Amish Neighbors

Slowly I’m becoming acquainted with a few of my Swartzentruber Amish neighbors.  At first it seemed they eyed me with suspicion as I walked the roads.  Can’t really blame them I guess.   There have been situations where it is merited, and the Amish do not forget stories of kidnappings, murders, and intrusions on their way life—even if it happened thirty or forty years ago.  And even if it’s extremely rare.  It’s best to not trust a stranger until learning to know them.  Naturally, some of the more recent happenings have jacked up the suspicion. There was the 2006 school shooting in Lancaster County, PA, and just last summer,  two young Amish children were kidnapped from their vegetable stand in the state of New York.  Thank God they returned home safely.

Hey, how about a little lesson.  We’ll keep it short and interesting.  Let’s call it Some things you always wondered about the Amish and Mennonites, but were afraid to ask. (Yeah, I know, not very original.)

There are four distinct groups of Amish in my neck of the woods.

These are the Swartzentrubers, Dan’s, Old Order, and New Order.  Go a few miles further and you can add the new New Order (yes, new, New Order).  

Not being an expert on all things Amish, I believe there may be additional sub-strains, but these are the main groups.  The Swartzentrubers are the most conservative and least modern.  The groups progress up the ladder from there with what conveniences they will allow.  This is an oversimplification though, because there are many other small differences, such as length of men’s hair, width of hat brims, size of bonnets, colors of clothing, types of harness on the horses, buggies with or without doors and windshields… the list goes on and on and on.  Each group has its own Ordnung—a comprehensive list of rules—mostly unwritten.  It’s not difficult for local folks to see the differences, but it seems that to most outsiders, an Amishman is an Amishman.  

Though these groups are mixed together geographically, they do not worship together or inter-marry.  They all have their own church districts, preachers, deacons, and bishops.  For worship they meet in each other’s homes every-other Sunday.

To make it even more confusing to the outsider, there are also several varieties of Mennonites in the neighborhood mix—some of them appearing almost Amish.  But there is at least one common denominator:  Nearly five-hundred years ago our shared ancestors were part of the  Anabaptist movement in Europe—Christians who were baptized as babies, but wanted to practice believer’s baptism, or re-baptism.  Our particular branch of Anabaptism is named after a former Catholic priest, Menno Simons from the Netherlands.  Thus, the name Mennonite.

The Amish denomination branched out from the Mennonites a little over three-hundred years ago when a Mennonite leader by the name of Jacob Amman insisted on strictly holding to traditions and enforcing the ban—which meant excommunicating and shunning those who veered from the rules of the church—until they might repent and return.  At that time in history, most Mennonites no longer practiced shunning.  But Amman and his followers insisted, so they split off and began to be called Amish.  What began as a bitter disagreement between church leaders, finally ended with confessions and a desire to part ways amiably.  I’ve just completed reading “The Letters of the Amish Division”—actual letters written between Amman and other Mennonite church leaders over a period of years.  Fascinating, but not pretty.    

Thanks to Amman, we have a lot of cash flowing into Lancaster County Pennsylvania and Wayne/Holmes Counties of Ohio. That sounds shallow, and misses the point, but the results of his convictions have lasted over three hundred years, and people come great distances to view this way of life and purchase quality Amish products.  

Of all the groups of Amish in my neighborhood, it’s the Swartzentrubers who intrigue me the most, because their ways of living and methods of farming are nearly identical to how my Great-Grandparents lived.  To walk along the road through these farms and observe them in their daily routines is almost as good as time travel.  It’s like time screeched to a halt and waited—so those of us who are curious about how our Great-Grandparents lived, can see how it was, firsthand.

 

Great Grandparents, John and Anna Swartz

Considering our shared heritage of Anabaptism, I do feel a sort of kinship with the Amish.  They probably don’t recognize it like I do.  To them, I’m just another Englishman.

As I walk, I try to be friendly, to wave, and as often as possible, to say a word of greeting or have a small conversation.  Slowly we are becoming familiar with each other, and I can see the look in their eyes is changing from distrust to friendly familiarity.  

A young man often passes by me, walking home from work.  I greet him in Dutch, and he smiles, and greets me in return.  

A teenager leads a beautiful Haflinger horse along the road.  I stop and ask him about the horse.  It’s three years old, and green-broke to ride.  He smiles as he talks about the horse.  I learn his name is Merlin.  

Then there is the boy checking his muskrat traps at the pond by the “S” curve.  He appears to be about twelve years old, the same age that I was when I first began trapping.  I ask him how it’s going.  He’s caught a few, and the pond owner is grateful.  No one likes Muskrats perforating their pond banks.  

One day last week there were teenage boys hauling a wagon load of ice blocks that they had just cut from a pond back in the pasture.  The blocks were about ten inches thick and one foot square.  They use these for summer refrigeration.  The team of draft horses pulling the load was walking slowly, so I asked some questions.  Where do they put the ice, and how long will it stay frozen?  The young man replied that they have an old truck body with a shed built around it.  There is a one-foot gap between the body and the shed wall which is stuffed with insulating material.  It surprised me when the young man said the ice will stay frozen until September.

These small conversations, and frequent greetings are making my walks more enjoyable and meaningful.  I’m at a loss for words to describe this feeling of being more alive—of being more “at one” with the community.  The best I can do is to say you will have to experience it for yourself.  It doesn't cost  anything but a little time.  You’ll soon learn as I did, that it’s the best hour of the day.

I cannot end this without saying how grateful I am to God for parents, Grandparents, and a long, long line of ancestors who took their faith seriously—endeavoring to follow Jesus at all costs—and passed it on to the next generation.  

In the same breath, let it be said, it’s not so important where we came from, as where we are headed.  Occasionally a backwards glance helps us focus on the path ahead.  Thanks for walking along.

Once again, we leave you with pleasant thoughts from Kidron, Ohio, where the snow-shoveling men enjoy coming in from the cold and touching their icy hands to the back of their lovely lady’s neck.  She’s patient, but jumps and yells anyway.  The kids?  They’re still out sledding on the amazing snow-packed Jericho hill, but they’ll be in soon, asking for some hot chocolate.  All is well.