinguished. This
is, however, a point upon which no one who is alive to the real
significance of such meetings as ours would care to dwell. Criticism
fades away abashed in the presence of what is felt to be a real, however
faltering, endeavour to open actual communication with the Father of
spirits, and with each other as in His presence and in His name. To my
own mind, any living utterance of a human voice pleading for itself and
for the objects of its love in words fresh from the heart, has a power
and a pathos infinitely beyond that of the most perfect expression of
devotion read or recited according to an appointed order.[11]
It is an important peculiarity of our meetings that the responsibility
for their character is felt to be shared by all. I do not mean that all
our members are in fact alive to their own share of this responsibility.
The service is, no doubt, often far too much left to one or more willing
speakers. But I do not believe that it would be possible amongst Friends
for anything like the sense of dependence on one individual to arise
which seems naturally to result from the idea of a priestly order. And,
at any rate, the idea is kept continually before us of a company coming
together on one level, each of whom is free and encouraged to bring his
individual offering of praise and prayer, whether silent or vocal. It is
a familiar thought amongst Friends that no one should expect in a
meeting for worship “to eat the bread of idleness.” And the practice
which is so frequent amongst us of ministering Friends travelling from
meeting to meeting in the exercise of their gift, causes a stirring of
the waters, and keeps up the sense of the freedom of all to take their
part whenever and wherever a word may be given them.
There is one other result of the absence of pre-arrangement in our
meetings which I cannot altogether pass over. It is that no shelter is
provided under cover of which one can remain in doubt whether one is or
is not actually engaged in worship on one’s own account. A liturgy or a
hymn may bear along in its current many a vague half-formed tendency
towards worship; and I dare not say that it may not thus sometimes fan
the spark into a flame, or save the smoking flax from being altogether
quenched. But it does seem to me that it also often prevents our
recognizing our own poverty, and stifles many an individual cry for
help, which the sense of that poverty would tend to awaken. At any rate,
the worst that can very well happen, if a silent meeting fails to help,
is that it is _nothing_. It would scarcely seem possible that it should
delude any one into a hollow sense of having been engaged in a religious
service. But here I am aware of being near the treacherous ground of
idiosyncrasy, and I do not wish to press the point.
Hitherto I have been speaking of our meetings for public worship. But,
as Friends love to say, our worship does not begin when we sit down
together in our public assemblies, nor end when we leave them. The
worship in spirit and in truth is in no way limited by time and place.
The same idea of a waiting “in the silence of all flesh” to hear the
voice of the Lord speaking within us, characterizes the Friends’ private
times of worship; or, as the more cautious expression is, of “religious
retirement.” Friends are so possessed with the sense of our inability to
offer acceptable prayer in our own time and will, that where others
speak of family prayers, and hours of prayer or devotion, Friends prefer
the expressions “family reading” and “religious retirement.”
And not only in name, but in method, are these times marked with the
same peculiar character as our public meetings. In Friends’ families of
the old-fashioned type (which are more numerous still, I fancy, than
many people suspect) the family meeting consists simply of the reading
of a portion of Scripture, and then a pause of silence, which may or may
not be broken by words of prayer or of testimony. Many Friends formerly
(and some, I believe, still feel the same) objected on conscientious
grounds to their children’s learning to use any form of prayer, even the
Lord’s Prayer. The children shared from the first in the united silence
of the family, and could not fail to know what it meant; but in some
families it was rarely or never broken by vocal prayer. A silent pause
before meals is the Friends’ equivalent for “saying grace”—a practice
which I own I think has much to recommend it. Here, again, there is, of
course, the opportunity for words, should words spontaneously rise to
the lips of any of those present.
When we penetrate into the inmost chamber of private worship differences
of method can no longer be traced by human eye. It is not possible for
any one to judge of the practice of others in this respect; nay, there
seems an impropriety in following individuals into this sacred region,
even in thought. Sectarian differences must here be left behind. But for
that very reason I may here appeal with the greater fulness of
confidence to the sympathy of all who pray, in the attempt, from which I
feel it impossible to refrain, to explain the way in which a belief in
present inspiration is, as I think, inseparable from belief in the
reality and the rightness of prayer.
I trust that I shall not be thought presumptuous for entering upon this
subject. There are many qualifications for it which I do not possess.
But on matters of common and urgent interest the very absence of
distinguishing power or knowledge may give a certain value to the
results of actual personal experience, as lessening the distance across
which the helping hand has to reach out.
