Within the Quaker tradition, there are three types of meetings for worship. One, which is prevalent around Philadelphia, where I attended college, is unprogrammed. In an unprogrammed meeting, members sit in utter silence for an extended period of time—typically at least one hour. There is no pastor, no music, no message. Another is fully programmed. This type of worship service more closely resembles a conventional church service, with very little silence. The third is semi-programmed. A hybrid of the first two, it incorporates a message, hymns, and scripture readings, along with twenty or thirty minutes of silence. Within that quiet time, members become inwardly still, inviting the movement of the Spirit, which may motivate them to rise and share a reflection.
I grew up in a semi-programmed meeting for worship as a member of the Religious Society of Friends. My parents converted to Quakerism when I was an infant, having both grown up in the Protestant tradition—my mother and her family were members of the Church of Christ, and my father attended Presbyterian services led by his own father. In my mother’s late middle age, she returned to college to obtain her MDiv and became a recorded minister, serving a small, local Quaker meeting.
Yesterday, I returned to the meeting for worship that I called home for much of my childhood. I sat next to my father in a simple wooden pew near one of the interior doors. My mother sat on the facing bench, readying herself to deliver fond memories of one of her best friends, whose life we were there to memorialize. The room, like most of the sanctuaries in Quaker meetinghouses, is simple and spare. The walls, unadorned, are white. The carpet, nondescript but designed to quiet footfall. The pews, softly polished to reflect the light from the tall, clear windows, are arranged in a square: a large middle section with two side sections and the facing bench.
We sat there, my father and I, talking quietly together, greeting others—some of whom I remembered from my youth, but most of whom were new to me. Soon, the room began to still. Fidgeting and conversation dwindled. A silence descended. I closed my eyes and settled in—the muscle memory of childhood kicking in. I breathed in, breathed out. Let it all go.
There is a word in Christian theology, Greek in origin, called kenosis. It was derived from the Epistle to the Philippians, saying that “Jesus emptied himself,” ostensibly of human will and desire. I think of kenosis as emptying oneself to make room for G-d. I believe it is a way to release all thought, worry, and anxiety to open oneself up in order to hear that still, small voice.
I left the Quaker tradition as an adult. It can be difficult to find Quaker meetings for worship, and I found my way to the Unitarian Universalists. From there, I moved on to the United Church of Christ, and then, in 2018, my theology evolved following a serious car accident, and I converted to Judaism. Jewish services, held on Fridays and Saturdays, are very different in nature from the semi-programmed meetings I knew as a child. Where Quakers eschew symbolism, Judaism is replete with liturgy, pomp, and traditions. Our sanctuary is filled with stained glass windows depicting the High Holy Days and the commandments, and our Torah is re-dressed before Rosh Hashanah in resplendent white. Our services, which last roughly ninety minutes, are so filled with sung prayer and d’var Torah that we have no time to pause for silence, no time to catch our breath.
But in those first few moments, sitting in the bare sanctuary filled with old friends and strangers alike, I remembered. My body, my mind, my heart, remembered how to find the inner light, that of G-d. I centered immediately. My heartrate slowed, my breath quieted, my mind emptied. I found myself smiling, even through the tears as one after another of us rose in the silence to offer a happy memory of a beloved woman.
I didn’t have much time to reflect on the day’s events when I returned to my house, filled with Judaica, kippot, tallitot, books on midrash and Jewish prayer. But this morning, when I awoke to a hazy light filtering through the wooden blinds of the darkened bedroom, I thanked G-d for the remembering, the knowledge that, like the tree I still decorate every Christmas season, I can carry old traditions with me forever.
Diana, I love how your body and mind remembered the worship experience —a spiritual muscle memory. That's beautiful.