I do not forget that the Prayer-book suggests (not to say prescribes) a refuge from such perplexities in an application to “some discreet and learned minister of God’s Word” for “absolution, and ghostly counsel and advice.” I quite recognize the consistency of this suggestion, which seems to me to confirm the obvious remark already made, that the sacerdotal and sacramental system hangs together, and must be adopted or rejected as a whole. In my own case, Protestantism was too strong to allow of my accepting this legitimate corollary of the Church of England doctrine respecting the Lord’s Supper. To have recourse to confession and absolution was an impossibility to me, as I believe it to be even yet to the great majority of Englishwomen, and as it is assuredly likely always to be to Englishmen. But I doubt whether any satisfactory resting-place short of it is to be found for those who fully adopt the Anglican view of sacraments.

I do not mean to represent the perplexities and scruples I have spoken of as having constituted the whole of my experience in this matter, or to say that I was quite unable to meet them in a manner more or less provisionally satisfactory to myself. It is true that out of perplexities and scruples sprang doubts and questionings (with which, indeed, the very air I breathed was thick), so that during the twenty years in which I was a regular communicant in the Church of England, I was never able to feel that my own practice was based upon thoroughly clear and solid ground of ascertained truth. Yet in spite of, or rather alongside of, all scruples and questionings as to the real intention of our Lord—if, indeed, He had any intention at all—with regard to any special commemoration of His death by the use of bread and wine, I did earnestly, throughout those years, according to the measure of my ability, endeavour to solve the problem in practice—to make the act of outward “communion” a real occasion of renewed self-dedication, and of inward and spiritual feeding on the bread of life. Such times were, indeed, often occasions of deep spiritual blessing; but I never could discern that they were so in any other sense than that in which every real act of prayer, of penitence, of self-dedication, and of thanksgiving must necessarily be so. The whole blessing appeared to me to be of a spiritual kind, and due to spiritual causes. The connection between the use of bread and wine and these spiritual sources of blessing never became clear to me. The more profound the blessedness of communion with Christ and with His people, the less conceivable did it seem that it should depend upon the official performance of an elaborate rite.

The Bible, to which in this Protestant country we are always referred for the solution of the difficulties as to which Catholics consult their priests, appeared to me to afford no help whatever in defining the conditions necessary to a right participation, nor in directing one’s choice between the various sacramental theories to be met with in our days. All schools of theology equally appeal to it, and it is obvious that a book cannot decide between rival interpretations of itself. It did, however, distinctly help me towards the conclusion that there might be no need to choose between these various theories at all. To my unassisted reason it appeared that the effect of comparing any, even the mildest, modern eucharistical theory with the accounts to be found in the New Testament of our Lord’s parting supper with his disciples, was chiefly to show that a vast and unexplained addition to, or at the least development of, the original idea had taken place since these accounts were written. The whole form of words used in the Communion Service seems to me to convey meanings almost immeasurably different from anything which I could myself have extracted from the one brief expression, “Do this in remembrance of me.” Left to myself and to Scripture, the Gospel narratives would never have suggested the idea of any intention to institute a ceremony at all, far less to invest its observance with possibilities so awful both for good and for evil, not only in case of omission, but even in case of inadequate observance. To my own mind, the narratives of the Last Supper in Matthew and Mark, which contain no allusion to any possible repetition of the feast, appeared quite as complete, quite as significant, as that of Luke, which gives the addition, “Do this in remembrance of me.” The allusions in the Epistle to the Corinthians to some disorderly practices in that Church certainly make it clear that they had adopted a practice of meeting to “show the Lord’s death till He come” by eating bread and drinking wine; and the apostle’s reference to a Divine communication to himself of the circumstances of the Last Supper certainly seems to show that he believed them to have sufficient ground for doing so; but, on the other hand, the words which he there ascribes to Christ, “Do this, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me,” have always seemed to me to be distinctly incompatible with the idea of a command to eat bread and drink wine in order to commemorate His death, and would rather suggest a reverent remembrance of Him on all social occasions, and perhaps especially when meeting for the Passover or any other religious feasts. I was thus fully ripe for the view so vigorously put forth in Barclay’s “Apology,”[13] as held by Friends.