I believe that the permanent effect for good or for evil of the present
shaking and upheaval of thought amongst us must be mainly determined by
its relation to prayer. No immediate result of the outbreak of free
discussion of all things in heaven and earth during the last thirty
years has been so agonizing to devout persons, nor so gravely threatens
spiritual health, as the paralysis which in many cases it has seemed to
bring upon the spirit of prayer. We meet daily with open denials of the
reasonableness of prayer—of the possibility of entering into any real
communication with the Divine Being. Few amongst us can have altogether
escaped the paralyzing influence of the flood of unsolved, and
apparently insoluble, moral problems, and at the same time of new and
absorbingly interesting views of material things, into which this
generation has been plunged. The mere demand on the attention is
powerful enough to drain away great part of the mental power formerly
employed in seeking after God.
“It seems His newer will,
We should not think of Him at all, but trudge it;
And of the world He has assigned us make
What best we can,”
says A. H. Clough; and he utters, I am sure, a widely spread feeling.
People’s very love of truth seems to themselves to be enlisted in
pursuing the streams which lead them away from the Fountain of truth.
And the pursuit of scientific truth is assuredly in its place a
contribution to our knowledge of God, though made by workers who may but
too easily themselves lose sight of Him in their engrossing
preoccupation with His works.
But the tendency to put prayer to silence is not merely thus indirect.
The one idea which seems at present more forcibly to have grasped the
popular imagination, is that of the universal and inexorable dominion of
unchanging law. And the inference is not unnatural, “Then it is useless
to pray.” The result is an awful silence—not of the flesh, indeed, but
of the spirit. Men and women have come to feel themselves alone in a new
and fearful sense—alone as in the valley of dry bones, with no
expectation of any Divine breath to cause them to stand up upon their
feet, a united host of living servants of the living God.
I trust that I shall not be suspected of any intention of grappling with
the problem of free-will and necessity. I know, at least, enough to be
aware that there is at the end of every avenue of human thought an
impenetrable mystery. But I also know that the region in which
philosophers join issue upon the question of necessity lies far beyond
the range of any such practical questions as I am engaged with. I know
that the controversy is not decided, and, so far as we can see, does not
visibly approach towards a decision; I know also that no conceivable
agreement of philosophers as to the most accurate way of stating facts
can alter the facts themselves with which we have to do. I do not hope
to express myself with philosophical accuracy; but I can, and will,
speak plainly and truly of my own experience in this matter of prayer.
There was a time when I myself was silenced by the paralyzing influences
of which I have spoken—when the heavens seemed as brass, and to ask for
anything seemed like flying in the face of one vast foregone conclusion;
as though a moth should dash itself against an iceberg. But I have come
to believe that the truth against which I had thus, so to speak,
stumbled in the dark, was not that prayer is unreasonable, but that my
ideas of prayer were unworthy.
That the will of God is unchangeable, is assuredly the very foundation
of all reasonable trust in Him, and is recognized by saints and
philosophers alike. But does not the imagination easily confound
unchangeableness with immovableness? Are not the laws of motion as fixed
as those of space? What can be more full of movement than the flames of
fire? Yet are they less unchangeable in their nature than a bar of iron?
Is it not through a reliance upon the unchangeable properties of
material things that we are able to change the whole face of the earth?
And should we not remember that the unchangeable order which all things,
visible and invisible, obey, includes the mystery of perpetual
“variation,” and even of life itself?
It seems to me that when our imagination smites everything with
rigidity, it is really playing us a trick. Those who are at all
competent to expound the theory of necessity are earnest to show that it
in no way contradicts the efficacy of effort in any possible direction.
They have need to be earnest about it, for the imagination is but too
ready for a pretext to hoist the flag of despair, and the will to throw
up the game of life, and to sink into the sleep of apathy.
If we are right in thinking of God as the Fountain of life and thought,
the Father of spirits—and to those who deny this it is idle for me to
address myself—it can surely not be unreasonable for the spirits He has
made to seek to hold communion with Him. What _is_ often unreasonable is
the nature of our requests, and our idea of the possibility of their
being granted. Here it is that I have had to recognize the unworthiness
of many of my own thoughts and expressions about prayer, and that I
continually meet with what seems to me unfit and inadequate in the
language of others. It cannot be an unimportant thing that we should
endeavour to sift out what is untenable and unbecoming from our thoughts
and words on this subject.
