Growing Up Amish (25 page)

I settled in uneasily, always aware of my surroundings, always aware of my status in this place. I was a stranger here, in a strange land.

The first order of business was to get myself some means of transportation. In northern Indiana, the Amish are allowed to ride bicycles. In fact, the roads are practically clogged with Amish bikers, and after trekking to a local Amish cycle shop, I joined their ranks. I chose a brand-new, bright blue twelve-speed, with collapsible baskets mounted over the rear wheels. It was the first bicycle I had ever owned. And that was my transportation, except on Sundays when I drove to church in an old buggy Phillip owned.

I knew no one. People were friendly enough, and they did their best to visit with and include me, but it was tough. I was an older single guy, and I didn't exactly fit in anywhere, under any circumstances. That was bad enough. But then almost immediately, I walked smack into a serious roadblock as the Amish bishop in the Ligonier District, a harsh, screeching man who will remain unnamed, rose like a specter to confront me.

After my last desperate flight from Bloomfield, I had been excommunicated from the Amish church. As was the custom, immediately following services one Sunday, good Bishop Henry Hochstedler had stood before his flock, sadly proclaimed me a heathen, and formally cast me over to Satan, to be shunned as an outcast. There were tears in his eyes, I was told, as he officiated over that somber little ceremony. I was also told that Mom was “sick” that day and stayed home, so she wouldn't have to endure the pain of hearing the bishop's words. I was her son. I would always be her son, excommunicated or not.

Now, after moving to Ligonier, I planned on performing my official penance there and doing whatever it took to be reinstated and have the excommunication lifted. It wasn't that unusual, what I was planning. Those who left and were consequently excommunicated were known to rejoin somewhere else in another area, for a fresh start and all. It happened, here and there, and the preachers usually understood and did what they could to ease the journey back.

On my new bright-blue bike, I cycled over to see the bishop on his farm one fine summer afternoon. He was outside, puttering around the barn. He was a short, dark hulk of a man with a large, untrimmed, red-black beard. Not that old, really, probably in his midforties, but he seemed old to me back then. He saw me approaching and paused, almost as if he were irritated at being interrupted in his work. He grimaced with what barely passed as a smile.

I introduced myself and his “smile” disappeared. He glared at me suspiciously.

“I'm here,” I stammered, “to see if I can rejoin the Amish here in your church, be taken in as a full member.”

I explained how it had gone in Bloomfield, the people I had hurt when I left, and how I had been excommunicated. I really didn't want to have to go back there, to rejoin, I explained.
I would also save face rejoining here
, I thought, but that fact remained unspoken. We both knew the real reason.

The bishop did not seem receptive, or even cordial. He stared at me grimly, unsmiling and hostile. I could feel his spirit, thick as smoke. Then he spoke, his rasping voice echoing across the barnyard.

“No,” he said. “You will need to return to Bloomfield and make things right there. After they take you back as a full member, you are welcome to move here and transfer your membership to my church. But not before.”

I tried to reason with him. “You don't understand,” I said. “I really don't want to go back there. I can't go back. There's just too much there, too much bad blood.”

I may as well have choked on my words, for all it mattered. He listened to me speak, but he refused to hear. Nothing would sway him. He was every bit as dense as he appeared. Denser, even. Obtuse. And hard inside, like a rock.

“I won't lift your excommunication. I will not do it. So you can decide,” he thundered. “Go back and make things right, where it happened, or don't.” His dark face reddened. At least the part I could see, what with his beard and large black hat and all. He was way too stirred up. He was flat out raving mad, as in crazy. And also as in angry. Every definition of mad there was. It was no use. I would get nowhere arguing with him.

What a nut
, I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I mumbled something under my breath, turned, mounted my bike, and fled from the mad bishop of Ligonier, Indiana.

