Think No Evil: Inside the Story of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting...and Beyond

by Jonas Beiler

  But when Janss arrived at Amsterdam, the city gates were already barred due to the execution about to take place. Janss was distressed. His good friend, Pieter Pieters Beckjen, would soon be gone. Eventually he paid the gatekeepers a “certain sum of money” and made his way into the city.

  Beckjen was brought out to face the crowd, his execution imminent. Janss scrambled for a better place to see his friend. He moved through the crowd, finally climbing the steps of a nearby building, and, as his friend was brought forward to die, he cried out with a loud voice: “Contend valiantly, dear brother!”

  Janss was promptly arrested.

  From there he did not have much of a chance. First he was imprisoned, then tortured twice, and finally, when he would not recant his beliefs, burned alive at the same spot where his friend had perished only two weeks earlier. The public record once again confirms the story, told from the government’s perspective:

  Whereas Willem Janss, from Waterland, residing at Doornickendam, present here as a prisoner, unmindful of his soul’s salvation, and the obedience which he owed to our mother the holy church, and to His Royal Majesty, as his natural lord and prince despising the ordinances of the holy church, has never been to confession; and only once in his life, about eight years ago, to the holy, worthy sacrament; has further undertaken several times to go to the assembly of the reprobated and accursed sect of Mennonists or Anabaptists; also, about six or seven years ago, rejecting and renouncing the baptism received by him in his infancy of the holy church, been rebaptized, and afterwards received the breaking of bread three or four different times ... and on the 26th of February ultimo, when one Pieter Pieterss Beckjen, bargeman, was to be executed in this city, on account of said sect, he, the prisoner, standing among the people, undertook yet to strengthen said Pieter Pieterss in his obstinacy, calling with a loud voice these or similar words: “Contend valiantly, dear brother.”6

  Contend valiantly. This is the heritage from which the Amish have built a legacy of peaceful living, nonviolence, and persistence in their faith. A heritage that would one day spare the life of a man in America named Cleo Eugene Peters.

  On a summer night in Ohio in 1957, two men, both nonAmish, had recently been released from prison, and they decided to meet in Holmes County to rejoice in their freedom. As the evening wore on, something led them back to their old ways, and they randomly chose a home to break into and rob. It was the Mount Hope home of Paul M. and Dora J. Coblenz, an Amish couple, and, being Amish, they did not resist their intruders.

  The men told Paul and Dora to get on the floor. Dora carried their nineteen-month-old baby, and the three lay there, hoping that somehow these men would simply take what they wanted and leave. But at one point, when the two ex-convicts were not looking, Paul made a dash for the door, hoping to make it to his father’s house close by to call for help. One of the men, Cleo Peters, spotted Paul trying to escape. He raised the rifle he had with him, took careful aim, and shot, the bullet first going through the screen door and then into Paul’s back. The two men then fled the scene, taking time only to pause over Paul’s body and shoot him one more time, in the head.

  They would eventually steal a car, drive off to Illinois, and shoot a sheriff’s deputy before giving in to authorities. The Amish community was shocked and saddened. The story drew massive press attention as the world watched this normally insular community work through their grieving process.

  Peters would be convicted and given the death sentence, a fact that left the Amish community feeling uncertain and troubled. For hundreds of years the Anabaptists had taken a stand against capital punishment, believing that, if given time, every human being may at some point reach a place of real repentance and turn to God. How would the Amish community treat Cleo Peters? Amish historian Steven M. Nolt recounts their response to this horrible tragedy:

  God’s forgiveness must be extended to all, they reasoned, and letters offering forgiveness and promising prayer arrived at Peters’ cell from settlements in many states. Even the young widow, Dora, wrote to him. Amish families invited Peters’ parents into their homes for meals, and church leaders visited him in prison. In addition, the Amish called for a stay of execution. Wrote one Ontario Amishman, “Will we as Amish be left blameless in the matter if we do not present a written request to the authorities, asking that his life be spared?” Individual letters and petitions arrived at the office of Governor C. William O’Neill until the November 7, 1958, execution date. Seven hours before the scheduled electrocution, the governor commuted Peters’ sentence.7

  Then came a bright autumn day in 2006, the day when Charles Roberts entered the Amish schoolhouse in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, and shot ten girls. In the midst of this tragedy, even the children instinctively lived out their Anabaptist heritage: the boys, after their release, gathered behind the outhouses to pray; the girls, bound and waiting at the front of the school, prayed with one another; Marian said, “Shoot me first,” and her sister Barbie said, “Shoot me next.” Years from now those phrases likely will be passed along from family to family alongside the words of another victim of injustice: “Contend valiantly, dear brother.”

  Two men visiting on the porch of the schoolhouse

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  From Forgiveness to Friendship

  IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE shooting, when Charles Roberts was identified as the gunman, a few of the Amish neighbors walked over to his house to meet with his wife and parents. Despite their shock and sadness over losing so many children, they were also concerned about Marie: Was she okay? How were the children holding up? Was there anything they could do to help?