Two things have, as I believe, mainly tended to lower our idea of
prayer, until, in minds where it is but a theory, it has been shattered
against the hard facts of science. We have narrowed it to the idea of
asking for things, and we have thought of it chiefly as a means of
getting them.
This is surely a degradation of the idea of prayer, even though the
things asked for be what are called “spiritual blessings.” The word
“prayer” may, it is true, be used in the restricted sense of making
requests; but in that case let it be distinctly understood and kept in
mind that it is but a part—the lowest and least essential part—of
worship or communion with God. It is of prayer in the larger sense—not
request, but communion—that we may rightly and wisely speak as the very
breath of our spiritual life; as the power by which life is
transfigured; as that to which all things are possible. But this
distinction between request and communion is _not_ habitually kept in
mind by those who write and speak of prayer, nor even by all those who
practise it. It seems to me as if many even deeply experienced
Christians were using all their energy to encourage and stimulate above
all that part of prayer which has surely the most of the merely human
and carnal in it, rather than to show forth that nobler part to which
this should be but the innocent and natural prelude. If we fall back, as
we must perpetually do, upon our Lord’s own leading principle of using
the human relation of parent and child as the highest and most
instructive type of the relation between God and the human spirit, we
shall surely feel that the child, in learning to speak to its father and
to understand his voice, has far other and larger hopes and purposes
than that of getting things from him. The human parent may use the
child’s innocent and natural wishes as one means of attracting its
attention, but would surely be grievously disappointed if the child
never looked beyond the advantages to be reaped by the power of speaking
to its father—never rose to the perception that intercourse with him was
in itself the greatest of human joys, not a mere means to an end.
And in the same sort of sense I feel that, when people insist upon “the
efficacy of prayer,” they are insisting upon its very lowest use; and
that the concentration of attention upon this lowest use creates a
serious stumbling-block, which hinders faith in two ways.
1. It suggests a _test_ which is not and cannot be uniformly favourable.
Whatever the power of prayer may be—and words, I believe, must wholly
fail to express it—particular requests are certainly not always granted.
Our Lord explicitly prepares us for the refusal of blind requests, and
our own good sense and our daily experience combine to make it
abundantly clear that many requests are, and must always be, refused.
2. And more than this, there is, I believe, nobility enough in every
heart capable of real prayer to cause a recoil from the idea of using it
only for the purpose of obtaining advantages, be they of what kind they
may. I believe, that is, that the modern perplexity about prayer arises
not only from a difficulty in imagining God as One who can be influenced
by our desires, but largely also from a latent sense that, even if true
in fact, that is a very inadequate conception of Him to whom our worship
should be addressed, and who must assuredly know better than we do what
things we have need of—from a recoil, in short, against the low and
coarse and unworthy tone of much that is urged on the other side.
Therefore I think that in the long-run an immeasurable gain will result
to faith from modern outspokenness in recognizing the difficulties of
this subject. Prayer, if regarded as an attempt to wrest favours from
our heavenly Father by dint of mere importunity, is doomed to many
disappointments, and stands sorely in need of their purifying
discipline. Prayer is not really prayer—that is, it is not true
communion with God—till it rises above the region in which wilfulness is
possible, to the height of “Not my will, but Thine, be done.”
Importunity may, indeed, prevail to win attention from a reluctant or
drowsy human ear. Our Lord Himself reminds us of this fact to reprove
the faint-heartedness which would allow itself to be discouraged by
delay. But the ear of the Father is ever open to our prayers. We cannot
think that importunity is needed to rouse His attention. The hindrance
when He refuses, or delays to grant, our requests must be of a very
different kind. If once we recognize that He hears us always, and that
in everything that happens we may hear His voice answering us, we are
forced also to recognize that severe discipline is as truly a part of
His answer as tender indulgence. Both are welcomed by the childlike
heart; both are part of the language we have patiently to learn to
interpret.
But then comes the question, What is there to convince us that we are
listened to at all, if the answer is everything equally? If it is in the
whole course of events that we are to look for the answer, and that
course is as often as not contrary to our prayer, how are we justified
in saying that prayer is ever answered?
It is the answer to this question, What is it that does, in fact,
produce a reasonable conviction that we are listened to? which, I think,
involves that theory of inspiration which Friends, more markedly than
any other body of Christians, have always avowed and acted upon. But, in
trying to reply to it, I wish it to be distinctly borne in mind that I
am giving, for what it is worth, the result of my own personal exercises
of mind, not undertaking to state recognized Quaker doctrine.[12]
Difficulties, though probably in essence the same from generation to
generation, come before each generation in a fresh form, and need to be
freshly met by individual experience.