Most Amish preachers and bishops are not bad men at heart, not when you dig down deep. Most want to do what they can to help a person. Somewhere, down below that somber facade, a kind heart beats. In most of them, at least. But that particular bishop, the absolute dictator of the Amish church district in Ligonier in 1987, holds the dubious distinction of being one of the meanest, flat-out nastiest men it has been my misfortune to meet. Ever. In all my wanderings, Amish or otherwise. There was no joy in him or kindness. Only rage and vindictiveness.

I should have given up right then. Wrapped up my scant affairs, left, and returned to Daviess. And I seriously considered that option. But ultimately, I could not do it. I felt stuck. I had made too much of an effort already, come too far. What would people say? I'd been in northern Indiana only a week or so. I could almost hear the snickers. Besides, that's what the mad bishop expected, what he wanted me to do. He was sure I was a fraud and that I'd give up and go away and stop bothering him. If I did that, it would only prove him right. He'd probably even smile for real, something he likely hadn't done in years.

But I refused to give him that satisfaction. Furious, I was determined to prove him wrong.

Back at the farm, I sadly told Phillip and Fannie what the mad bishop had decreed. That I would have to humble myself. Crawl. And after being restored as a member in Bloomfield, I could return. They sat there in utter shock. In all surrounding districts, my request would have been honored. Every other bishop would have fallen all over himself to assist me on my difficult journey. The mad bishop was the lone exception in all the land. But now that he had spoken, he would be supported by the others. Church politics and all. The others would be forced to back him up in his irrational decision. There was nothing to be done except obey. Quietly, carefully, Phillip and Fannie told me these truths. I would have to do as the mad bishop had instructed: return to the source of so much pain and sadness.

It was unfathomable that I would have to walk right back into the lions' den. Bloomfield. The place swarming with so many dark memories, where they knew me inside and out, all my history. They would not make it easy. It would be a tough road. But my course was set. I would do what I had to do. I had no other choice. At least none that I could see.

The following week I boarded the train in Elkhart and settled in for the journey west. The train clacked along to my connection in Chicago, and from there, the final sprint toward Bloomfield.

As the miles flowed by, I sat, unmoving. Inside, I felt almost nothing. I could not even think of what awaited me. What I would experience back in the community I had fled a year ago. I could focus only on doing what needed to be done and on getting back to Indiana in one piece.

An English driver met me at the train station in Ottumwa. I boarded the van, and we were off.

Home still looked the same. Everyone greeted me eagerly. Marvin and Rhoda. Titus and Ruth. Mom and Dad. They all seemed happy to see me, especially now that I had returned to rejoin the church. That's all that was important, even though everyone knew I would not stay in Bloomfield. That was fine with them. As long as I remained Amish, it did not matter where.

The week passed slowly. On Sunday, Bishop Henry and the preachers would await me. In their defense, I know they were all genuinely happy that I had decided to return and right past wrongs, to come home and face the music. The Amish always welcome returning sinners. Always. It doesn't matter what they've done. Erring members who left in disgrace, those who have been excommunicated and shunned, they are always welcome to return to the fold. Of course, if they return, certain requirements are made. Repentance must be shown. Abject submission is absolutely required.

Bishop Henry and the preachers would see to it that I walked through fire and groveled in the dust, that there was no remaining shred of rebellion in me. They would hector me until I was witless, half-mad with stress. And I would submit, utterly, basely, to their satisfaction before they would restore my membership and lift the excommunication. I was trapped, completely at their mercy.

Even so, I was welcomed that first Sunday morning as we stood around outside before the service. People shook my hand and smiled. I walked inside and sat with my peers in my normal spot. Feeling a bit like a lamb walking to slaughter, I got up during the first song and followed the preachers to their Obrote, or conference, as I had done years before during baptismal classes. But this time I was the only one. There was no baptismal class. Just me. I followed the preachers into the side room and shut the door.

Outside the room, the congregation roared joyfully the ancient hymns of my childhood. I took a seat facing all the preachers. Quite a lineup that morning, including a few from the north district. Maybe they'd heard I was returning and had come over to join the action. Get their digs in. I sat silently. A brief moment passed. Bishop Henry cleared his throat.

