Quaker Silence, Catholic Liturgy, and Pentecostal Glossolalia Some Functional Similarities

by Richard A. Baer, jr.

Richard A. Baer, Jr., is a Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Syracuse University (A.B., 1953). He attended Princeton Seminary (B.D., 1957) and Harvard University (Ph.D., 1965). From 1966 to 1973 he was associated with Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana, where teaching in his doctoral field of New Testament led to a growing interest in environmental ethics. Publications, lectures, and consultancies in the field of conservation eventually led to his appointment as associate professor in the department of natural resources at Cornell University.

Dr. Baer describes in this article common ground between the glossolalia of Pentecostalism, the silence of Quaker worship, and the liturgy of the Catholic traditions. In each case, he argues, the analytic intellect is surpassed and a divine reality thereby communicated.

Among non-Pentecostals, much of the recent discussion of glossolalia or speaking in tongues focuses on the strangeness of the phenomenon. Many leaders in mainline denominations see the current charismatic movement as a clear threat to the peace of the Christian community and the integrity of the church’s witness. Scholarly papers raise the question, Are tongues basically a pathological religious practice? In not a few churches pastors have been dismissed when it was learned that glossolalia had become part of their personal religious experience.

Whereas even ten years ago it was possible for most Christian leaders to dispose of glossolalia with a few condescending remarks about “religious fanatics” and “lower class fringe sects,” the explosion of the charismatic movement in the past few years among Catholics and mainline Protestants rules this out today. In a paper entitled “Personal and Situational Determinants of Glossolalia” presented at the September 1973 Los Angeles conference on Religion and the Humanizing of Man, H. Newton Malony of Fuller Theological Seminary argued that what little evidence there is regarding personality characteristics of glossolalics not only tends to rule out psychopathology but may even suggest that as a group “glossolalics fare] better adjusted than members of a conventional denomination.”(1)

I would argue that the “strangeness” of glossolalia to most people, not least of all ministers and seminary professors, has blinded them to a fundamental functional similarity between speaking in tongues and two other widespread and generally accepted religious practices, namely Quaker silent worship and the liturgical worship of the Catholic and Episcopal churches. My thesis is that each of these three practices permits the analytical mind—the focused, objectifying dimension of man’s intellect—to rest, thus freeing other dimensions of the person, what we might loosely refer to as man’s spirit, for a deeper openness to divine reality. In their own distinctive ways I believe that tongues, Quaker silence, and the liturgy of the church all contribute powerfully to this goal.

Significantly, this goal is not achieved by a deliberate concentration on the emotions as over against the analytical mind. Neither the silent worship of the Quakers, the practice of glossolalia, nor the liturgical worship of the Catholic or Episcopal church seeks to stimulate the emotions as such in the manner of some revival meetings or some of the more contrived celebrations in certain avant-garde Protestant and Catholic congregations. Rather, in each of the three traditions I have mentioned, the desire is to free man in the depth of his spirit to respond to the immediate reality of the living Cod. The intent is not to play on the emotions either as an end in itself or as a means to some other desired end—for example, deeper commitment to the beliefs and practices of the church.

Speaking in Tongues

My thesis will become clearer as we examine in some detail these three practices which on the surface appear so very much dissimilar. Contrary to uninformed speculation and opinion, speaking in tongues is not a form of religious hysteria or spirit possession. Nor is it, except occasionally and quite incidentally, uncontrolled expression of emotion. Not only is the glossolalic fully aware of what he is doing when he begins to speak in a tongue but he also can stop at will. Although the glossolalic may be moved by deep emotion—as indeed he often is in non-glossolalic experiences of prayer and worship—the act of speaking in tongues itself is not best characterized as emotional in contrast to intellectual. The actual speech can be only a quiet whisper or even subvocal; or, on the other hand, it can be loud and boisterous. At times the glossolalic feels a singular lack of emotion while speaking in tongues.

