We are all aging, inexorably, at the same rate: one day at a time. The experience will be different for each of us, although the ultimate end will be the same.

Aging can be a wonderful adventure; we can experience it with enthusiasm, joy and curiosity. Aging can also be burdened with dread and denial. Anticipating our needs means that we, our loved ones and our communities will face fewer crucial decisions in stressful emergency situations. Planning ahead can minimize family disruptions, bring comfort and security, and enhance our freedom to enjoy all that our lives still have to offer.

When I decided to fulfill a dream of returning to school to study Judaism, part of my seminary training included work as a chaplain. That in turn nurtured my already deep interest in aging issues. Now, thanks to a grant from Friends Foundation for the Aging, I am doing “outreach” on behalf of Friends House retirement community in Santa Rosa, California, offering workshops on “Aging as an Adventure” to Meetings throughout Pacific Yearly Meeting. In these workshops we explore many of the issues outlined below. My goal is for us all to see the aging process as a positive experience so we will be better able to cope with the inevitable difficulties that must arise.

Recently I gave a ride to a friend who lives in a nondescript “senior residence” apartment building, and as I waited for him in the noisy, dingy lobby I noticed the sign over the receptionist’s desk that said, “Be nice to your children; they’re going to choose your nursing home.”

Most of us would prefer to choose our own accommodations rather than having someone else making decisions for us, especially in the midst of a crisis. The problem with aging – with life – is that uncertainty makes advance planning difficult. But not planning will make it even more difficult! Some of the happiest people I know moved, while they were still “young,” into Continuing Care retirement communities, which provide the full spectrum of independent living, assisted living and nursing care. They had both physical and mental energy to make new friends, join service organizations and faith communities, take advantage of educational and cultural opportunities, travel and spend time with far-flung friends and relations. Most importantly, they had the peace of mind that comes from knowing that they would be cared for in place if and when an emergency arose. This was also an immense relief for their children. Other people are creatively banding together in “Villages” or in co-housing arrangements; some have adapted their homes to enable family members or caregivers to live with them as needed.

In my workshops, I have enjoyed asking older Friends: “What is the greatest thing about being the age you are now?” One woman in her late 70’s discovered bicycling! She now goes on tours of more than forty miles per day. She loves the physicality and the serenity of biking, and getting to know the wildflowers and the birds on her new routes. Other Friends speak of freedom from the stresses of career and ambition, the flexibility to travel and explore new skills. Some find that aging makes them more “honest” or at least more outspoken, more free to say “no.” I repeatedly hear about the joys of grandchildren and family, friends, even new love affairs, intellectual growth, the chance to ‘go deeper’ in their communion with the Spirit. For many of us, perhaps the best adventure of aging is a more intense and satisfying knowledge of our selves.

There are new fears, too. People worry about maintaining their independence. I hear anxiety about becoming dependent: fears of losing one’s energy, mobility and driving privileges, cognitive skills and memories; fears of pain, chronic and life-threatening illnesses, of financial insecurity, being burdened with caring for someone else, and of becoming lonely, invisible, or useless.

It’s a bit of a paradox: aging is a (great) adventure while at the same time we are all just one unknowable small (or large) step away from disaster. How can I help Friends focus on the A of adventure, and not fall into the D’s of denial, dread, depression, dependence or despair? I suggest a “report card,” in which we will strive for A’s, B’s and C’s and try to avoid the D’s.

A focus on the positive Adventure
B Be prepared
C Create Community
D avoid Denial, Despair, Disaster

Be Prepared
The adventure is there for us to grasp, and while growing old can be filled with positive new experiences, we all know that limitations also loom on the horizon. Planning ahead can’t prevent the losses we must ultimately face, but being prepared can reduce anxiety and make facing them easier. There are three primary areas of concern: health care, facing death, and long term housing.

Health Care
It is never too early to examine our feelings about life-saving and life-sustaining treatments such as CPR, respirators and feeding tubes. Both Karen Ann Quinlan and Terry Schiavo were in their twenties when doctors determined that they had entered a persistent vegetative state, unable to think, or relate meaningfully with their loved ones.

One should clearly state their treatment preferences before being hospitalized, and we often can’t plan hospitalization. The medical issues are significant, but the real reason the Quinlan and Schiavo cases were so dramatic was the high-profile lawsuits that arose because the patients had not clearly stated their wishes.

Long before the need for hospitalization arises, every adult should complete an Advance Health Care Directive (also known as a “Living Will”) stating what you want done if you are unable to communicate your wishes. Perhaps the most important element in an advance directive is naming your health care agent or power of attorney for health care. This is the person who will make decisions on your behalf if you are incapacitated. Keep in mind that as your beliefs and values change over time, you can always update or amend the document. Good resources for advance directives include Five Wishes, which is widely accepted throughout most of the United States. For the form specifically issued in and for your state, go to www.caringinfo.org and click on the words “download your state specific advance directive.”