This time, he addressed me directly. Broad, vacant bromides would flow soon enough, but first, the rules must be established. Bishop Henry opened with a short welcome. He was so glad—he claimed with a frozen smile—to see that I had changed my attitude and now was willing to seek redemption and forgiveness from God and the church. All the other preachers nodded in assent but remained silent. I said nothing. I wasn't expected to say anything.

Then Bishop Henry looked right at me. “To seek forgiveness from sin, one must first confess those sins,” he intoned. “We now request that you confess all your specific sins, here to us in this room. As best you can remember.”

So
that
was how it went. I didn't know. I'd never done this before. Now I was expected to speak. Directed to speak. To confess my sins. All the bad stuff I'd done.
Oh boy
. They had me. Did they ever have me. I sat in that somber room and looked at them. Faced them all. They leaned toward me, restrained but eager. It might have been my imagination in the stress of that moment, but their eyes seemed to shine hungrily. At least the eyes of some of them. Whether or not that actually was the case, one fact cannot be disputed. I was surrounded and alone.

This, then, is what the mad bishop of Ligonier had wrought by his rigid refusal to reinstate me in his church. It would have been so much easier to confess my sins to strangers. To preachers who knew little of my past, preachers who had seen it all before. Now, before these men, all of whom were quite familiar with my history, I was expected to confess the sins I had committed. To speak of them, recite them in minute detail. It was a harsh and bitter thing.

I swallowed. Stuttered a bit. And then, speaking in a halting monotone, pausing now and then as I tried to remember specifics, I told them all my sins, all the things I had done on my latest flight. All the bad stuff I'd done over the past year. How I had drunk. Got stoned. Run around with English women. All the things one did when one stepped outside the box. I didn't even bother to mention the obvious things like driving and owning a pickup truck. They already knew that. They wanted the juicier details, and I didn't let them down. Surprisingly, it didn't take that long. When I finished, Bishop Henry and all the preachers looked properly and officially grieved. Actually, they seemed a little stunned. I don't know what they were expecting.

After regaining his composure, Bishop Henry claimed to be very glad at my honesty. Then he proceeded to admonish me at some length. I'm sure his head was spinning from my long list of sins. After he wrapped up, the other preachers all spoke for a few minutes, also sternly admonishing me while simultaneously claiming to be overjoyed at my return and repentance. They didn't seem too joyous, but in that room, at that awkward moment, I was certainly willing to take their word for it.

And then I was dismissed to return to the congregation. I walked back into the crowded room, head held high. I would not cower before these people. The room echoed with the roars of slow tune singing, but all eyes were glued to me as I took my seat on a bench among my peers.

Usually, it takes about four weeks to be reinstated. Church is every two weeks, so that means you trail along behind the preachers twice. And then it's enough. Then there's a special ceremony at the end of the service after the nonmembers and children are dismissed, and the repentant sinner is officially welcomed back into the fold.

But four weeks was not long enough in my case. Not according to Bishop Henry. Because of the seriousness of my sins, it would take at least six weeks, maybe eight.

During that time, I stayed close to home and didn't socialize much. Officially, my family was required to shun me, which consisted mostly of not eating at the same table. When Mom prepared the meals, she set a plate for me on a little side table. We all dipped food from the same dishes and ate at the same time, a few feet apart. When the married children came home for supper during the week, we ate cafeteria style, again dipping Mom's delicious food from the same dishes. I always made sure to sit a bit apart on a side bench. In all other respects, I was treated as usual. We separated only when we ate. Which didn't make a whole lot of sense back then, and still doesn't. But that's the way it was.

I saw Sarah at least twice in informal settings. We talked. She was as beautiful as ever, except her face was drawn and sad. I felt sorry for her and for what I had done, but I still didn't regret it. We spoke, publicly and privately, from depths of pain that could not be expressed or even acknowledged.