For the most part, the glossolalic makes use of tongues for praising God. But three other uses are also common: (1) the expression of deep anguish or inner sorrow, (2) intercession, and (3) petition. In each instance there may be something deep inside the individual which he simply is unable to express in words. For some people, and occasionally for almost everyone, silence seems appropriate at such moments. But others find that unpremeditated glossolalic speech best permits them to express their joy or sorrow. The use of tongues in such a case is similar to the fulfillment a person may find in spontaneous dancing; and, of course, the use of the dance for the expression of religious ecstasy is a well-known and virtually universal phenomenon.

In petition and intercession one may not really know what to pray for. Even though there may be a deep sense of need or an acute awareness of distress, the one praying may possess little intellectual understanding of what is wrong, of what needs changing, or of what “solution” or healing would be appropriate. In such cases praying in a tongue may well be the most satisfying religious response available. Recall Paul’s words in Romans 8:26 about the Spirit helping us in our weakness as He “intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” Glossolalic prayer is felt by many to be of particular value in relation to the healing of early childhood traumas which have become submerged in the depths of the unconscious. Frequently an individual will know that something from his early childhood is sabotaging his behavior in the present but he will neither know what the trauma was nor how to pray for deliverance. In such cases praying in a tongue for the “healing of the memories” may be thoroughly appropriate.

It should be noted that I am describing glossolalia mainly as it occurs in the context of a person’s private devotions. Much of what I have written is also relevant to the employment of glossolalia in the gathered worship of the church, but I should prefer not to discuss this controversial topic in this paper. Suffice it to say that such a public manifestation of tongues as group singing “in the Spirit” can be an exquisitely beautiful and joyful experience for the participants and even for observers.

Quaker Silent Worship

Striking parallels exist between Quaker silent worship and the practice of glossolalia. At its best Quaker silent worship involves a kind of letting go, a lack of strain or effortful attention, a willingness to “flow” with the leading of the Spirit and with the larger movement of the entire meeting. In the course of the worship an individual may be led to speak to the gathering, but he retains the freedom either to yield to this urge or to fight it. In either case, however, it would seem quite inappropriate to describe this experience as hysterical or label it a form of spirit-possession in the classical mystical sense. The individual is quite aware of what he is about and retains definite control over his speech.

However, it is not a strained or forced control but rather more like that of the skillful dancer or lover. What is said will, to be sure, have intellectual content—but intellectual content is not the main element. One does not plan ahead of time what he will say, just as one does not invent a tongue in which to speak. There is rather a sharing out of the depths of one’s self, or differently described, a speaking that is prompted by the leading of the Spirit. It is almost universally felt in Quaker circles that rational analysis and argument over what is spoken “out of the silence” is inappropriate. One is not to analyze or judge but rather to listen and obey.

As in the case of glossolalia, the process of speaking out of the silence and of listening in the silence involves a resting of the analytical mind, a refusal to let deliberative, objective thinking dominate the meeting. Rather, one tries to “center down” and become open to the “inner light” within himself, to “that of God in every man,” to the “leading of the Spirit.”

Silence is common among Quakers both in private devotions and in public worship, Although what one speaks out of the silence in the meeting needs no interpretation as such, others, as led by the Spirit, may add to what has been said, often in a manner not dissimilar to the Mishnaic commentary of the rabbis on the Torah. I find a rough parallel here to what is common practice among Pentecostals. The use of tongues in one’s private devotions needs no interpretation. But in the public worship one should not speak in a tongue unless someone who can interpret is present (1 Cor. 14:28), Significantly, the interpretation usually appears to be less a word-for-word translation of what has been said than a kind of paraphrase of the tongue with particular emphasis on reproducing its spiritual tone and general direction.