Far more important than completing an advance directive is talking with key people. Along with your loved ones and closest family members, the person you designate as your power of attorney needs to know your wishes. She or he does not necessarily have to agree with all your choices, but must be willing to carry out your requests if the need arises. She or he also needs to be comfortable making decisions on your behalf if a situation arises that you couldn’t anticipate.

As we age, our health problems become more numerous and more complex, while we also find it increasingly difficult to remember details and keep track of information. A health care advocate – a spouse, an adult child, or a friend (and often not your power of attorney) – can make a significant difference. Your advocate should be someone you trust with potentially intimate matters. Their primary role is to be familiar with your medical conditions, your doctors’ names, your treatment preferences, and to accompany you to medical appointments. Before a doctor visit the two of you might prepare a list of questions; your advocate could take notes and ensure these questions get asked and answered. After the consultation your advocate can help you remember and clarify what took place along with whatever follow-up is needed. A good resource for making the best use of medical experiences is Talking With Your Doctor; A Guide for Older People published by the National Institute on Aging (available free from the National Institutes of Health). Residents at Pilgrim Place, a retirement community in Claremont, California, have offered training programs for health care advocates, and successfully paired many of their residents as advocates for one another.

It is also a good idea to explore long-term care insurance, which can assist you and your family financially in the event that you need live-in attendants or an extended stay in a nursing home or care facility. There are many varieties of long-term care insurance, and the premiums tend to increase the longer you wait before signing up. Consult a trusted financial advisor for more information.

End-of-life issues
Everyone who owns property, and everyone who has a child should have a will, designating how they want their assets distributed when they die, and everyone should regularly review their will. Most adults already know this, although many resist committing their wishes to paper because they can’t face the reality of death, they fear hurting someone’s feelings, or they simply can’t decide what they want. Spelling out your funeral and burial or cremation preferences (and paying up front for them) will relieve your family of an incredible burden at a stressful time.

Most adults know about dividing up the physical property, but how many have considered an “ethical will” or “the legacy of the heart?” What values do you want to leave to your children, nieces and nephews, your wider community? What life experiences and stories are especially important to you? How do you wish to be remembered? There are numerous books and websites devoted to the topic of ethical wills, which can be written or taped on video or CD. A Meeting workshop on writing your ethical will can get the process started and lead to some profound sharing among the participants.

Living arrangements
Maximizing our independence requires thinking ahead about our living arrangements, and most of us want to remain in our own homes for as long as possible. But remaining at home can entail a huge financial and/or emotional burden on family members or caregivers. Across the United States, an exciting new “village” movement is creating virtual caring communities to support independence and “aging in place.” Ashby Village in Berkeley, California, Avenidas Village in Palo Alto, and Beacon Hill Village in Boston, Massachusetts are all functioning prototypes; a Pasadena Village is currently in the planning stages. Members of a local village develop new friendships while enjoying recreational and social gatherings. They voluntarily exchange services ranging from sharing meals to providing transportation; they can call on the village for social work support and a vetted list of service providers who offer discounts on home repairs. Based on the belief that we’re never too old to help to one another, the village extends both our usefulness and our independence.

While some prefer to remain at home, moving to a retirement community ensures long-term care and peace of mind for others. But this concept is fraught with negative images: too fancy or too sterile, too many ‘old’ folks, too expensive, too ‘programmed,’ too religious or too secular, too far away from loved ones. Some of us will be delighted to stop cooking; others balk at mandatory congregate meals. But retirement communities are not all alike. Some allow people to lease units but only for as long as they are ‘active’ and when the need for assistance with mobility or medical care arises, another move is required. Others provide continuing care: once you have moved in, you are guaranteed a home for the rest of your life.

If I could urge every older person to do just one thing, it would be to visit several different retirement communities – near where they now live and perhaps near where their children or siblings live – and get on the waiting list for at least two of them. There is usually no charge to be on the list, and this gives you a back-up plan, should you need it.

Create Community
The best way to maintain active independence and avoid depressing denial, despair and dependence is to create inter-dependence. We need to strengthen our communities: our Meeting, our neighborhood, and other social structures. In my volunteer chaplaincy one of the most important things I learned is how deeply people feel the need, the desire, and the enthusiasm to help others. I encourage everyone to ask for help: a ride to Meeting, assistance with shopping or sorting photographs, accompaniment at a meal, or a compassionate ear in a time of crisis. For most of us, the opportunity to assist someone else is a source of so much pleasure: it makes us feel needed and useful.

Finally, Friends need to examine our Meetings’ pastoral care processes, and ask whether we are doing all that we can to support our elderly members and those who are caregivers, with pastoral attention such as telephone calls, cards, visits, rides and meals. What do we want to have in place for ourselves when dependence becomes problematic for us and our loved ones? Do we let our Meeting know when we are facing crises? Can we count on them to follow up with resources and sensitivity? Is it enough to be “held in the Light” or do we want more from our faith community? Does our Meeting have up-to-date emergency contact information for our members and regular attenders, so if they stopped coming to Meeting someone would know who to call? Has our Meeting encouraged each member to complete a will, a burial plan, and an advance directive? What does our Faith & Practice testimony on community ask of us?