  It soon became apparent that Charlie’s wife was also willing to do whatever she could to help the Amish families who were grieving. Both Marie’s family and the families of the girls who were in the schoolhouse began to feel a need for a meeting. Such a meeting couldn’t be arranged immediately—a few of the families were still spending quite a bit of time with their daughters recovering in the hospital, and the hospitals were spread out all over Pennsylvania.

  Yet the feeling that a meeting would somehow patch this terrible rip in the fabric of their community persisted, and Brad Aldrich from our counseling center was asked to help facilitate the meeting. He spoke with a few of the Amish men whose daughters were involved, and they were eager for such a gathering to take place, but they didn’t want it to happen unless all of the families could be there.

  Two weeks later, in an event that went completely unpublicized, the Amish families impacted by the shooting met with the widow of the shooter. Marie and her parents, Charlie’s parents, members from every Amish family impacted by the shooting, and a local pastor gathered together. In all, about one hundred people packed themselves into one of the Bart Fire Company’s fire bays, where they normally park the fire engines. The group instinctively moved their seats into a large circle, with Charlie’s wife and her parents clustered together on one side.

  Prior to the meeting, Brad and his staff met to discuss their objectives. Obviously they hoped to see all the families experience healing and closure, but there wasn’t a lot of professional literature that addressed circumstances such as these. There were plenty of models for the best way to go about doing forgiveness therapy, but most of them revolved around a prison environment where someone is going to meet with an inmate whom he wants to forgive.

  We know as counselors that trying to guide people toward forgiveness can be extremely challenging and often takes a long time. The various models that have been developed by experienced and competent psychologists can be daunting. For example, one particular model, the Process Model of Forgiveness, developed at the University of Wisconsin by Dr. Robert Enright, has twenty processes divided into four phases. I am including only part of the description of this model so that you can see how complex and extensive forgiveness can sometimes be:

  The first phase of the process model is called the Uncovering Phase and includes processes that allow the individual to b
ecome aware of the anger and emotional pain that has resulted from the unjust injury. Consequences of the injury such as psychological defenses, shame, cognitive rehearsal, and energy depletion are explored. As the impact of the injury is revealed and validated, the choice of forgiveness can seem more possible.

  The second phase is called the Decision Phase, in which the participant can consider the possible continuing damage if he/she does not choose forgiveness and, by contrast, the possible positive outcomes of forgiving. This is a process where a person actively has a “change of heart” and chooses the virtue of forgiveness for moral growth as well as healing. The person also commits to the hard work of forgiveness over time.

  The third phase of the forgiveness process is called the Work Phase. This phase includes grieving the pain of the unjust injury, reframing the wrongdoer, and deciding to offer goodwill to him/her ...

  The final phase is called the Deepening or Outcome Phase, during which the forgiving person begins to realize that he/she is gaining emotional relief from forgiving the offender. This is also a time when a foundational aspect of forgiveness is discovered: finding meaning in suffering. The person realizes that choosing the virtue of forgiveness as a response to the undeserved pain from the wrongdoing has indeed led to remarkable personal growth ... 1

  Not exactly a simple process, yet Brad was about to meet with families whose lives had intersected through a senseless tragedy just two weeks earlier. What could he possibly expect to happen in just one meeting so soon after such trauma?

  None of the victims or their families had undergone any formal forgiveness therapy. The environment of the upcoming meeting at the fire hall would not be controlled—Brad wondered if there was a possibility that one of the parents or grandparents would express any kind of anger or disappointment toward Charles’s family that might be harmful. Whenever emotions like these are involved there really is no telling exactly how people will respond, or how complete their acceptance of the person involved in their pain will be.

  Brad and his staff weren’t exactly sure what they were getting themselves into, but both parties insisted it was time to meet. On the one hand, Brad knew he was in unfamiliar territory, and he felt somewhat unprepared for what might happen in the meeting. But he also realized this meeting was not his to control—God was orchestrating events. He headed off to the meeting fully trusting that God would bring healing to all the families as well as provide an opportunity to show the world how productive and healthy forgiveness can be.

  Brad arrived at the Bart Fire Station, parked his car just outside, and walked through the cold autumn evening to the doors leading inside. The Amish were arriving, some in their horse and buggies, some walking. Harnesses clinked as the men tied their horses to the hitching posts, and the sounds of horses stomping and blowing steam through their noses filled the evening air outside the fire hall. The lights from the fire engine bays shone out onto the street and stretched into the darkness. The air smelled of burning leaves and other earthy, autumn scents.

  The atmosphere inside the fire hall was subdued, but once everyone arrived there was a buzz in the air. Brad’s staff began the meeting with a prayer, then opened it up for general discussion.

  “This is your meeting,” Brad told everyone in the circle of chairs. “We’re not running the meeting. We’re just here in case anyone needs us.”