I have allowed my thoughts to fall into a somewhat autobiographical form, because the appearance of egotism seems to me preferable to the real presumption of going beyond one’s knowledge, and also because I am anxious to show how unavoidably (and at the same time, I believe, innocently) one may become entangled in questions too deep and too perplexing for ordinary minds, in the mere honest endeavour to obey at once the teachings of Jesus Christ and of the Church.

To myself it was the greatest relief, at a time when I had thus been driven to choose between obedience to my own conscience on the one hand, and outward communion with my fellow-Christians on the other, and when I had for two years, with pain and grief, excommunicated myself accordingly—it was at that moment the greatest relief to find a body of Christians who held the simple, and, to my mind, the one worthy view of Christianity, as a dispensation entirely spiritual in its nature; a state of enlightenment and true worship in which forms and shadows had passed away, and the substance alone was to be laboured for. It was in the quiet meetings already described that I myself first learnt the full meaning of the words, “baptizing into the Name ... and the communion of the body of Christ.” The outward observances by which these “holy mysteries” are typified in the devotions of other bodies had been to me rather a hindrance than a help. I cannot help suspecting that they are so to many.

For if not a help, they must be a hindrance. It may, to people in some stages of education, or in some countries, be a natural and real way of receiving or expressing truth, to perform ceremonial acts. I cannot think that it is the spontaneous language of intelligent devotion in our own time and country. To my own mind the great crowning lesson imparted by our Divine Master, in the solemn farewell hours of His last evening with His disciples, is lowered and eclipsed when considered as the institution of a ceremony, and shines out again in its fulness of majestic pathos when regarded as an embodied or acted parable. His repeated warnings to His disciples against their inveterate tendency to take His words literally, and to interpret them as referring to the meat that perishes instead of as being spirit and life, sound in one’s ears when one feels oppressed by what (forgive me the irrepressible truth) to some of us seems the unintelligent practice of continually repeating a form used by Christ once for all to show forth the central truth of His life-giving life on earth.

It is the fear that, in wrapping the “words of eternal life” in a garment of superstitious usage, they are being inevitably buried out of the reach of those who need them the most, which prompts me to speak thus boldly. Whatever lowers our religion to a matter of outward observance, whatever seems to give to unreasoning participation in outward acts a place on the same level with that inward continuance in the Word of Christ which makes His disciples free, is surely a human and a grievous barrier in the homeward path which He came to open to all.

Those who feel as we do about the meaning of our Lord on the occasion of His last supper with His disciples, will naturally incline to take a similar view of His meaning in the few references made by Him to the subject of baptism. The word is obviously used in the New Testament in several different senses. If we believe (as is at least suggested by the words of the Apostle Paul) that there is but “one baptism,” we must surely suppose it to be that baptism “with the Holy Ghost and with fire” which John foretold as the office of Him for whom he himself, with his “baptism with water,” was preparing the way;—He who was to increase as John decreased, and who said of Himself, after He had “fulfilled all righteousness” by submitting to John’s baptism, that He had yet “a baptism to be baptized with”—assuredly not an outward one.

With the observance of rites and ceremonies, the need for a separate priesthood passes away. It is, I believe, undisputed that the word “priest” is used in the New Testament only with reference to the high calling of all believers; the calling to offer themselves as living sacrifices, holy, acceptable to God.

It appears to us that this priestly office of all believers is greatly obscured, and the sense of religious responsibility weakened, by the delegation to a separate and official class of persons of the function of conducting the devotions of the congregation. The exclusive employment of one man as spokesman for the whole congregation must of necessity quench in others any impulse to offer vocal ministrations, at any rate during the time of public worship; and in regard to daily life, the idea of a “cure of souls” seems equally inconsistent with the Quaker idea of “watching over one another for good,” as being a duty resting more or less on all the members of a meeting.