The phenomenon of quaking or shaking is still found among some Friends and would seem to be religiously and psychologically similar to glossolalia. A significant difference, however, is that one seems to have less control over the quaking than one does over speaking in a tongue and cannot necessarily terminate the practice at will. Actually, quaking is extremely rare today among Friends, but there are other stylized physical manifestations which typically accompany speaking out of the silence. For example, one often speaks with a slightly lowered head and with little or no direct eye contact with fellow worshipers. Frequently the tone of voice has a decidedly subdued quality, probably reflecting what is the deep inner conviction among Friends that one does not try to persuade or convince others of the truth of what is said by human emotion, logic, or eloquence. Rather one speaks “out of the depth of silence” by the leading of the inner light, the divine Spirit. It is only this divine Spirit that can bring true conviction and response on the part of the hearer. In other words, the communication or revelation is immediately self-authenticating. It is a word spoken not primarily in order to change the ideas of the hearer or rouse his emotions but rather to confront him in the inner depths of his spirit.

It is noteworthy by comparison that in public Pentecostal-type worship what is spoken in a tongue, although usually more animated than the word spoken by Quakers out of the silence, nonetheless possesses something of the same quality. The speaker does not attempt to convince, persuade, or rouse people to action, perhaps in part because he is not himself rationally aware of the content of his speech. Also there is frequently a marked degree of inwardness on the part of the speaker, often reflected in the avoidance of direct eye contact (or closed eyes) and a tone of voice different from what he would employ in ordinary affairs,

The Liturgy

Similarities between glossolalia and the liturgical worship of the church are less obvious than those we have noted in relation to Quaker silent worship. But they are also significant. I shall refer mainly to the liturgical worship of the Episcopal Church, since this is the tradition I know best. Just as glossolalia and silent Quaker worship may at first be puzzling, frustrating, even irritating to the non-initiate, so to many outsiders the practice of liturgical worship sometimes appears to be little more than a mechanical exercise in futility. What good can possibly come of the repetition week after week of the same prayer of confession, word of absolution, intercessions, and petitions? And how can one even focus on what is being said when most of his attention is directed to turning pages and deciding whether to stand or to kneel? Even though he remembers the advice “When in doubt kneel!” the non-initiate is so preoccupied with physical motions and the proper sequence and enunciation of prayers and other responses that it is almost beside the point to talk of the resting of the analytical mind and an encounter with God in the depths of the human spirit.

But all of this is not really surprising and is not unlike the experience of the person first learning to dance. At that point even walking seems far more graceful than those awkward, contrived motions. But when one has mastered the dance steps, a kind of “wisdom of the body” takes over which indeed permits the analytical mind, the focused attention, to rest. One begins to “flow” with the beat of the music, the rhythm of the dance.

So with the liturgy. The very repetition Sunday after Sunday of the same prayers, responses, and creeds frees the individual from needing to focus consciously on what is being said. To be sure, his mind and heart are frequently stimulated by the theological content and the aesthetic movement of the liturgy. Also the total aesthetic impact of the environment—stained glass, wood, carvings, Christian symbols, singing, organ music, incense, candles—helps produce a sense of awe and mystery.(2)

But as beautiful and moving as all of these elements are, there is yet a deeper movement of the human spirit as it encounters the Spirit of God, the presence of the risen Christ, the reality of the Holy Spirit. The analytical, objectifying mind is permitted to rest and thus the spirit of man is free to experience reality on a new level. Moreover, although feelings are often heightened by liturgical worship, there is no conscious attempt to manipulate the emotions to achieve some desired effect. It is on the level of spirit that liturgical worship becomes most significant.(3)

Furthermore, the very formality of the liturgy and the fixed nature of the responses may save the worshiper from undue introspection and thus help him to center more fully on the presence of God. Nor does he need to fear revealing more of himself than is appropriate in public. Romano Guardini writes that “the liturgy has perfected a masterly instrument which has made it possible for us to express our inner life in all its fullness and depth without divulging our secrets We can pour out our hearts and still feel that nothing has been dragged to light that should remain hidden.”(4)

As has been frequently noted, a high level of sound, insofar as it insulates a person from ordinary auditory stimuli, has an effect in some ways similar to a complete absence of sound. There is a rough analogy here to the interrelationship between Quaker silence and liturgical worship. Also the fact that one knows the prayers and responses by heart (not, by head!) frees one to be open to ever-new and ever-changing leadings of the Spirit during the very act of repeating fixed prayers and predetermined responses.(5)