We’re not done yet! We may be old but we’re not “over the hill,” or ready for the dust-heap. For some of us, certain options may not be feasible, whether because of costs or disabilities or other obligations. Still, we need to anticipate our needs and speak frankly with our loved ones about health care, death and long-term living arrangements. We need to strengthen our communities’ abilities to care for one another as we age. Seeing the remainder of our lives as an adventure, and taking steps to plan for the challenges that lie ahead, will help us maximize the positive aspects of that adventure.

Claire Gorfinkel is a long-time attender at Orange Grove Meeting. If you would like to attend one of her workshops or schedule one for your Meeting, please contact her at cgorfinkel@earthlink.net. Join Claire and Mary Ann Percy June 1-3 at Ben Lomond Quaker Center for their workshop, “Celebrating Aging and Facing the Inevitable”. Register at quakercenter.org or (831) 336-8333.

“The Society of Friends has never had many members, scarcely more than 200,000 in the entire world, the majority living in the United States and in England. But it is not the number that matters. What counts more is their inner strength and their deeds.”

-Gunnar Jahn, Chairman of the Nobel Committee, 1947

We are collecting stories for a new book from Western Friend, titled
An Inner Strength: Stories of Leadership in the Religious Society of Friends

In his 2011 address at Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, General Secretary Arthur Larrabee described a Quaker leader as someone who, “thinks globally, shares ideas proactively, takes risks, maintains and nurtures a spiritual awareness, honors the role of the community and derives personal satisfaction from the success of the body he or she serves.” He goes on to say Quaker leadership is “taking initiative in relationships.”

Do you know a Friend who might have a story to tell about leadership? It might be a well-known weighty Friend or someone who doesn’t even think they’re a leader!

Please send your nominations to editor@westernfriend.org or mail them to Western Friend, 833 SE Main St. Mailbox #138 Portland OR 97202. Nominations are due June 20th. Nominations will only be considered if they include: the nominee’s full name and contact information (phone/email/address), and a brief description of why you are nominating the person. Is there a story you have in mind, a certain quality? Tell us!

It was in 2003 that I first felt the unmistakable call to work at hospice. As I pursued that leading, I likened my experience to the exhilaration of riding a magic carpet— I felt so uplifted and swept along! It wasn’t until months later that I realized that magic carpets have neither headlights, steering wheels nor brakes.

I have chosen two stories out of dozens from my years of work as a hospice chaplain. I am privileged to accompany people through some of the most difficult days of their lives, as they seek patience, understanding, meaning, forgiveness, and grace. Some are people of deep religious convictions; others find meaning and richness in other ways. End of life is a time of deep vulnerability and profound questions, deep wisdom and universal truths. I have the opportunity to witness and to learn what used to be common knowledge among humans—how we die.

I offer these stories as a reminder to reflect upon what is important, significant, and meaningful in life, and to share those reflections with those we love. This becomes increasingly relevant in terms of what care we do and do not receive as our ability to articulate and voice our own preferences becomes diminished.

Richard
“You’re the chaplain? I definitely want to see you right away!” he said with great urgency. I recalled my initial telephone conversation with my new patient Richard as I stood waiting for him to open the door to his condo for our first visit. Once inside, he led me to the living room, walking slowly and intentionally with a cane, his oxygen tubing dragging behind him. He apologized for the messiness, saying his condo was in foreclosure, and he was physically unable to attend to any cleaning. I admired the interesting objets d’art from around the world, the overflowing bookcases, and looked forward to hearing something about the life of this man.

Richard cut me short. As soon as we had we both sat down, he leaned forward in his chair, and demanded to know, “Do you believe I will go straight to hell if I commit suicide?”

My first thought was, “I am so totally inadequate to be having this conversation!”

I had been working as a hospice chaplain for over seven years, and had many conversations about the powerlessness many people feel at the end of their lives, even discussing any legal options for accelerating their demise. Still, this question was a first.

Richard had told me on the phone that he was a life-long Episcopalian and that he had been attending a “Bible Church” for the past eight to ten months. He was 72 years old, he’d had a successful career as a psychologist and university instructor, and he was now faced with the inevitable and progressive losses related to Lou Gehrig’s Disease. He had been admitted to hospice six days earlier with a prognosis of less than six months to live.

“Well, I don’t believe God wants us to suffer,” was my opening response.
I then asked Richard to tell me more about his experience. Our conversation was wide-ranging, covering the loss of his career and many of his interests and activities due to the effects of his disease, which thus far had left him weak, short of breath, and without the use of his dominant hand.

His friend, (who had been a physician), had recently committed suicide by inhaling helium, rather than face his decline due to metastasized cancer. Richard understood this would be a “painless way to go,” and would leave “no trace, so that my family won’t know what I had done,” he said.

“But for the helium tank beside your dead body!” I exclaimed.

