Eileen Flanagan

Last Saturday I spoke to a group of Philadelphia Quakers about spiritual discernment, a topic I’ve been writing about for nearly 16 years, though the longer I write about it, the less I think I know. In general, my message over the years has been this: There is a Divine Spirit that offers us guidance, though it’s not always easy to hear or distinguish from the other voices that can guide us, such as social pressure and our own ego-driven desires.

I still believe this, though during the last year I’ve been getting another message that seems contradictory. As I was wrapping up revisions on the book I got a letter from a former Pendle Hill teacher that I summarized in this paragraph, at the end of the section on discernment: 

Chris Ravndal, who taught prayer at Pendle Hill for many years, says that when he was young he asked God for yes-or-no answers, like should he do this or that. He got answers, he says, but now in his seventies he feels there is a danger in asking God to make our decisions for us. Not only does it “make us vulnerable to influences that are not God,” it can keep us from developing our own power of choice. “God gives us the tools and basic knowledge with which to build our structure rather than the architect’s plan,” he explains. “You must reach your own decision, keeping before you the basic principles and constantly seeking God’s assistance in arriving at your decision.” This builds in us the confidence and judgment to take responsibility for our own choices. 

Since getting Chris’ letter, I’ve heard other people share similar perspectives. One woman, who was praying over a difficult decision, heard an answer that said basically, “I don’t care what you decide about that, I just want you to love me.” Then a few weeks ago, I heard a Lenten sermon that included this passage from Barbara Brown Taylor, my new favorite spiritual author, from her book An Altar in the World. Taylor was in seminary and had taken to praying every night on a fire escape for guidance about her vocation, which was unclear to her:

Up on that fire escape, I learned to pray the way a wolf howls. I learned to pray the way that Ella Fitzgerald sang scat.

     Then one night when my whole heart was open to hearing from God what I was supposed to do with my life, God said, “Anything that pleases you.”

     “What?” I said, resorting to words again. “What kind of an answer is that?”

      “Do anything that pleases you,” the voice in my head said again, “and belong to me.”

       At one level, that answer was no help at all. The ball was back in my court again, where God had left me all kinds of room to lob it whereer I wanted. I could be a priest or a circus worker… Whatever I decided to do for a living, it was not what I did but how I did it that mattered. 

This passage seemed to speak to the people at Saturday’s talk where, with the encouragement of the same elders who accompanied me when I spoke at Pendle Hill in January, I shared more of my personal struggles and questions this time. My big question of the moment is what it means to belong to God and how one does that on a daily basis. As I prepare to grade 46 college research papers, it’s good to remember that it’s not what I do but how I do it that makes work holy. 

Speaking of fear… I’ve been given my own opportunity to work through some. As some of you know, I teach a class on South African history at University of the Arts, which I really enjoy. The course uses the art, music, and literature of South Africa to study the apartheid era. This is the fifth time I’m teaching it, and the student response has been positive. For some students, the course has been transformative. For me, it has been a way to teach ideas I care about while staying connected to the younger me who was in the Peace Corps in Botswana in the 1980s. I’ve been longing to go back to Southern Africa some time, and though the cost has always seemed prohibitive, teaching this course keeps me feeling somewhat connected.

A few weeks ago, the head of Liberal Arts asked if I would be interested in leading a group of students on a two-week study/trip to South Africa next January. My first reaction was that I’d love to, if I didn’t have kids. He said, “You have a husband don’t you?” It turns out my husband is very supportive, especially since the trip would occur while our kids were in school, so I’ve been seriously thinking about it, swinging from wildly excited about the idea, to just a bit freaked out. Here are a few of the questions that are arising: 

How many college students could I handle as a lone adult in a very different country with a high crime rate?

Could I arrange for another teacher to come with me?

Is it OK to leave my children (ages 10 and 13) for that long?

Knowing that they have a very competent father, why does the thought of going make me feel like a selfish mother?

What if an asteroid hits Three Mile Island while I’m gone, and I can’t reach my family?

What if a UArts student gets hit by a car or arrested for drug use, and I don’t have another teacher to back me up?

What if I’m not as brave as when I was 22 and hitchhiked from Lesotho to Botswana?

And then on the positive side:

Could I arrange a trip that would give the students real engagement with another culture and with inequality, without having us seem like tourists on safari?

Could I arrange a way for the students to share their artistic abilities in schools in South Africa, which might be a particularly meaningful form of service for them?

Could I go in 2011 and then bring my family with me the following year?

I’ve thought about bringing my family to Botswana and then writing a book about the experience, contrasting the country today with the one I lived in pre-AIDS. Although the kids are not enthused, it turns out that the hospice my husband works for has an exchange program in Botswana, which seems so serendipitous that it must be some kind of sign, although it hasn’t yet seemed rightly ordered to pursue that. Perhaps this trip is some kind of preparation for that later, longer excursion?

The biggest question, from a Quaker viewpoint, is, “Am I led to do this?” I’ve wanted to go back to Southern Africa for many years, and here way is opening for me to do so. Does that necessarily mean that this is the way to go? That’s where sorting through my fears gets important. I don’t yet have clarity about whether my fears are signs that I shouldn’t do it or just things to be worked through. As usual, writing is a way for me to process. So is waiting, so I’m going to work on something else this week and see which feelings last.