This same dynamic probably explains much of the value of Father Zossima’s famous Jesus-prayer in The Brothers Karamazov and of the repetition of the Catholic Rosary. In some evangelical Protestant circles the repetition of a single-stanza chorus five or six times in a row would seem to have a similar effect. Even highly intellectual people frequently discover as much (or more) fulfillment in the singing of such choruses as they do in some of the great theological-doctrinal hymns of the church. Compilers of hymnals would do well to note this fact, for often they have reflected a kind of Calvinistic, ascetic, theological snobbishness in making up their collections.

The argument can still be heard that the mass would be more effective in its religious impact if it were left in Latin. Authentic religious sensitivity, it is said, is reflected in the considerable resistance which many people—both young and old and from almost all social, national, and intellectual backgrounds—have shown to changing the mass into the vernacular. One could also point to the distress many Episcopalians today feel about “updating” the language of the liturgy.

It is too easy to dismiss these reactions with such labels as “conservative” or “reactionary.” Perhaps the fact that one does not understand much of the Latin of the mass makes it easier for him to be open to God on the level of spirit, just as in the case of glossolalia and Quaker silent worship. In the latter the silence is experienced—or, more accurately, facilitates the experience of God—but is not as such “understood.”

My own position is that to leave the mass in Latin rules out for most people an important element of ethical and theological content. In Pentecostal churches this dimension is achieved through the interpretation of the glossolalic speech, and in Quaker silent worship what is spoken-out of the silence has ethical and theological content, even though it is not presented in a critical or analytical fashion.

Playfulness in Worship

So much for my basic thesis. It is an analysis which suggests or illuminates several subsidiary issues, to which I now turn in the second part of this paper.

People frequently ask me: But what is the value of speaking in tongues? I have already addressed myself to this question above, but here I am tempted simply to add: “Because it is a lot of fun.” More and more I am impressed with the element of playfulness in glossolalia, the sheer childlike delight in praising God in this manner. It is a contagious delight, and in many charismatic prayer groups people will infrequently break out in a childlike, spontaneous, almost irrepressible (but not hysterical) laughter right in the midst of prayers. Such laughter suggests an absence of a heavy, super-seriousness about oneself and one’s worship, It is the freedom a child has to burst into laughter even at an important family gathering. It reflects a lack of pomposity, an ability to see oneself (even one’s serious praying) in perspective. My experience is that such laughter has almost always had about it a releasing quality; and although it may sometimes be occasioned by some slight awkwardness of speech or action on the part of someone in the group, it is almost always a sympathetic and joyful laughter, thus ultimately healing and redemptive.

How fascinating then that Romano Guardini refers to the “playfulness of the liturgy.” In his book The Spirit of the Liturgy he contends that the liturgy, formally analyzed, is more like play than work. The liturgy, he writes,

is life pouring itself forth without an aim, seizing upon riches from its own abundant store, significant through the fact of its existence . . . . It unites art and reality in a supernatural childhood before God . . . . It has no purpose, but it is full of divine meaning . . . . It is in the highest sense the life of a child, in which everything is picture, melody and song.(6)

Of all human activities such worship is the least goal-oriented. “The soul,” Guardini concludes, “must learn to abandon, at least in prayer, the restlessness of purposeful activity; it must learn to waste time for the sake of God.”(7) One is immediately reminded of the beginning sentence of the great Westminster Confession: “The chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever.”

If it is not too presumptuous for a non-Friend to venture a judgment, I would suggest that present-day silent Quaker worship often manifests a kind of heaviness which comes from taking itself too seriously. The way of simplicity has in some instances become a life of drabness, and one could only wish that out of the silence laughter and playfulness might emerge as well as reverence and heightened moral sensitivity.