I spoke with him about the spiritual values of integrity, honesty and making sure the feelings of those closest to him would be considered. I asked about how his family would respond—he had several siblings, had been married twice and his youngest children were 21 and 24. He had a good relationship with his second (former) wife, Carol, and had shared his thoughts of suicide with her. She pleaded with him to reconsider—she was worried about the impact it would have on their children, especially their 21 year-old daughter. He took these concerns seriously, though he had not yet come to any conclusions.

We then turned to scripture, a source of great authority for this patient. He told me that he had memorized vast tracts of the New Testament.

“You know when Jesus says (in Matthew 10:39): ‘He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it.’ What do you think that means?” I asked.

There was a long thoughtful pause, and a rueful smile appeared Richard’s face. “You picked a hard one!” he said. I gently suggested that he take time in the next several weeks to sit with these words, and to consider the many ways he was already “losing his life.”

Finally, we prayed the Lord’s Prayer together, and spoke about what it would mean to live into the oft-repeated words: “Thy will be done,” and the mystery of understanding what that might be—how do we understand God’s will for us?

Richard told me that he felt I had left him with more questions than answers; he nonetheless requested that I return.

I had only two more visits with Richard. At our second visit, he was noticeably weaker, more out of breath, and using a hospital bed. He was still deeply troubled by the prospects of greater physical decline, even as he remained alert, cognitively intact, and aware of the magnitude of his losses. He was struggling to surrender his ego and “who he thought he was” to God, and to let go of his desire for God “to be glorified” by a miraculous cure. He was also moving away from the idea of suicide, in order to spare his family that trauma.

When I last saw him, Richard was confined to a bed in a hospice home, using oxygen and morphine to help with labored breathing and muscle spasticity. He had declined quickly, which was a blessing for him. He awakened to my voice and welcomed a prayer. Though he was too weak to say very much, he let me know that he had come to peace. I thanked him for the privilege of serving him and for all that we had shared. He nodded and closed his eyes.

Juan
“I used to have faith in my doctors and in God,” Juan told me; “then my doctors said there was nothing more they could do for my cancer. So I’ve been praying to God for a cure, for a miracle, but I just keep getting weaker…” his voice trailed off. “So now you’re questioning your faith in God as well?” I asked him.

Juan was a proud man, only 59 years old, a first- generation American; he’d been a successful architectural draftsman until his illness made work impossible. He had a beautiful home, a 38-year marriage, and a large family. He was active with the local Roman Catholic church, yet he was now grasping for spiritual resources to cope with his circumstances.
He told me about his family, his life, his plans and dreams for his retirement, and the short history of his illness. Juan’s cancer was aggressive; he’d been diagnosed just four months earlier. Neither he nor his family had very much time to get their minds or hearts around his diagnosis and prognosis. While Juan was still able to be up and about, his hospice nurse had warned him to get his affairs in order quickly, anticipating a rapid decline.

Juan asked me to pray for a miracle. “You mean a cure, a reversal of your cancer?” I asked. He nodded. “Of course I will do that, Juan,” I replied. “Would it also be okay to pray for another type of miracle?”

Juan and his wife looked puzzled. “If it’s okay with you, I’d also like to pray that you find peace with whatever your health outcome may be.” They agreed—who could refuse an opportunity to find peace?— And so I did.

We then talked about the parallels between the two prayers I had offered and Jesus’ words at Gethsemane: Jesus first said, “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me,” and then immediately added, “nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” (Luke 22:42)
I added, “Who among us has not prayed that prayer?! ‘Make this go away! I don’t want to deal with this!’ Though it usually takes we mortals far longer to get to the point, if we ever do, of asking for the grace to accept God’s will.”

It was then that Juan acknowledged out loud that perhaps his prayer was being answered—he noted that he was still able to get out to see his grandchildren, to focus on getting his will and other important documents in order, and he still had the energy to enjoy his garden and short car rides.

Just as I was about to leave, he asked me how to live more fully into God’s peace.

“By noticing it,” I replied. Seeing the question in Juan’s eyes, I asked, “What kind of car do you have?” “A Chevy Silverado.” “When you first bought your Silverado, did you all of a sudden notice all the other Silverados on the road?” He nodded. “ Why is that? They were there all along, but when you bought one yourself, you suddenly noticed how many there were. I think it’s that way with peace and with gratitude—when you begin noticing one or two things you have to be grateful for, you notice more and more, and your peace grows exponentially.”

This was as much an insight for me as it was for Juan.

I saw Juan once more before he died. He was still able to get around his home, but felt weaker. He told me about his strong intuition and how it had served him throughout his life. Again we talked about finding peace with what is, and then he abruptly asked, “Do you think confession is the way to be closer to God?”

I grew up in a church where confession was required before receiving communion, and where there were no “confessionals:” one was face to face with the priest, admitting and acknowledging one’s “sins.” I didn’t like it and I didn’t understand it. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I recognized the value of talking about one’s shortcomings and mistakes before a dispassionate witness.

