I wish the practice of “worship sharing” would take a smaller role in Quaker life. When worship sharing and I were both young – in the 1960s – I welcomed it. If Quakers fell into two groups – those who relish silence and those who hope for messages – you would find me in the second. I love to listen to people express themselves. But over time, like other innovations from recent decades (the “SPICES” acronym for “Quaker testimonies,” for example, or flow charts to help Friends decide whether to speak or stay silent), worship sharing has come to seem prescriptive and limiting.
Many Friends describe worship sharing positively; they explain the format is designed to help participants feel safe. That Friends even speak of “format” is telling. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone explain the “format” of traditional Quaker meeting for worship, a time-tested practice that seems natural. Worship sharing reminds me less of Sunday mornings and more of gimmicky in-service trainings I’ve endured as a public educator. And ironically, rather than helping me feel safe, worship sharing raises my sense of caution; I feel vulnerable to censure for stepping over lines that are arbitrary and vague.
I admit that some worship sharing practices have advantages. They guard against anybody talking too long. Even if “too long” is a matter of opinion, worship sharing gives each person’s contribution a good chance at an equal hearing. That’s particularly important when the subject might be controversial.
Worship sharing shields speakers from exposure or pressure; contributions are considered confidential, and people are discouraged from trying to convert others or disrespect their contributions with refutation.
But there are situations in which the confines of worship sharing strike me as neither necessary nor helpful. When worship sharing is used for something as innocuous as a book discussion, inevitably somebody will need to ask a question. The worship sharing format requires them to apologize before expressing their curiosity or perplexity, implying that, really, they should have stayed silent.
Sometimes when I am struggling in a worship sharing context, I remember the day long ago when I decided to speak German to my toddler son so that he could grow up knowing two languages. His frustration began immediately, and it wasn’t long before he growled, “Talk, heaven’s sake!” and convinced me to call off my experiment. At his age, conversation was crucial for development. For me, it still is.
When the COVID pandemic was at its worst, despite all the phone calls and Zoom calls, I desperately missed face-to-face conversations. As soon as venturing out became safe, I joined a group of friends outdoors once a week, just to see each other and talk for hours. It was such a pleasure that we continued long after the risk had lessened.
Even though our conversations were free-for-alls, I don’t think any of us ever did anything obnoxious conversationally, unless perhaps I did. We talked about far-ranging topics that often circled back to the nature of human beings and of life. One of our members, Joe, expressed an outlook that would have scared and disheartened me if I had shared it, so I took on the project of trying to comfort him with my rosier take on things. These attempts of mine never worked. Finally, I realized that Joe’s viewpoint, far from depressing him, energized him and served to motivate his many good works. I cancelled plans for any further episodes of “Ann Tries to Change Joe’s Mind.” I doubt if anybody missed the series, but neither had our friends seemed especially pained during its long run. I am convinced that pure listening would never have let me see how integral Joe’s viewpoint was to his actions, his compassion, his life itself. To see that, I needed the back and forth of conversation.
Is ordinary conversation likely to damage most people, most Friends? I don’t think so. I know that during the pandemic, I missed it in a way that I’ve never missed worship sharing. Returning to everyday chatting and visiting felt like water after a drought.
What troubles me most about worship sharing is the instruction to favor the heart over the head, experience over theory, feelings over thoughts. I’m not sure about where one ends and the other begins. I am pretty sure I never want to be sure. Dividing a person up like that might be important for some people or for some situations, but I prefer to imagine myself as all of one piece.
We are told that during worship sharing, we should try to avoid imparting mere information. I’ve been a reference librarian all my adult life. Access to information has been my calling. Devaluing facts, even temporarily, even for purportedly religious reasons, disables me. Especially these days, when facts are under siege, telling me to avoid “mere information” is like telling me I can only use my right hand and that the other hand is, as the Romans described it, “sinister.” I’m not convinced that forgoing “mere information” is actually a path towards personal growth.
In worship sharing, we are warned against responding – against disagreeing and against “Me, too.” We are advised to hide our personal reactions. We are advised to leave the speaker silently alone in their expression of something that’s important to them. Too often, this stance of impartiality feels to me less like one that is respectful and more like one that is uncaring. In everyday conversation, one of the signs of deep listening to is to react.
I wish this newly engineered hybrid form of speech would not upstage more spontaneous forms of communication when Friends gather. Am I the only one who has grown disenchanted by the limits of too much worship sharing? It’s OK to respond. ~~~
Ann Birch, an octogenarian grandmother, has stories in recent issues of The Ocotillo Review, Change Seven, Funicular, and Grim & Gilded. She is a member of Santa Fe Friends Meeting (IMYM).