The Promise of Folly

It is noteworthy that each of the three phenomena we have examined—glossolalia, Quaker silence, and the liturgy of the church—exhibits a kind of strangeness or peculiar style as over against man’s more usual religious and secular activities. This is perhaps most often felt in the case of glossolalia, but it is not absent from the other two.

Of particular interest to me is the resistance which the non-initiate often exhibits when confronted with this strangeness. Various faith healers point to the resistance often encountered by one who is seeking for healing. And John Sherrill, author of They Speak with Other Tongues, writes that “there seems to be a strange link between taking a seemingly foolish step—which God specifies—and receiving spiritual power.(8) Billy Graham refers to the same phenomenon and sees the value of the altar call at revival meetings as linked to it.(9) John Sherrill describes his own considerable resistance to the seemingly foolish step of raising his hands to God in praise. Only when he risked his middle class decorum and respectability through actually praising God in this way did he break through to a deeper experience of the Holy Spirit.(10)

Paul’s experience of coming to faith in Jesus as the Christ is, on a theological level, analogous. As a sensitive, educated Pharisee with all the proper credentials, he simply could not grasp how God’s promises could have been fulfilled through a simple Galilean who was put to death on a cross as a common criminal. Indeed, the gospel was a scandal to him as it was foolishness to the Greeks. But after his encounter with Christ on the road to Damascus, Paul was able to write that:

God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise, God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong, God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God. He is the source of your life in Christ Jesus . . . . (1 Cor. 1:27-30, italics supplied)

There appears to be a principle of the spiritual life that as long as man insists on keeping full control of himself he cuts himself off from a deeper relationship with God. I am reminded of Jesus’ saying in Mark 10:15 (and parallels): “Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.” Or we could point to the account in 2 Kings 5 of Naaman the Syrian, who was required to wash in the muddy waters of the Jordan in order to receive healing. Apparently many individuals are required to perform a seemingly foolish or ridiculous action in order to be released for a genuine spiritual breakthrough. Parenthetically I would want to add, however, that not every foolish act or belief is valuable. Perhaps it is just foolish!

It seems plausible to me that the attitude of the conservative evangelical towards the Bible also reflects a certain setting aside of the arguments of the analytical mind. Even though intellectually he may feel the force of evidence against the plenary or verbal inspiration of the biblical autographs, nonetheless experientially he has discovered that in submission to what he holds to be a verbally inerrant Bible, growth and renewal have taken place in his spiritual pilgrimage. He may be willing to live with intellectual difficulties for the sake of the positive religious experience. So too with many Roman Catholics in relation to the doctrine of papal infallibility. One would need to ask in these instances, however, whether the intellectual price is not too high.

One final question on this subject: If my basic thesis is correct that there is an underlying functional similarity between glossolalia, Quaker silence, and the liturgy of the church, why then have so many Episcopalians and some Quakers sought and experienced glossolalia? I am not sure this question really can be answered. It may well be that these three types of religious practice complement and build upon each other, as indeed has been my own experience. Or, it could be the case that glossolalia for many people in our culture represents a more decisive break with the hegemony of the analytical mind than either Quaker silence or the liturgy of the church and thus opens the way to spiritual growth beyond what the individual has previously experienced.

Life as the Praise of God

Let me examine in somewhat greater detail a religious practice closely related to the phenomena we have just described, namely the discipline of praising and thanking God for all things that happen in one’s life—for pain as well as joy, darkness as well as light, evil as well as good. This is an old theme in Christian piety. Eighteenth century English clergyman William Law, for example, writes:

If anyone could tell you the shortest, surest way to all happiness and perfection, he must tell you to make it a rule to yourself to thank and praise God for everything that happens to you. For it is certain that whatever seeming calamity happens to you, if you thank and praise God for it, you turn it into a blessing.(11)

More recently, in our own century, the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke picks up the theme when he writes:

Tell us, poet, what is it you do?

I praise.

But the deadly and the monstrous things, how can you bear them?

I praise.

But even what is nameless, what is anonymous, how can you call upon it?

I praise.

What right have you to be true in every disguise, beneath every mask?