There are, of course, many other Church offices besides the essentially priestly one of offering the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving which are fulfilled, and often nobly fulfilled, by the clergy of the Church of England. These other offices, such as teaching, visiting the sick, attending to the relief of the poor, etc., are surely in no way inseparable, though they are popularly undistinguished, from that claim to the priesthood against which Friends have always protested. It may be an open question whether all the civilizing, softening, philanthropic, and beneficent influences exercised by the clergy could be brought to bear with equal effect upon the population, especially of country districts, if the idea of an essential distinction between them and the laity were suddenly obliterated. The question what would be the practical result of such an obliteration, or, in other words, of the adoption of Friends’ principle of a free ministry, is at any rate scarcely within the visible horizon. It would certainly be impossible to any candid person in these days to speak without respect and admiration of the clergy generally, and without deep reverence of many amongst them. The days are long past when such phrases as a “hireling ministry” could have been indiscriminately used concerning a body of men whose lives are in innumerable instances so visibly and nobly disinterested. It is an obvious, though too common mistake, to confound the conditions of any service with the motives from which it is undertaken. But it is nevertheless a very grave question what effect the fact that ordination to the clerical office opens to any young man of ordinary abilities and respectability the gates of an honourable profession, by which he may lawfully earn his bread and maintain a family, is likely to have upon the spiritual character of the ministerial office. Surely the Quaker principle that no spiritual ministrations should ever be subject to payment is at least one that must commend itself as ideally the highest. It may, however, very naturally be asked whether in practice it admits of a sufficient provision being made for the instruction and edification of congregations.

And here there is, of course, a deep-seated divergence of feeling and thought at the bottom of the difference in practice between Friends and other Christian bodies. We Friends believe that it is not necessary that each congregation should be placed under the spiritual care of a pastor. We believe that it is the right and the duty of each individual Christian to approach the Divine presence in his own way—to sit under the immediate teaching of Christ Himself, and to be ready to take his share, if at any time called upon by the one Head of the Church, in offering prayer, praise, thanksgiving, or exhortation, for the help, comfort, and edification of all. Should no vocal services be offered in any meeting, we do not therefore feel that it has failed of its effect as an occasion of united worship.

Some small meetings are frequently, if not habitually, held entirely in silence; in all our meetings there is some space left for that worship which is beyond words. The responsibility for the lively and healthy state of each meeting is, or should be, felt to rest upon all its members, both collectively and individually.

It is obvious that a ministry so jealously guarded as ours from all external pressure can be kept in vigorous exercise only as the result of a deep and widely diffused religious experience. Serious, though by no means insuperable, difficulties do undoubtedly arise in the practical application of this fundamental principle of our Society. Our faithfulness to it is being severely tested by modern conditions; and upon that faithfulness our very life as a Society must, I believe, depend. There is in the comparatively aggressive attitude we have assumed of late years, as well as in the great pressure upon time and strength exerted by modern activities of all kinds, a constant temptation to adopt methods less pure, less severely disinterested, than those to which we are pledged by all our traditions. Unless we have faith and patience enough to maintain the freedom of our ministry even at the cost of some sacrifice of popularity, I believe that our light must inevitably be extinguished just when it is most urgently needed.[14]

The admission of the ministry of women seems naturally to flow from the disuse of all but spontaneous spiritual ministrations. For such ministrations experience shows women to be often eminently qualified.

The whole of the Quaker view of ministry depends upon the frank disregard of outward and visible signs in favour of the inward and spiritual grace. To make both essential, or each essential to the other, seems necessarily to land one in impenetrable intricacies, if not in a vicious circle. If one of the two alone is essential, there can of course be no question which it is. Whether inward and spiritual graces, in other words, holiness, can flourish without the use of outward observances, must ultimately be a question of experience and observation. “By their fruits ye shall know them.” It might perhaps be difficult for one born and bred in the Society to appeal explicitly to this test. But having entered it within the last few years, I may perhaps without impropriety say that Friends need surely not shrink from the inquiry whether the practical standard of holiness amongst their members is on a level with that of other Christians. If it be so—if love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance be not lacking amongst us—surely we may well ask, Wherein does our free ministry fail of its due effect?

“It fails,” some would no doubt reply, “not in the quality, but in the quantity of its results. However excellent the results in the life and conversation of Friends individually, they are not a growing body, and therefore not a healthy branch of the Church at large.” I shall deal elsewhere with the subject of our long dwindling in former times, and our present slow increase in numbers. I will content myself here with the obvious reply that the numerical increase or decrease of a denomination can never afford a satisfactory test of the spiritual fruitfulness of its ministry; mere numbers being always affected by many other causes, some of which have but little connection with spiritual health. It even gives but a very doubtful measure of the mere numbers to whom the influence of the preaching in question may extend. It must, no doubt, be admitted that the personal and the numerical tests are apt to yield conflicting results; that the purest form of religion is rarely the most popular, though it is likely to have the most lasting, and, in the end, the most widely spread, influence. But if purity and popularity are in any sense incompatible, can we hesitate as to the direction towards which we should lean?[15]