“I think confession is one way to be closer to God. Please tell me more about what you’re thinking.” Juan told me that it had been years since he’d been to confession and had received communion, and the idea of doing so had suddenly come to him, “Though,” he quickly added, “I’m a good person…but you know, everyone does some things in their life that they regret.”

“Well, given what you’ve told me today about your intuition, I would say if you got the idea to go to confession, go, and as soon as possible!” Then I added, “I believe that humbling ourselves, acknowledging the ways we are broken, allows God a way to enter and be with us which is not possible when we’re self-assured and feel as though we have it all together.”

Shortly after Juan died, I spoke with his widow. She told me that he had gone to confession, and was able to find peace in his heart before he lost consciousness and died peacefully with his wife and daughters at his side.
_____________
As death has moved from our homes to the clinical settings of hospitals and nursing homes, and as we seek to distance ourselves from death— how often do I hear “If I die,” rather than “When I die”?— we have lost touch with an essential part of our humanity. For me and for many, death is truly what gives our lives meaning.

I continue to learn so much from my patients and seek to apply their lessons in seeing what’s really important to my own life. The patients in these stories were Christian, and so I used religious texts and examples from their tradition in speaking with them. But the process of forgiveness, letting go, and coming to peace is universal, and there are teachings in every tradition to instruct and assist people in this process. Making peace with ourselves, with the life we have lived, is fundamental to dying with integrity.

Mary Ann Percy is a member of La Jolla Meeting in San Diego. Join her and Claire Gorfinkel June 1-3 at Ben Lomond Quaker Center for the workshop “Celebrating Aging and Facing the Inevitable”. Register at online or (831) 336-8333.

When I moved from my small town to a college I learned that there was not a church of my own denomination in that college town. So I toured various churches. On my list was a Quaker meeting, so I showed up at High Street Monthly Meeting in West Chester, PA. And my mind was blown.
I was so taken with that kind of worship. I was shy, so I didn’t go to coffee hour. I split out the back door before someone could grab me. But I noticed that there was a bulletin board, and I always read bulletin boards wherever I go because I think I can learn something about a group by its bulletin board. There on the bulletin board was a notice to Friends to write a letter to Friends Committee on National Legislation – or to carbon copy to them and to write to their congressperson about universal military service.

