Quaker scruples

The personal “scruples” born of Quaker testimonies seemed endless, for each individual interpreted them according to their own sense of duty. Those with particularly sensitive consciences often multiplied restrictions until life itself became a torment. One friend, burdened with such a conscience, confessed to me later in life that her mornings as a young woman were nearly unbearable. She could scarcely dress herself without being beset by doubts over every article of clothing. At times, the only way she could silence the inner voice demanding fresh sacrifices was to stuff her ears with cotton and recite poetry as quickly as possible, drowning out the relentless admonitions.

An old diary kept by my great-grandmother between 1760 and 1762 offers a vivid glimpse into the scruples of her day. She wrote with solemn conviction that laughter was madness, mirth a vanity, and that she longed to be so fixed as never to smile again. Elsewhere, she lamented the creeping fashions among Friends — the young men tying their hair with ribbons, the girls adorning their necks with black bands. To her, these were sorrowful sights, evidence that the elders had failed in their duty. She bewailed the indulgence in tobacco, tea, and calico, declaring them all equally corrupting, “as bad as the negroes,” she wrote, grouping worldly habits together as one abomination. Her words reveal how each generation found new points of conscience, yet always in the same spirit of self-denial.

Closer to my own time, another grandmother refused to wear false teeth. Though toothless and struggling to eat, she felt a “stop” in her spirit, believing them to be a vain fashion. They were placed away in a drawer beside her best silk shawl, never to be worn. We, children, admired her saintliness, even as we watched her struggle with food. A preacher friend of ours, after laying down a new carpet, feared she had yielded to pride. To humble herself, she ordered wheelbarrows of rough stones dumped upon it, stripping away its freshness. We, children, heard the tale with awe, and her preaching thereafter seemed to us like the voice of an angel.

Years later, I faced my own trial over a new Brussels carpet, patterned with delicate flowers. My husband arranged for rough working men to gather in that very room each Sunday for Bible class. I resented their heavy boots on my prized carpet, though I knew I ought not to feel so.

While praying over the matter, a v erse came to me: “Take the spoiling of your goods joyfully .” I seized upon it as a weapon of the Spirit, and from that moment I welcomed those men upon my carpet. Strangely enough, it seemed never to wear out, lasting until I grew weary of its sight. I cannot help but think my way was better than the rough stones of my dear old Friend.

After I had discovered the way of faith, a friend who had long suffered under Quaker “scruples” gave me a striking picture of the different methods of living the Christian li fe. She said, “I have noticed three ways of getting to the other side of a spiritual mountain. Some tunnel through by the sweat of their brows — that is the Quaker way, and for a long time it was mine. Others wander around the base, meandering this way and that, but because they keep their faces turned toward the goal, they gradually draw nearer. That was my way when I grew weary of tunneling. But now you tell me there is a third way — the way of faith. You say that some Christians have learned to flap the wings of faith and fly right over the mountain. I must admit, those who take your way seem to reach the other side far more quickly and easily than either the tunnellers or the wanderers. I have decided to give up tunneling and meandering, and to flap my wings too.”

Yet the dear saints of my childhood and youth did not know how to fly. For the most part, they spent their lives in steadfast, weary tunneling. Their faithfulness and self-sacrifice, even if sometimes misdirected, seemed to me then — and still seems now — worthy of all honor. The one overwhelming impression left upon my young heart was simply this: by hook or by crook, I must be good. Whatever else was lacking in Quaker teaching, there was no lack of emphasis on goodness. The necessity of being thoroughly, honestly, genuinely good was in the very air we breathed.

At times, I chafed under this atmosphere. My adventurous nature longed for a chance to be naughty, to defy expectations, but the boundaries of my life allowed only the most innocent mischief. Looking back, I cannot help but admire the remarkable shield of goodness that surrounded me, protecting me from temptations that might otherwise have enticed my free spirit.

For if ever a soul was born free, it was mine. The cry of my heart has always been for freedom.

Rules and conventions that enslave or fetter have been my lifelong abhorrence. Had my parents made many rules, I would have rebelled. But the pervasive atmosphere of goodness in which they lived constrained me with such unconscious power that I hardly knew I was being guided. I felt blissfully as though I nearly always had my own way.

No one who did not live in it could imagine the narrow range of life I knew up to the age of eighteen. I never met anyone from what was called “the gay world.” My c ompanions were only the sober Friends of our circle, and their carefully guarded children. Novels were forbidden, and I had no chance to learn what life meant outside our Quaker fold. As for the sins of the world, I had not the faintest inkling. Even at school, if anything was hinted at, I was too innocent to understand. I dare say it would be impossible today for a girl of eighteen to live in such an unreal world of ignorance, or to enter life’s responsibilities so utterly unprepared.

My inner life until sixteen was simple. I believed what little I was told and troubled myself not at all about the mysteries of the universe. My only religious thoughts were occasional fears of hellfire, which flared up during epidemics or times of danger. How I came by this fear I cannot recall, for Quakers rarely spoke of heaven or hell. Their concern was the life of God in the soul now, trusting the future to divine care. Yet sometimes I was seized with sudden dread, made great resolutions to “be good,” and tried for a few h ours to correct my faults — only to relapse into my old ways. Still, the atmosphere of goodness around me made it difficult even to think of wrongdoing, much less to act upon it. On the whole, I was as good as a lively, healthy creature could be. But up to sixteen, I was simply a good animal. My spiritual nature was unawakened; I had never consciously realized my soul.

A change was near, though I did not know it. My soul was stirring from its torpor, struggling like a butterfly in its cocoon to break free from the bonds that held it. My long search after God was about to begin.