I praise.

And how is it that both calm and violent things, like star and storm, know you for their own?

Because I praise.(12)

In our own day, in the book Prison to Praise (1970), which has sold close to half a million copies in two brief years and has been lauded by people of widely divergent backgrounds, Army Chaplain Merlin Carothers develops this theme of praise for all things. He is careful to avoid blurring distinctions between good and evil or denying the reality of evil altogether, as is the case in Christian Science. Also, he recognizes the danger of repressing anger, hurt, and disappointment. One should not pretend that he likes everything that happens in his life. Nonetheless, Chaplain Carothers presents a powerful statement in favor of the discipline of praising not only in all circumstances but for all circumstances. He describes dozens of case histories in this and in two more recent books,(13) where learning to praise God for all circumstances in life has resulted in major personality change and spiritual development.

My immediate interest in this practice of praising God for all things is that it represents a kind of relaxing of the hegemony of the analytical mind which is analogous to what happens in glossolalia, Quaker silence, and liturgical worship. It involves the confession: “Lord, I do not really understand why you have permitted these things to happen, but I will submit to your will and the realities of the world you have created nonetheless. I do not believe you sent or caused this hurt or darkness or evil, yet I accept the fact that you permitted it,”

Many who practice the discipline of praise for all things witness to the fact that they had previously found it quite impossible fully to accept certain experiences and realities in their own lives and circumstances, They simply found the dynamics of full acceptance beyond their ability. But in praising God for those very circumstances which they could not accept, they frequently discovered that they were able to accept and come to peace with the reality itself.

The one theme that consistently runs through this paper is that the individual who insists on being fully in control of his own self insulates himself from divine reality.(14) To experience the presence and power of the Spirit of God necessitates a letting go, a being open to. The saints and mystics have witnessed to this from time immemorial. Such a letting go is not easy for modern Western man, not least of all because of an intellectual tradition dating back to Francis Bacon, Descartes, Leibnitz and others, which sees knowledge primarily as the ability to gain power over, to control, one’s environment. Moreover, as Western man increasingly lost faith in a transcendent God and in the reality of the resurrection of the dead, death no longer was seen as a rite of passage to fuller life, but rather as a confrontation with nothingness, the abyss, and the final loss of self-control. To “let go” in a world without God was to risk chaos and the destruction of self.(15)

It is not surprising that the church has been influenced by this cultural framework and has also come to be wary of the loss of control, especially as this occurs in religious ecstasy. Tillich argues that the church “must avoid the secular profanization of contemporary Protestantism which occurs when it replaces ecstasy with doctrinal or moral structure.”(16) However, both structure and ecstasy are needed in the church, according to Tillich, and “the church must prevent the confusion of ecstasy with chaos.”(17)

In a statement which J. Rodman Williams quotes in his book The Era of the Spirit, Tillich writes:

This whole part of the present system [Part IV: “Life and Spirit”] is a defense of the ecstatic manifestations of the Spiritual Presence against its ecclesiastical critics; in this defense, the whole New Testament is the most powerful weapon. Yet, this weapon can be used legitimately only if the other partner in the alliance—the psychological critics—is also rejected or at least put into proper perspective.(18)

Such words cannot, of course, be used to validate glossolalia or other charismatic phenomena in the church. At the very least, however, they might encourage greater openness to such experiences among non-Pentecostals, and by God’s grace a deeper experience of the richness of life Gad wants us to realize in our commitment to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.