That which produces a reasonable conviction that prayer is answered
must, surely, be the sense of Divine guidance of which I have already
spoken in the last chapter. The general grounds for our common belief in
God as the Father of spirits are too deep and too wide for me to set
forth. As I have already said, I assume such a belief as the groundwork
of all that I am attempting to unfold. That which enables each one of us
who believe in Him to discern His voice is, as already suggested, a
touch as of a hand upon our arm—a dealing with our own spirit and life
of so personal and individual and significant a nature as that we cannot
help feeling that “the finger of God is come unto us.”
If this be, indeed, the right direction in which to look for answers to
prayer, then the whole subject is withdrawn from the region in which
positive proof or disproof are possible. Our interpretation of such
individual experiences is that upon which the whole controversy turns,
and this must of necessity result from the nature of our previous belief
respecting much more general truths. It will always be open to those who
disbelieve in God to call His signs “mere coincidences.” It is surely
not therefore the less reasonable for those who do believe in Him to be
on the watch for every possible faintest indication of His pleasure.
There must be in this, as in all other matters, a preparation of heart
and mind before any sign, however eloquent, can take effect upon us. In
point of fact, we know that the sense of receiving a personal
communication from above is not always excited by the granting of a
petition. After we have asked and received, no less than when we have
asked and not received, we are sometimes inclined to say, “After all,
does my prayer make any difference? would not things have happened just
in the same way if I had not prayed?” This is a question to which, in
truth, I believe that we must be content (so far, at least, as regards
any particular instance) to remain without an answer. We can never
really know what would have happened if we had not prayed.
To say this is, of course, by no means to deny that our prayer has made
a real though unknown difference. It is, on the contrary, almost
positively to assert the action of unmeasured and unfathomable
influences. We cannot measure the whole results of any action, however
insignificant; but the whole tendency of modern “scientific” thought,
and of belief in “necessity,” at any rate, goes to show that all things
are so interdependent that an action without results is almost
inconceivable. Necessitarians, of all people, are bound to admit this.
The action of prayer cannot, however, be traced by human eyes, and the
longing to know precisely _what_ difference our prayer makes to the
course of events is, I believe, a longing which can never be gratified
in this world.
Yet a power which we cannot precisely measure may make itself
continually felt, and the power of prayer is in some lives a matter of
perpetually renewed if incommunicable experience. The testimony of those
who can thankfully and reverently say that their prayers are answered in
a manner that is wonderful in their own eyes, is too familiar and too
sacred to all of us to need insisting upon. Its weight is, I believe,
strictly speaking, immeasurable. But it is in a manner naturally veiled
from hasty or external observation, and is, therefore, easily
disregarded. When fully considered, it will be found to consist mainly
in combinations of circumstances by no means incredible in themselves.
It is not the accuracy of the facts recorded by those to whom prayer is
a reality, but the explanation of their combination, which is generally
in question. If I am right in supposing that we can never trace the
precise relation of cause and effect between prayer and the answer, this
difficulty—the difficulty, I mean, of exhaustively explaining
significant combinations of circumstances—is not surprising. It is the
natural result of our being out of our depth.
But although the whole region into which we plunge when we begin to
speak of the answer to our prayers is of necessity unfathomable by us,
we may with advantage remember that there are some special difficulties
besetting any attempt to share with others the experiences which have
naturally and rightly most weight with ourselves; and that by
disregarding these difficulties we convert them into stumbling-blocks.
One main difficulty of this kind lies in the fact that the outward
events of which we can speak most freely, which we can, as it were,
without impropriety call others to witness, must be more or less public
in their nature; such as, _e.g._, the preservation of lives dear to us,
political or national events, favourable changes of weather, and so
on—things as to which it is not upon any theory reasonable to suppose
that they can be determined with reference only to the wishes or the
prayers of any one individual. Even if they went according to my
personal wishes and prayers, there would be a manifest impropriety in
claiming them as having been thereby brought about. If I pray that the
sun may rise to-morrow morning, it does not need much faith to feel sure
I shall not be refused, but it would be grossly improper to claim that
the event had occurred “in answer to my prayers.” When the Prince of
Wales recovered from his fever, there were many who would have thought
it impious to doubt that his recovery was actually _caused_ by the many
prayers which were undoubtedly offered on his behalf. Other people were
and will remain convinced that he would equally have recovered in any
case. Who can attempt to decide between these opinions with any show of
authority? Indeed, it appears to me that both are presumptuous. Surely
it is enough for children to know that their desire is fulfilled,
without inquiring into the motives (if, indeed, we should dare to
attribute motives to God) by which the parents’ fulfilment of it was
prompted.
