Cadbury was not the only one interested in the miracle book: we recall that John W. Graham, in his discussion of Fox’s "psychic" experiences, mentioned this book, noting it had been suppressed and lost. Rufus Jones, in his Introduction to Cadbury’s edition, rightly called this project "a unique piece of critical reconstruction work of a very high order."(Cadbury: ix) But Rufus barely noticed the early editors’ effort to "tone down" Fox’s early effusions, and then psychologized the miracles to bring them within the orbit of respectability. (For that matter, the Evangelical scholar Paul Anderson seems almost as uncomfortable, even embarrassed by the miracles in his Preface to the new edition published in 2000.)

Beyond this project, Cadbury was a model scholar, and showed that careful study of Quaker history and origins could yield useful and instructive material for reflection. But he was also very much part of the "Quaker establishment," and his style was not calculated to rock any boats.

Our third "B," Lewis Benson, attempted to mount a frontal attack on the liberal edifice, through a detailed study of Fox’s available writings, in his book, Catholic Quakerism: A Vision for All Men, (Benson: 1966), and by starting what was to be a reforming order within the Society, the New Foundation Fellowship. He contended that the original Quaker vision and thrust was aimed at appealing to all men, and bringing them into a communal, dialogical relationship with Christ, through accountable communities led directly by Christ’s spirit.

Many liberal Friends have listened to Benson or one of his diminishing band of disciples at one time or another and found a certain appeal in this message, and benefitted in particular from Benson’s impartially stinging critique of the various streams of modern American Quakerism, evangelical as well as liberal. But in practice the New Foundation has been unable to move much beyond critique, and has remained a tiny sect-within-a-sect, its influence marginal at best.

All these figures were shining exceptions to the vacuousness of most liberal Quaker religious thinking of the period, but they were exceptions to a rule.

Given this rule, can we be surprised that the two most popular portraits of Fox in these years –and since– were those sketched not by scholars, but by a non-Quaker songwriter and a popular novelist? The composer was Sydney Carter, whose "George Fox Song" appeared in 1964 and has become a standard. It’s the song sung with the most enthusiasm in the Quaker meetings and gatherings I typically attend, echoing lustily (well, as lustily as liberal singing gets) in our halls. And to do it justice, there’s a much better quality of theology crammed into its crisp verses than in most FGC pamphlets.

The novelist was the recently departed Jan de Hartog in his big book, The Peaceable Kingdom, published in 1971. The first half of this sprawling work is set in and around Swarthmoor Hall and Lancashire, and stars none other than George Fox and Margaret Fell.

I loved this book, it’s still a great read, and I accept de Hartog’s careful opening caveat invoking "the novelist’s prerogative of being inspired by historical facts rather than governed by them."

Nonetheless, his George Fox was a thoroughly modern liberal Friend, with very little of Jesus or the memorized Bible in him, which was doubtless part of why I liked it back then. At their first meeting, his Fox explains his gospel to a flummoxed Margaret Fell thus: "‘All men and all women have that of God in them, which will respond when appealed to by that of God in myself.’" William Birdsall and Jesse Holmes could hardly have said it better. (de Hartog: 23)

Then, when the haughty Mistress Fell bridles at his forwardness, Fox instructs her in the proper worship techniques, this time bringing in the latest mid-twentieth century meditation techniques. He says:

"‘Come, thou art, in thy heart, yearning for the experience.’

"‘Which experience, for God’s sake?’

"‘The experience of the presence of God. Come, sit with me. Be still; listen to the voice of God within thee, Thou wilt hear Him, thou wilt feel Him rise within thee, if only thou wilt set Him free.’

"His obvious sincerity made her hesitate; then she decided she would give him this one chance. She sat down again. ‘Now, then. What am I supposed to do?’

"‘Relax thy body as well as thy mind. Put thy feet together, like this. Settle thy body comfortably, so it will have no cause for restlessness. Put thy hands in thy lap.’

"She found herself obeying his instructions.

"‘Now put thy mind at rest. Close out all thoughts.’

"She tried, and discovered she had no thoughts, only awareness . . .

"‘Be still,’ he whispered, as if in reverence, ‘silence the small thoughts that babble in thy mind. . . .’

[After a few moments . . . .]

"...She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt; he looked at her as if she had been miles away. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Fox,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I’m no good at this.. . . .’" (Ibid: 28)

Isn’t this fun? It’s almost surprising that he doesn’t have her take the lotus position. But I could hardly put the book down; de Hartog seemed incapable of writing a dull page. For that matter, who can now miss the obvious undertone of sexual tension here?

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