That Is My Gospel, for Which I Suffer Hardship

Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, a descendant of David—that is my gospel, for which I suffer hardship, even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But the word of God is not chained… 

The saying is sure:

If we have died with him, we will also live with him;
if we endure, we will also reign with him;
if we deny him, he will also deny us;
if we are faithless, he remains faithful—
he cannot deny himself.
(2 Timothy 2:8-9, 11-13, New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition)

“William Bennit was a minister of the Gospel among the people called Quakers,” the publishers of Bennit’s memoir wrote by way of introduction, “and was one who partook largely of the persecution and sufferings to which they were, for many years after their first appearance, exposed.”

In other words, the ruling powers in mid-seventeenth-century England felt their authority challenged by the Spirit-given messages Bennit sought to share with his peers, and—as they did with many other Friends—they threw him in jail, repeatedly. Extended periods of incarceration did not diminish his faith, however, and he would frequently write words of encouragement for Quakers in the outside world.

“OH! oh! my soul, my soul, what hath the Lord, even the Lord thy God done for thee?”

A letter published in 1664 under the title “God Only Exalted in His Own Work” offers a robust example of Bennit’s spiritual tenacity. Addressing himself “to all those who are yet groaning and panting after the Lord in truth and sincerity, that they may meet with some refreshment and incouragement [sic] in their journey and travels towards the Land of rest and peace,” Bennit draws out an extended metaphor, comparing the state of a single imprisoned soul to the story of Exodus. “Thou wert a slave in the Land of Egypt, and the Lord hath redeemed thee,” he writes:

“Thou wert in darknesse, and the Lord hath given thee light; and thou wert under the region and shadow of death, and he hath brought thee forth into the Land of life. Thou wert in the prison, shut up in the prison-house, bound up with chains and fetters, in the low dungeon of darknesse, and he hath broken thy chains, and snapt thy fetters asunder, and loosed thy bonds, [and] broke up the prison doore, and pulled down the prison house, and set thee free.”

Bennit wove every detail of the liberation of the Israelites into his theme, exhorting Friends not to give up hope. And from a man who had literally been “shut up in the prison-house” and “bound up with chains and fetters,” that message carried a lot of weight. When he described how “thou cryed unto the Lord thy God, who gave thee some glimpse of comfort, saying he would fight for thee,” he was writing from his own experience. If he assured readers that God “made hard things to become easy unto thee,” they could take that as a promise.

Can Friends today rely on that promise as well?

I believe we can—if we can fully embrace the terms of the covenant offered to us. I mean to say that we should look past the notion of Quaker testimonies as a reflection of “solid liberal principles” and recognize that they have a deeper source. I’m not saying we all need to explicitly embrace a Christ-centered faith, as many Friends worldwide already do. I don’t even know if I could do that, so I can’t very well demand it of you. But the British Friend Craig Barnett, in his Quaker Renewal newsletter, has an effective way of putting the matter:

“In Quaker worship and discernment we encounter something real, that pre-exists our intentions and values, that confronts us with the truth about ourselves and the world.”

Barnett sees that truth in terms of the inherent goodness of the world, and our proper role as active collaborators in that goodness. I’d elaborate on that by pointing to the Beloved Community as a place where everyone honors the two greatest commandments, to love God with all our hearts and to love our neighbors as ourselves, for like us they have that of God within them.

Many of the ruling powers in today’s world encourage us to disregard the commandment to love our neighbors—and they have launched campaigns of repression not just against marginalized people but against those who advocate on their behalf. I see this most clearly in my American circumstance, but you could cite other examples from around the world. 

Friends have already been caught up in this persecution—our meetinghouses violated, our members arrested. 

More of us will likely find ourselves in the authoritarians’ crosshairs if we persist in confronting their wickedness by embodying our Quaker testimonies. Can we endure, sharing in William Bennit’s confidence that we will reign along with everyone else in the Beloved Community that blossoms once Empire has fallen?

(I’ve drawn upon W. Clark Gilpin’s The Letter from Prison: Literature of Cultural Resistance in Early Modern England again this week, as a beacon pointing me toward William Bennit’s story.)