In the case of many events (such as battles, weather, and so on) which
must necessarily be unfavourable to the wishes of one side and
favourable to the other, we know that some prayers must be granted while
some are refused. Who will attempt to trace the proportion between
request and result? or to treat the influence of prayer in such matters
as admitting of either proof or disproof?
But when we come to the circumstances of each individual life, the case
is very different. We do not get rid of mystery even here. Our
knowledge, even of our own lives, is altogether imperfect and
fragmentary; but to pretend to know no more about the ordering of them
than we do about the universe would be mere dishonesty. We _can_ trace a
correspondence between our desires and their accomplishment when it
occurs in our own lives, such as it would be mere impertinence to try to
trace between, _e.g._, our desires and the history of a nation. You may
call it superstition to say, “I prayed for strength and my request was
granted, for strength was given me;” but you cannot accuse me of gross
impropriety in thus associating my prayer and the event, as you would if
I said, “I prayed that the sun might rise, and my request has been
granted.” It is within our own personal experience that we must look for
the answer which we can rightly appropriate.
But, then, in proportion as the event is brought within the personal
sphere of one individual, it is necessarily removed from that of others.
Those parts of our personal and separate experience of which we can
speak freely are almost necessarily superficial. I do not doubt that
even trifles are a part of the Divine language to individuals, but
trifles cannot with propriety be appealed to for the purpose of
convincing others. Those personal experiences, on the other hand, which
are at once deep enough and individual enough to be the fittest subjects
of prayer (in the sense of special request), and to be met by responsive
“providences” of a peculiarly impressive kind, are almost always such
as, for a very different reason, we are unable to mention with much
freedom. The whole cogency of the reasoning which is rightly conclusive
to oneself, in short, generally depends upon facts of personal feeling,
and upon minute correspondences of events with intricate chains of
previous experience, such as human language would fail to transmit, even
did a right instinct of modesty not forbid the attempt. We are,
therefore, in this matter very much shut up (and I think there is in the
fact a beautiful fitness) to the individual and separate teaching of
life. I believe that we cannot (if it be true) too clearly and
unflinchingly make the assertion that our private experience has
convinced us of the reality of the Divine response to prayer; but also,
that we cannot be too cautious how we try to utter such experience
itself. Simple-minded people, who live much in the practice of prayer,
and whose habitual expectation of a Divine response is continually (and
to themselves often wonderfully) fulfilled, are often exposed to the
snare of making public what should be sacredly kept for themselves
alone, or at least shared only with those who “have ears to hear.” Much
mischief is, I fear, often done by the too free and ready communication,
especially in print, of “remarkable answers to prayer;” of incidents
which, overpoweringly eloquent as they may well be to those whom they
concern, are but an idle tale to strangers—a tale the telling of which
sometimes lends itself but too easily to the mere love of signs and
wonders. They also often lay bare the most painful effects of
unconscious self-importance—the most glaring tendency to refer
everything to oneself as the centre, and to ignore the legitimate share
of others in the events referred to. One is almost inclined to say of
such stories that, the more wonderful they are, the less edifying they
are likely to be.
For it is not in such outward and tangible events as these, not in the
things which can be passed from hand to hand like coins, that the real
power and soul-subduing influence of a Divine communication is most
unmistakably felt. It is the still small voice which overcomes; the
gentle combination of perhaps very ordinary circumstances, which, when
combined, acquire the significance of a distinct message. Just as when
we see letters brought together and placed under our eyes, which
together form a word replying to our thought, we infer that they have
been so arranged by some one who knew what was in our minds; so, to
those of us who habitually not only ask but watch for Divine
instruction, there occur again and again combinations of events,
adjustments even of the minutest details, which produce a quite
irresistible sense that the finger of God is pointing the lesson He
would have us learn.
It is idle to ask those who never listen whether and how God answers
prayer. The very possibility of discerning the answer implies docility
and willingness of heart. The High and Holy One that inhabiteth eternity
dwells with him who is of an humble and contrite spirit, and such only
can learn to know His voice.