  After some introductions, the family center’s staff sat back and waited. For a moment, silence fell over the room, but not an uncomfortable quiet—it was almost as if, in that silence, the prayers of those present, as well as the prayers of folks around the world, settled into the room, bringing peace and comfort. After a few moments, someone cleared his throat, and everyone glanced toward a man sitting with Charlie’s family, chair legs scraping as they turned to be able to hear better. Then complete silence again. Everyone waited with anticipation.

  Charlie’s father-in-law spoke first, followed by Charlie’s father. Each spoke briefly with tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice. They wanted to convey both their regret that someone they loved had been responsible for the death of the girls, as well as their ongoing grief at having lost their own son. The air in the room was heavy, but not in a hostile way. It was more a time of grieving for all those involved, and the stillness in the room reflected everyone’s heavy heart at what had happened.

  Then the Amish spoke.

  The first thing they wanted to know was how the Roberts family was doing. Brad was amazed at the depth and sincerity of their concern.

  “How are your children?” they asked Charles’s wife.

  “How are you?” they asked her again.

  And each of the families that spoke echoed the same sentiment time and time again:

  “We don’t hold you responsible in any way for what your husband did. We don’t think your husband was a bad man—he was just confused and hurt and troubled.”

  One of the Amish men who had lost a daughter stood to speak. He cleared his throat and looked across the circle. Brad recalls that he was the first of the Amish parents who had lost a child to speak. If there were to be any tension, any discomfort at all, one would assume it would come from one of the parents of the children who had died. But as soon as he began to speak, any such concerns were immediately quelled.

  “I knew who you were before,” the Amish man said slowly, with tears in his eyes, “and I always recognized your husband. But I never really knew you or your family. I want to welcome you and your family to come to my home any time that you would like. I hope this will start a firm friendship between our families.”

  As his voice filled the room it became apparent that he was saying this to all of Charlie’s family that were there, but Brad noticed a special connection between this particular father and Charlie’s parents. After all, the Roberts family had just lost a son, and under such grave circumstances.

  Both families knew what it was like to lose a child.

  A chorus of softly spoken affirmation swept the room, as nearly all of the Amish present verbalized their agreement. They all nodded their heads in approval as a community, confirming what this Amish father had said and reiterating that what he had said went for all of them. There would be healing in the community, and their gathering together that evening confirmed that they were committed to becoming better people and better neighbors to one another in the future.

  The meeting lasted an hour and a half. The sound of quiet crying could sometimes be heard. Tears ran down many cheeks in silent reflection. The men pulled handkerchiefs from their pockets time and again. But as the meeting went along, the initial uneasiness and sadness transformed into a communal type of mourning that felt supportive and unified.

  After those who wanted to speak had a chance to share what was in their hearts, staff from the family center pulled out large tubs of mail that had been given to them by the small post office in Gap. The employees at the post office hadn’t been able to process all of the mail pouring in for the Amish and Roberts families from all around the world, so on that night Brad and a few others helped distribute the letters and postcards and gifts that had been sent. Each family took two or three large bins of mail home with them, so great was the outpouring of sympathy from the watching world.

  Several pieces of mail found their way to the school’s teacher, Emma, from foreign countries. In order for those letters to have reached her they would have to have been hand sorted multiple times, due to the vague address scribbled on the front of the envelopes:

  To the Amish Teacher

  Pennsylvania, USA

  Before they left, some of the Amish families gave gifts to Charlie’s wife to take home to her children—toys and dolls and small crafts. Some of the very families who had lost children at the hands of Marie’s husband wanted to give her a tangible sign of their friendship, wanted her children to have something that might ease the sorrow of losing their father. Empathy is the key to forgiveness.

  Eventually everyone filed out and headed ho
me. Brad got in his car, turned on the ignition, and drove those quiet back roads. Some of those who lived close by walked along the dark streets. Others climbed into buggies and, with a quick “tch-tch” to the horses and a touch on the reins, were on their way home. The cold night pressed in around them all, but there was a feeling that lasted at least through the evening that, as a community united by forgiveness and compassion, they could get through this. They would get through this.

  NO TRESPASSING signs at the scene of the crime

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Why Forgive?

  ALTHOUGH THE AMISH are often uncomfortable talking to the media, they understood why the press converged on their little corner of Lancaster County. From the beginning, they asked those of us who would speak for them to focus as much attention as possible on their belief in Christ. They saw this horrible tragedy as a way to bear witness to the world about the radical forgiveness they practice, which was learned from Jesus, who said of those who nailed him to a cross, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

  Thankfully, only a tiny minority of people will ever experience the kind of horror experienced by the Amish families of Nickel Mines. But that doesn’t mean that the rest of us will never face one of those instances where we have been so wronged that we don’t think we can ever forgive who wronged us. In my counseling practice, when I have patients who struggle with feelings of guilt, condemnation, anger, or bitterness, I often discover that they have arranged their life experiences into grids of unforgiveness, and it is stealing their peace, literally draining the joy from their lives.