And then it hit me. I had heard about Quakers, that Quakers are pacifists. And a disappointment came over me. Then I decided, “Well, I shouldn’t really hold it against them, because even the finest people can have their eccentricities.” So in the magnanimity of my nineteen-year-old wisdom, I forgave Quakers their peace testimony.
The thing that got me most about the meeting for worship that I experienced that morning was that it took me back to the mid-week prayer meeting of the church that I grew up in. The mid-week prayer meeting, which I especially attended with my grandfather when I was eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen, was the powerhouse of the church. What they would do was, after a few hymns they would go into what they called a Season of Prayer, which was based on silence. The men of the church who were there in this little Sunday School room would go on their knees, and we would listen and pray and people would offer testimonies. Sometimes there were tears. Someone would sing this or that and we would sing along.
I was in awe of my grandfather, and to see him get on his knees for anything amazed me. The spontaneity of the testimonies and the depth of the sharing from the heart was the big spiritual experience that I could most count on in those years. And that’s what Quaker Meeting reminded me of.
Just a few years later in my home church—by the time I was a senior in high school—the mid-week prayer meeting was no longer like that. It was like a mini-version of a Sunday morning worship. That set me off on a life-long journey of puzzlement. Since the cast of characters in the mid-week prayer meeting had not changed in those years, what made the difference? Why was that meeting so vital when I was younger, so alive, so full of the spirit, and then when I was older it had become routine? What could have changed that would have made it like that?
Obviously, the quality of ministry in that mid-week meeting was simply not the sum of the individual parts. And that gave me my first big clue: in an engagement with the Spirit, we’re talking about something that is greater than the sum of the parts. What I’d like to share today are four things that I’ve identified so far that seem to make the difference in terms of relating to the Spirit: the container, being present, accountability, and willingness to struggle.
The Container
I have no doubt that the spirit is among us every minute of every day. And yet it does seem that sometimes we experience it and sometimes not. What’s the difference? How do we allow ourselves – perhaps that’s the better question – to experience the spirit?
I’ve been lucky to be able to work with groups since I was twenty. And as I got into my thirties, I became more partial to a metaphor for what it is that goes on in a group. I call it The Container, with no great originality. A group can sometimes be a container that creates safety for people to expect the unexpected and experience the life of the spirit.
But container building – what is that all about?
It was late one night in the summer when my then-one-year-old daughter was experiencing a fever. The fever was going up and up, and we got scared about that, and we called the medical hotline. The medical folks said, “You need to get children’s Tylenol, and put her in a tub of lukewarm water.”
So my wife put her in the tub and I went to the all-night drugstore to get her some baby Tylenol. The drugstore was in a neighborhood I didn’t know well. But I drove to the drugstore and I got the stuff.
As I was walking back to my car, I noticed that my route to the car now had a group of young adult men standing around with each other looking a lot like a gang. My first thought was “Oh, I better not stay on this sidewalk because it will lead me right into the middle of that gang. It’s not my turf, and maybe they’re turf-conscious. Why don’t I cross the street and go to my car that way?” And then a macho spirit rose in me and I thought to myself, “No, nobody’s going to make me cross the street. I’m going to walk on the sidewalk directly to my car.”
But I didn’t get there. First I ran into this gang. And immediately one guy pushed me up against the wall and started saying stuff to me. At that point my hearing went out. I could see perfectly well. I could feel his hands pushing me repeatedly up against the house. But I couldn’t hear a thing, even though I could see his mouth moving. And what I was doing, instead of listening, was thinking, “Wouldn’t it be great to have a good idea about what to do now?”
Then I remembered a workshop that I had gone to years ago led by James Lawson, who was a colleague of Dr. King’s, about non-violent responses to violence. I remembered he had talked about what John Wesley used to do when he was mobbed. I don’t know how many of you know about the Wesley brothers who started the Methodist movement, but when they started they were very much on the margins of English society, so they got mobbed a lot.
And so John Wesley learned a style for dealing with your ordinary daily mob. He first threw off his hat, and then he swept his eyes across the crowd looking for somebody that might be a leader in the mob. He’d identify somebody, and he’d forget about everybody else, just focusing on laser-like communication with that person through speaking, unless there was too much screaming and yelling going on—then it was just with his eyes. He would focus his complete attention on that person until that person broke up the mob and allowed him to leave safely.
That’s the story I remembered in this moment when I was being pushed up against the house late at night. So I swept my eyes across the mob – actually it was just six guys – and I decided that the leader of this group was not the one pushing me. So I focused on this other guy. It was a small group, so I could say how upset I was that this was happening.
“What are you guys doing? Why are you doing this to me? I’m just out getting some medicine for my baby. What are you doing? I don’t like this.” I showed some of my anger because I was pissed off as well as being scared to death. At the same time, my arms were at my side, I was completely non-threatening in terms of my body language, and I just kept riveting my eyes on this one guy’s eyes.
After a little while he turned to the guy who was most aggressive and said something like “Let him go.” (I’m not sure what he said because I still couldn’t hear anything!) But he said something, because the guy that was manhandling me turned to him to argue that it was perfectly fine to be doing what he was doing. And the others in the gang picked up on this argument and closed in around the two guys who were arguing. I realized that it was my moment, so I moved, slowly… away… down the sidewalk. I got to my car and drove away.
What does this have to do with building a container? The way I see it, many years later, is that James Lawson taught me that the group was not just the sum of its parts, but was implicitly a container — that included me. My response in the moment of crisis re-framed the situation, elicited the container. And that, I suspect, is one of the things that makes a difference. If we only see ourselves as individuals – in our Quaker meeting or in any group we associate with – we are going to miss a big opportunity for the Spirit to move. Because the Spirit moves not only in individual parts, the Spirit moves on the group level, in what’s sometimes called Community.