To those who in any degree do know His voice, it gradually becomes clear
that prayer and its answer are inseparable. The answer is as the answer
of the atmosphere to the lungs, of light to the eyes. The humble and
contrite heart opens its doors to its Maker, and is filled with His
presence. Then, indeed, the light shines within; then the very breath of
our life is breathed into us by the Spirit of God. Inspiration—the
inbreathing power from above, by which alone all that is heavenly in us
is brought about,—this is the other aspect of worship.
True worship, therefore, implies inspiration. It is the inspired prayer
which transfigures life—which is mighty with the might of the Fountain
from whence it flows. While we separate worship and inspiration we can
never think worthily of either. I do indeed believe that the very desire
of our heart is often granted to us in reply to our petition. I do not
venture to speak confidently as to the precise relation of cause and
effect which may exist between any petition and its fulfilment. There
must, I believe, be some such real relation; but to my own mind it often
seems more probable and more reverent to suppose, where the
correspondence is very marked, that the prayer has been in the nature of
a prophetic utterance, of a Divine foreshadowing, than that our wish
should have been allowed to become the efficient cause of the Divine
action. A prayer which has been answered by the perfect fulfilment of
its requests shows, I believe, that the offerer of it was so far under
Divine influence; that his will was to that extent at least in harmony
with the Divine will. This is a word of blessed encouragement for the
one to whom it comes, which it is not always wise or right to proclaim
from the housetop. “Upliftings unto prayer” (to quote one more of the
deep words of A. H. Clough) are surely among the sacred things of which
we should not lightly lift the veil. I do not think that those who have
any true and deep experience of what it is to hold communion, however
faltering and intermittent, with our God will be forward to attempt to
divest it of its mystery, while yet they must earnestly desire to set
forth to others what they have learnt of its power and its blessedness.
For the sake of the many who honestly desire to know the truth upon this
deepest and most urgent of all common interests, I think that we who
have some such experience are bound to seek to clothe it in fit and
worthy language.
Let us, therefore, recognize and avow, when occasion serves, that
prayer, worship, or communion with God is a larger, deeper, fuller thing
than mere asking and having. Let us acknowledge that the simplest and
most inarticulate cry for help—the voice of the “infant crying in the
night, and with no language but a cry”—is as sure to enter the ear of
the Father of spirits as the deepest prayer ever uttered by saint or
martyr. Let us remember that, according to the teaching of our Lord
Himself, the one voice which is more sure (if degrees of sureness there
can be) than any other of being listened to by the good Shepherd, is the
voice of the one who has strayed the furthest from the fold, and is the
most deeply conscious of being afar off—the voice of the lost sheep over
whose first turning towards home the very angels in heaven rejoice with
a special joy. But let us never forget that in the homeward path there
are heights beyond heights; that as any spirit is drawn upwards by the
Father’s love and care, it becomes more and more filled with the light
of His countenance, more interpenetrated by that light which shines
clearest in the dark places through which every upward-tending spirit
must assuredly pass. Let us not forget that the reward of faithfulness
in that which is least is the call to enter into that which is
greater—deeper and higher and fuller of Divine significance; that those
“influences of the Divine presence” to which it is the essence of true
worship to “yield ourselves” must penetrate into the inmost recesses of
our being, and bring every thought into subjection to the law of
Christ—that law of the Spirit of life, by which all that is of the flesh
is gradually purged away as by a consuming fire—and that to live in the
spirit of prayer is to live more and more continually and intimately in
the presence of Him before whom the angels veil their faces, and who is
of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. So that it may well be, or rather
it can only be, in fear and in trembling that this wonderful salvation
of entrance into His presence can be worked out. The prayers which are
owned by Him are not prayers which can be offered in the will of man, or
which can be used as a means of gratifying the desires of the flesh or
of the reason; they are the breathings of the spirit struggling to
return to Him who gave it, or rejoicing in the light of His countenance.
The spirit which is being made free from the law of sin and death cannot
look backwards towards the things of earth. Its path is onwards and
upwards, ever “into light,” and its breathings are the vibrations
communicated to it from the Source and Centre of light; they obey a law
as unchangeable as the laws of light itself, and their function is to
destroy and to consume away the perishing, worn-out raiment of the
spirit, to free it from defilements and hindrances, and to bring it
forth in the fulness of time “into the glorious liberty of the children
of God,” the rightful “inheritance of the saints in light.” Surely we
may with reverence say that, in a true and a deep sense, God Himself is
the Answer to prayer.