Among the various tribes within Christianity, Quakers are some of the most optimistic. We absolutely believe in the possibility of peace. We anticipate justice rolling down like a river at any moment. We practice, on our best days, listening for a whispered word from God—expecting it will be spoken and trusting we will be given the strength and grace to do whatever we are told.
In our optimism, we have also struggled against theological notions that suggest humans are born fully depraved. We prefer to recognize a more positive reality—there is some imprint of God within each of us. In some measure, the Light of the world is at least dimly kindled within. It rests there, waiting to burst into flame if we are willing, and persistently and patiently combating some of our best efforts to snuff it out. Instead of starting with the assumption that people are evil, we hold on to the assured reality that God’s creations are good and people have the capacity to be and do good.
In my reading of early Friends, I am not sure they were always quite as optimistic as we can sometimes be about all of this. While noting humanity is not completely bad, those first Friends seemed more inclined to recognize that most (or all) of us are at least a little bit bent out of shape and in need of a fairly thorough overhaul. We have been twisted and tamed by the external pressures of the world. Our own internal selfishness, arrogance, independence and sin hinder us from being fully-formed in the image of God. Even so, early Friends were hopeful about humanity’s capacity to undergo change—but that confidence was not rooted in our own amazing goodness and clever ability. Instead, they seemed more wildly optimistic over God’s ability and relentless desire to transform each of us and all of us into people more lovely than we could ever be on our own.
As I think about the human condition and how it manifests in my life, I liken it to square watermelons (of course?!?). These are most often grown in Japan because they are easier to stack and store in a country with limited space. Square watermelons are formed in a distorted fashion by enclosing the blossoms in a glass case. As the fruit emerges and enlarges, the press and pressure (mis)shapes the melon. Though still having access to light, the fruit looks very different than it would have if it were set free from the constraints of the box.
In a disturbing way, I see parallels with my own life. Worse, I sense it is far too easy not to notice the glass cases that may hem me in. Do I even see the obstacles and barriers separating me from freedom and unhindered growth? Or have I become so accustomed to the clear panes of glass—so warm, cozy and content within them—that I can’t even conceive of an alternative reality beyond them?
Many years ago, as I slogged through my first reading of George Fox’s Journal, I stumbled upon these words:
Now I came up in the Spirit, through the flaming sword, and into the Paradise of God. All things were new; and all the creation gave another smell unto me than before, beyond what words can utter. I knew nothing but pureness, innocency, and righteousness, being renewed up into the image of God by Christ Jesus. There the Lord showed me that such as were faithful to him, in the power and light of Christ, they too should come up into that state in which Adam was before the fall.
I confess as I read those words that day, I nearly burst into laughter. On the one hand I immediately thought, “What chutzpah this guy has to write—let alone think—such stuff!?!” But even as I muffled my incredulous giggles, another kind of humor welled up in me. It was joy. Joy—at the possibility of God really making all things, even me, new. And in that moment, I caught a whiff of something more fresh and alive than I had ever known. It was as if the glass around me had cracked open enough to let something sweet and fragrant infuse the stale air I had been breathing, the only air I had ever known.
Even now as I sit with that memory, and many other similar experiences since then, I am reminded that I am not trapped by the walls that I or others erect around me. The relentless love and life of Christ is at work within me, waiting for me to yield to it. I am reminded that as much as God may choose to do things, I am seeing the greater (and more challenging) work for both of us is to enable me to become something—something new—formed into the image of Christ, freed to be anything and everything God created me to be.
—Colin Saxton
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