Looking back now on that sidewalk scene in West Philly, I realize that the group and I were dancing a group dance. It was not simply a product of the individuals who were standing on the sidewalk. I was reaching for and acknowledging a group process in the way that I responded. At the time, I didn’t have this theory – I was just using a tool given to me by an old Methodist story. But the tool’s effectiveness gives a great illustration for what I’ve found time and again.
Recognizing the implicit container – in theological language, invoking it – brings the container forward that is full of the charismatic possibility. We can do that in our meetings.
Being Present
I got invited to work in Thailand in the ‘nineties with a group that wanted to save the rainforest. These people happened to be a movement of Buddhist monks and the villagers around them, led by a fierce abbot who ran a forest monastery. The movement was growing, but the Buddhist network that invited me thought that they could use more support. They suggested a six-day workshop about strategy and organization.
I know little about Thai politics and I don’t know the language. If you wanted a Thai expert to do this work you wouldn’t ask me. What they wanted was for me to ask people questions that they can explore, use activities that bring out their creativity, and to love them so that they can get the answers that they need. As usual, they asked for an outline of the workshop that I was going to do. I did an outline, we emailed back and forth, back and forth, and then I thought we were all set.
I landed in Bangkok, and learned it would be a substantial journey to northeast Thailand to the forest where the logging was going on and where people were in some difficulty. For one thing, there had just been an assassination of the leader of another environmentalist movement in the same area. So there was the question about of what would happen to the Buddhist abbot who was leading this forest monastery.
All the way up I kept asking other people in the car about the political situation, and what the loggers do, and other questions. The answers I got left me less and less confident about how the outline I’d prepared for this workshop. By the time we actually got to the site, I had no idea what we’d do for six days. I’d crossed the Pacific Ocean, and it’s a long way to go to find one’s mind a blank!
I was ushered into the presence of the abbot, who looked at me, and looked through me, and said, “You seem to be troubled about something.” I said, “I don’t know what to do for your workshop.” He didn’t look concerned. He said, as best I remember, “No problem. If you are present with us tomorrow morning you will know what to do.”
Quakers would believe in that, too. Being in the present moment. But you know what? I was still anxious because I still wanted a plan. That night I did sleep, because sleeping is one of my skills, but the next morning I got up just as puzzled as ever.
The abbot had said the previous evening that we would start out with a long walk, appreciating these woods that we don’t want felled around us. He went first, and the other monks followed him, then the villagers, and I trailed along behind. I said to myself, “George, you’re good at this, you’re a really good workshop designer. So what are you going to do? What are you going to do?” And every time the anxiety reached a certain point, a branch would hit my head or I would trip over a root in the ground. Of course I started to get the joke: each time my appreciation of the woods was interrupted by anxiety, I’d have an “accident.”
Finally we reached the edge of a cliff, and there was a gorgeous view across the ravine. The abbot settled us into silence and mediation, and he talked about the forest being the lungs of the world. By that time I had gotten the joke and I simply surrendered. The abbot said, “Now we’re going to have a guest from the United States lead us in a six-day workshop: George.”
And that was the instant when the design arrived. I realized that the way to work with these folks – with their huge span of education from zero-schooling for most of the villagers to the highly sophisticated strategy lieutenants – the way to be able to keep everybody on board with this workshop was to tell stories, and elicit from them the strategic principles. And that’s what we did.
At the end of each story we formed small groups to figure out what the strategic lesson was from that story. So by three or day four the workshop was really rocking and rolling. People were really listening to each other. So I pitched to them a particularly challenging strategic issue, and the small groups were working and reporting out.
During the small group reports, the abbot said, “One of the things we don’t know about is what the leadership will be in the future.” And that was the cloud over the whole workshop. Is he going to get arrested? Is he going to get assassinated? Are other leading monks going to get assassinated? It was a breakthrough moment, the moment when we acknowledged the elephant in the living room.
I said, “Okay, if that’s the question, let’s work on that. What are some things that we can do now that would prepare you for the possibility that you might lose your leader?” They really went after that, because that was the biggest anxiety in the whole place. They did well and reported out, and announced a lot of things that were brave to announce that they could picture doing.
Now the abbot had this way of sitting at the very center of the room, and there would be a sort of moat around him of no bodies because the deference toward Buddhist monks in Thailand is enormous, especially someone as charismatic as he. After I heard all these reports – we were writing up all these reports on newsprint in Thai language and also in English so I could read them – I said, “You know, when I look at this list, this looks very challenging to me. I’m not sure that you even mean it.”
They were visibly astonished to hear my skepticism. I said, “I want you to do something to show that you really mean it. If you really mean that you’re going to implement these things, I want you to fill in the space around the monk.”
At first they looked frozen. I was sweating; I knew I was taking the risk of cultural intrusion. We waited, silently. After what seemed like forever, one person moved, then another and another and they filled in all the space around their leader.
I looked at the abbot. “And what is it like for you, may I ask?” The participants held their breath. Very slowly the words came out. “I am glad you have taken this action.” He looked around. “Now I do not feel so lonely.”
The reason I tell that story has to do with the lesson about container building called being present in the moment. That is: if our participation in a group is so scripted through the roles we play and are used to playing, and if we’ve got each other in our monthly meetings in such tight boxes, there’s no room to expect the unexpected. If we aren’t willing to surrender to the moment, to what’s going on in our meeting right now, then it will be harder for the spirit to move. But if we are really open- open to the moment, open to the present- then that gives room for the spirit to be experienced in our hearts.
Accountability
West Philadelphia has a terrific trolley system connecting with Center City. One day I was riding the trolley with my then-ten-year-old son Peter. The guy in the seat behind us lit up a cigarette, even though there was a “no smoking” sign in the front of the trolley.
I thought, “Whoa, is this ever a moment of truth for me. Here’s the ten-year-old boy looking at his father: ‘What are you going to do about this?’ I can’t let this go by.”
So I turned around in my seat and I said, “Hey, it’s not okay for you to smoke. You see the sign up there, it says No Smoking. You really have to put that out.”
