On Singing and Music

In Short

This document serves as a formal defense of the traditional Quaker practice of silent, inward worship. Originally published in 1885 by the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, it argues that music and singing—whether in public meetings or at home—are "outward forms" that distract from the direct, unmediated guidance of the Holy Spirit. By revisiting the testimonies of early figures like George Fox and Edward Burrough, the text cautions readers against substituting artificial emotional stimulation for the genuine, quiet work of the soul in the presence of God.

The Story

The narrative begins with a 19th-century religious concern: the gradual introduction of scripture reading and congregational singing into Quaker meetings. To the authors, these innovations are not merely aesthetic choices but signs of a "declension" from the purity of their spiritual heritage. The central argument posits that the Society of Friends was founded on a distinct, radical departure from the outward ceremonies and ecclesiastical hierarchies that dominated the post-Reformation world.

The text moves from this contemporary concern to the historical bedrock of the movement. It recalls how George Fox and his contemporaries, having rejected Jewish ceremonial law and the formal liturgies of other churches, embraced a "spiritual dispensation." In this state, the worshipper waits in absolute silence, seeking to feel the "arising of Divine power." The authors argue that this silence is the only soil in which true prayer and exhortation can grow. If a member speaks, it must be because of a direct, unavoidable "motion" from the Spirit; if they sing, it must be the inward "melody of the heart" rather than a performance of learned notes and rhymes.

The argument then broadens to address the psychological and moral dangers of music, whether used in worship or as private amusement. The authors draw upon the observations of non-Quakers, such as the Scottish theologian Thomas Chalmers, to illustrate how music can create a "semblance of sacredness." They suggest that the emotional transport one feels during a hymn or an oratorio is often merely an excitement of the senses, a "pleasing emotion which ends in self," rather than a transformative encounter with the Divine.

The conclusion of the text turns toward the practical life of the believer. It emphasizes that the time spent mastering musical instruments is time stolen from serious moral development. Furthermore, it warns that music is often used as a tool for worldly dissipation—associated with ballrooms, saloons, and the "awful conflicts of the battle-field"—where it serves to drown out the quiet, uncomfortable promptings of the Holy Spirit. The text ends with a stern, paternal warning: by indulging in such amusements, believers risk softening their resolve and straying from the "self-denying path" that leads to the kingdom of heaven. It is a final call to maintain the "ancient testimony," urging readers to strip away the artifice of human invention to find the unadorned presence of the Creator.

How It Unfolds

The call to stillness The text establishes the foundational Quaker doctrine that the "Spirit that quickeneth" is the only valid leader in worship, rendering human artifice and outward ceremonies unnecessary. It emphasizes that true religious experience begins only when the natural, sensory mind is quieted.

The historical precedent Drawing on the writings of early leaders like Edward Burrough, the authors demonstrate that the original meetings of the Society were defined by a strict mandate for silence. They argue that any vocalization without an immediate Divine motion is an act of the "false prophet."

The critique of modern drift The argument shifts to the 1885 context, where the creeping influence of hymns and scripture reading is viewed as a dangerous concession to worldly expectations. The authors argue that once a congregation begins to rely on such outward aids, there is no logical stopping point before a full surrender to formal, professionalized religion.

The danger of sensory indulgence The final section addresses the personal life of the believer, arguing that music as an amusement is a distraction that prevents the soul from abiding in necessary, quiet reflection. It concludes with a plea for members to reject these "pleasing" but empty practices to remain true to their spiritual commitment.

The People

The argument centers on the figures who defined the Quaker identity. George Fox appears as the foundational force, the one who first "cried out against all sorts of music" and insisted on a clean break from the reliance on natural human abilities. Edward Burrough acts as the stern, authoritative voice of the early movement, providing the commands for silence and warning against the corruption of the "false prophet." Robert Barclay provides the intellectual defense of the position, articulating how singing in the spirit is vastly different from "formal, customary" singing. The text also highlights figures like John Spalding and Edward Cobb, who represent the personal transition from the world of formal music and liturgy to the quiet, introspective life of the Society. These men serve as witnesses; they describe their own internal struggle, recounting how they found the "reproof" of the Spirit when they realized their musical performances were, in truth, a form of "solemn mockery" directed at the Almighty.

In Its Own Voice

"We charge and command you in the presence of the Lord, whose power is dreadful, that you meet together in silence, and wait, and none to speak a word but what he is moved to speak, a word from the Lord."

This command from Edward Burrough sets the standard for how the early Society of Friends maintained their meetings for worship.

"When singing in the spirit and with the understanding ceased, then people began to introduce the form of singing David's experiences, in rhyme and metre; and thus, in the apostacy, the form grew as a substitute for that which the saints had enjoyed in power."

Burrough here critiques the development of liturgical singing as a decline from true spiritual life.

"The ear that is entranced with the melody of sweet sounds, listens not to the still small voice by which the Lord makes his presence known."

This passage captures the core belief that sensory beauty acts as a barrier to the perception of the Divine.

What It's Really About

The text is a profound meditation on the conflict between sensory experience and spiritual intuition. It poses a difficult question: how does one distinguish between genuine spiritual transformation and the fleeting, emotional excitement produced by beauty? The authors argue that the more "soul-stirring" an external ritual—be it music, architecture, or oratory—the more likely it is to be a mask for spiritual emptiness. The work is fundamentally an argument for the necessity of "awful quietude," positing that the human tendency to seek comfort in beautiful sounds is a fundamental flight from the raw, humbling reality of being in the presence of an invisible, eternal God.

Why Read It Today

Reading this is a demanding exercise in historical and spiritual empathy. The tone is uncompromising, serious, and deeply skeptical of the modern tendency to equate religious emotion with religious depth. Those who love history will find it an invaluable window into the 19th-century Quaker psyche, capturing a moment when a religious society felt its core identity slipping away under the pressure of changing cultural norms.

The prose is formal, rhythmic, and dense, reflecting the gravity of the 1885 publication date. It does not apologize for its austerity; it expects the reader to value the "humbling exercise" of silence as much as the authors do. For the contemporary reader, the book may feel stark or even restrictive—especially in its total rejection of music as an amusement. However, it offers an articulate, razor-sharp critique of the "performance culture" that dominates much of today’s religious life. Even if one does not agree with its conclusions, the text remains a fascinating challenge to the idea that religious truth must be felt through the senses. It stays with you as a reminder of a time when a group of people believed that the most profound things can only be heard when everything else has stopped.