Footnotes

H. Newton Malony. Nelson Zwaanstra, and James W. Ramsey, “Personal and Situational Determinants of Glossolalia: A Literature Review and a Report of Ongoing Research” (paper presented at the International Congress of Learned Societies in the Field of Religion, Los Angeles, Sept. 1-5, 1972), p. 1.
It is at this point that Quakers remain understandably cautious and choose for themselves utterly simple surroundings for worship. Their fear is that one can be so captivated by external form and beauty that worship will remain on the level of the aesthetic. This has been perhaps a necessary corrective within the total life of the church and reflects an austerity not unlike the Old Testament prohibition against making graven images. At its worst, however, Quaker worship sometimes reflects a Gnostic-like repudiation of the rich beauty and vitality of creation and man’s somatic existence.
Although I have been greatly helped by Romano Guardini, The Spirit of the Liturgy (London and New York: Sheed and Ward, 1935), I cannot fully agree with him that thought is dominant over feeling in the liturgy. To be sure, as he argues, emotion in the liturgy is generally “controlled and subdued” (p. 129), but I have difficulty with his statement: “The heart speaks powerfully, but thought at once takes the lead” (p. 129). The more accurate contrast, I believe, is that between thought and feeling, on the one hand, and man’s spirit (the dimension of depth or self-transcendence) on the other. Thus neither feelings nor the analytical mind is the dominant or controlling factor but rather the reality of the Spirit of God addressing man’s spirit.
Guardini, The Spirit of the Liturgy, p. 131.
But, on the other hand, the fixed quality of the liturgy can be used by the individual to insulate himself from real change. In this case the regularity of the liturgy imprisons rather than frees the person. But it could be argued that roughly the same insulating effect can take place in Quaker silent worship and in glossolalic worship. Rather than using the silence to center down into a creative openness to the leading of the Spirit, the Quaker worshiper may simply become drowsy or retreat into a kind of numb withdrawal from reality. Likewise, glossolalic speech may be employed in a given situation to escape from a more reflective understanding of God’s will or a specific decision of the will to be obedient to God’s leading.
Guardini, The Spirit of the Liturgy, pp. 179-81.
Ibid., p. 183.
John L. Sherrill, They Speak with Other Tongues (New York: Pyramid Books, 1964), p. 116.
ibid.
Ibid., pp. 116f., 123.
Quoted by Merlin R. Carothers, Power in Praise (Plainfield, NJ: Logos International, 1972), p. v.
I cannot locate the source of this particular translation. For another translation of this poem, which in the original is entitled “Für Leonie Zacharias,” sec Rainer Maria Rilke, Poems, 1906 to 1926, trans. J. B. Leishman (Norfolk, CT: New Directions, 1957), p. 258.
Answers to Praise (Plainfield, NJ: Logos International, 1972); Power in Praise (Plainfield, NJ: Logos International, 1972).
See Reinhold Niebuhr’s discussion of this theme in The Nature and Destiny of Man (New York: Scribners, 1949), II, 107-17. Man’s self is shattered at the very center of its being “whenever it is confronted by the power and holiness of God and becomes genuinely conscious of the real source and center of all life” (p. 109). Niebuhr points to the Pauline dialectic, which makes clear that the self is not obliterated but rather for the first time finds true fulfillment when it is possessed by the Holy Spirit. “Yet such possession of the self is destructive,” he concludes, “if the possessing spirit is anything less than the ‘Holy Spirit’ ” (pp. 111.12).
In the secular context of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis the “letting go” motif is basic. If the client insists on censoring his thoughts and his speech, the therapist has little access to his repressed experiences and the realm of the unconscious. The therapist often encourages the client to “let go” and discover the powers of life emerging within him. The operative assumption is that reality is of such a nature that it tends towards integration and wholeness. By trying too hard to become whole the client may only impede the healing process. Some therapists and sensitivity group trainers, however, have perhaps overreacted to our cultural bias in favor of control and exhibit in their work a prejudice against clear ideas, conscience, will, and the analytical mind. My own position is that the individual must discover a balance between head and heart, mind and body, objectivity and subjectivity. Significantly, orthodox Christian theology has consistently held that the balancing, harmonizing, or centering of one’s life is found outside of the self. It is realized only in the entrusting of oneself to God.
Paul Tillich, Systematic Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), III, 117.
Ibid.
Ibid., p. 118. See the excellent discussion of Tillich’s position in J. Rodman Williams, The Era of the Spirit (Plainfield, NJ: Logos International, 1971), pp. 85-91.