This was long enough ago that there was still a lot of breaking of that rule, so the guy was startled to be confronted about this. And then he smiled and shook his head, probably thinking, “Some white people are so weird and uptight.” (This guy was black.) He put out the cigarette, still shaking his head and looking at Peter, too, and he said, “You guys are standing up for yourselves, I get that. You know, I did that. I did that,” he rolled his eyes at Peter, “when I was your age.”
“Yeah?” I was immediately all ears, “What happened?”
“I was a boy in Birmingham, Alabama. I marched with Dr. King.” Peter’s eyes got as big as saucers and I said, “Tell us more, tell us more what it was like.” He said, “Oh, it was amazing. We had to disarm and weren’t allowed to carry our pocket knives, we were going be non-violent, right?” And he started talking about the dogs and the fire hoses that were used on the children. Fortunately it was a long trolley ride. He said in parting, “You know, those were the proudest days of my life. That’s when I most clearly have stood up for myself.” He winked at Peter, and off he went.
What can happen when we build a container around accountability? I confess how important my son was to that, because I would have let it go if it had just been me. Think about it: that situation was way more than the sum of the parts. These three guys on the trolley, what a dance we danced. If I had not confronted the smoker, none of that would have happened and my son would not have had that experience. Accountability, as Quakers have historically known, builds community.
Struggling Together
In my meeting we have groups we call Spiritual Accountability groups. One of the reasons we call them Spiritual Accountability groups is because we think those two words go together. It sounds like a contradiction to some of the individualism that is true in our larger culture and I think influences the Society of Friends. Our meeting is trying to get us used to the idea of saying Us, and saying, “If I feel a leading, I not only need to go through clearness about that, but to also go to a group that meets with me monthly.”
While I was engaged in a fifteen-year ministry of non-violent training, I had a Spiritual Accountability group that met with me, usually monthly, to which I needed to account for how I was operating. I found it supportive. Because I’m an individualist I also found it annoying. But it was supportive because I knew that it wasn’t just that they had my back, they had my front. In some ways that was even more important.
I’m on Worship and Ministry now in my meeting. And we’re trying to build a stronger container in that committee so that we can argue more. It has been a committee that has not allowed argument – it’s been people playing nice a lot and then working around each other’s patterns to make everything kind of hunky-dory at the end, but not really addressing some of the fundamental questions put before us as a group.
There’s another person on the committee who loves to argue, along with me. So she and I sometimes get into it, and at first the others in the committee were put off, but then they realized we were okay. Nothing broke. And we had a clerk that was willing to hold the container for us to be able to have those arguments. A few months ago I went over the line and accused her of something that was really wrong. A couple of committee members, in another context about a week later, said, “Hey George, you know what? You need to apologize for what you said. That was really over the line.” And I said, “You’re right.” I knew I had gone pretty far but it did not occur to me that I really owed an apology.
Accountability. I think it can open us to the spirit. She was, on one level, okay with it because she knew that arguing sometimes goes over the line, but on another level she was hurt so it was totally appropriate for me to apologize. In addition to the content of that of the disagreement, it was just the very idea that our fellow Quakers could challenge us when one of us gets hurt when we wrestle. It’s profound, isn’t it? It’s neat. It’s like family, or at least families with a high degree of acceptance.
But cultural patterns can get in the way of this, like the pattern of conflict aversion. Sociologists have found that avoiding conflict actually reduces the strength of the container – it’s the opposite of container-building. It results in a group/Meeting being only the sum of its parts.
Some cultures are more averse to conflict than others, which is why I call it a cultural pattern. In my lifetime I observe a trend of Quakers becoming more conflict averse, both in our relationships with each other and in the expression of our testimonies.
In the mid ‘60s a group of us created A Quaker Action Group. We decided to use non-violent direct action and civil disobedience to challenge the Vietnam War. One reason that we formed—and one reason we got as much support from Quakers as we did for doing such extreme things, like sailing a little yacht through the Seventh Fleet of the United States Navy to go to North Vietnam with medical supplies against the will of the government—was that previously there had been the Civil Rights movement. And most Friends knew in order to get justice, you have to fight for it. As Dr. King said over and over, “Freedom is not free.”
There were disagreements. In my own yearly meeting – this brings us back to the container – we had to struggle. I didn’t expect that we could gain consensus in our yearly meeting in Philadelphia to send medical aid to the North Vietnamese. When we were discussing the issue, it felt to me as if the Spirit had us by the scruff of our collective neck, and was shaking us as if to say, “You’re not going to get out of here until you say yes to this.” That’s the way it felt.
We achieved unity. Partly it came out of a tremendous lot of struggle on the monthly meeting level. And also it came out of A Quaker Action Group putting into practice – incarnating, you might say – incarnating the truth in that situation so that people could see that conflict was really okay. I believe this fourth principle for creating a strong container is willingness to struggle.
So, recognition that there’s a container at all – not just seeing each other as the sum of our individual parts, but recognizing that there’s a container – and willingness to be in the present moment, and willing to be accountable and hold each other accountable, and willingness to struggle. It strikes me, that if we have those four things going – and maybe there are others that you would name – if we have those elements on our monthly and yearly meeting levels, we would have a container so strong, so robust, the Spirit of God could move so vividly among us that the likening of ourselves to early Friends would occur more and more to us.
The key, I believe, is to shift our perceptions. So much of spirituality seems to be perceptions, doesn’t it? To shift our perceptions so that when we look at each other – the people sitting next to you, the people in the row behind, the people in this room, the people in our monthly meetings – we keep seeing not only their individual-ness (sure that’s important, let’s face it, American culture has taught us that well) but also to see the container that wants to be there. The container that, on some level, is there and can become more robust — if we pay attention to it.

To learn more about George, visit http://www.trainingforchange.org/ Thanks to Solomon Smilack of Mountain View Friends for transcribing this talk!