What does the war mean for Quakers?

Friends--

      What does the beginning of the Iraq war mean for Quakers?
       Consider an analogy: most fire departments work hard at fire prevention, and each actual fire means a setback for this goal.
       Yet a blaze does not put the firefighters out of action. To the contrary-- they then redouble their efforts, take risks, and absorb casualties, in a struggle to contain the fire, roll it back and ultimately put it out. Once this is done, they catch their breath and return to their prevention campaign.
       Friends are, I believe, in a parallel situation. The outbreak of war surely marks a setback for our months of marching, vigiling, writing and FAXing to head it off. But it does not spell defeat, and much less a reason for withdrawal into depression, indifference or escape.
       There is still much To Do. And even more, there is still much To Be.
       Here I'll pass by what To Do; there are many possibilities and opportunities for action, and they are widely advertised.
       Rather, let me focus briefly on what, for Quakers, there is To Be.
      At bottom it is straightforward and simple, so much so that it can be easily overlooked: It is, in George Fox's phrase, to "keep to our meetings," that is, to maintain and deepen our life as a worshiping community.
       This cultivation of a deep center will not only help sustain us as individuals in a dark time (which it will). It also, and perhaps more importantly, has a public aspect: it can maintain our meetinghouses as places of refuge from the spirit of war.
       The importance of this "witness of worship," the "action" of "being," came home to me on the morning the First Gulf War's ground invasion began in Second Month 1991. It was First Day, but a work day for me, at the post office. All that morning, it felt as if the winds of war were howling around me like a hurricane: screaming from the radio and TV, echoing in the voices of my co-workers, both anxious and excited, all reinforcing a crescendo of mass violence.
     In those years they let me punch out for a couple of hours to attend meeting. And when I arrived at our modest building and stepped inside (a bit late, as so often happened), the door that closed behind me marked a transit into a qualitatively different space: a place of quiet, in which the noise of war was muffled, kept at bay, even if only briefly. In that small, fragile building, a different spirit was being evoked and maintained.
       It is hard to overstate the contrast of this worshipful atmosphere with what was outside and all around it. At one level the meeting was typical and unremarkable: Friends sat in somber silence; the few messages, not especially eloquent, voiced grief and anguish in the face of what was happening without; one or two Friends wept quietly.
       Yet for me it was a lifesaver, a miracle, a resource that made it possible to maintain some sense of balance and hope in that maelstrom. It enabled me to finish my shift at the post office with some composure, and then to turn to my other "job" of planning and taking part in outward witness.
       This was my personal experience; yet it was not mine alone. In those bloody weeks, our meetinghouse filled up with pilgrims. They were seeking a similar respite from the war-spirit, and somehow figured that among Friends they would find it; and they were not mistaken. By "simply" being who we were, the meeting sustained a public witness, ministering to many who did not know where else to turn.
       From a worldly perspective, the meeting did not "accomplish" much. Our feeble public protests (like the others) were ignored or ridiculed, and the ugly war ground on to its foolishly triumphalist conclusion, planting the seeds of the wars to come.
       Yet we did achieve something, which I am convinced is more lasting than many a noisy protest: the meeting's presence and character helped sustain the hope of many. It certainly sustained me. By the time the tide of that war receded, I was convinced this was one of our most important tasks during wartime: the task of being, rather than, or better yet, undergirding all our doing.
       It also seemed likely to me that this task would come to us again. And so, regrettably, it has. As we continue to rush about doing all that we can to stem the tide of war, let us not forget that much of our most potent peace witness will grow out of our being, as a worshiping community, rather than our doing.

Chuck Fager
Quaker House
Fayetteville NC

(Chuck Fager is the director of Quaker House in Fayetteville, NC, which among other things supports military personnel from Ft. Bragg who are troubled by their involvement in war.)