The Riddle of Amish Culture

by Donald B. Kraybill

  Rumors of a new consolidated school agitated a heavily populated Amish township in 1925. A candidate for public office declared his opposition to consolidated schools and promised not to close any of the one-room buildings.6 Fears of consolidation were not illusions. The state was already paying school districts $200 each time they closed a one-room school. Indeed, over a twenty-year period (1919–39), 120 one-room schools were abandoned in Lancaster County alone.

  Mushrooming interest in education prompted an Amishman to write four articles debunking “excessive” education in a county newspaper in 1931. In a rare public outcry, he contended that a common elementary education was enough for an agricultural people. “Among all the Amish people in Lancaster County,” he said, “you couldn’t find one who ever took any high school, college or vocational school education. Yet I don’t believe there’s a class of people in the entire world that lead a happier life than do our people on the average. For pity’s sake, don’t raise the school age for farm children . . . for if they don’t do farm work while they’re young they seldom care for it when they’re older.” Complaining of rising school taxes, he asserted, “I am in favor of public schools, but I am not in favor of hiring teachers at twice the salaries that farmers are making to teach our girls to wash dishes and to dance.” He then described a young, educated female acquaintance who unfortunately could not boil an egg even though she was “a bright scholar, a good dancer, busy attending parties, in fact very busy equipping herself to be modern flapper with lots of pep.” Concluding that experience is a better teacher than higher education, he said, “Brother, if you want an educated modern wife, I wish you lots of wealth and patience and hope the Lord will have mercy upon your soul.”7

  THE TUMULT OF 1937

  The farmer’s fear of encroaching education was an omen of a confrontation that came to a head in 1937. A plan to abandon ten one-room schools in one sweep and replace them with a consolidated elementary building sparked the controversy. Induced by a federal grant, officials in East Lampeter Township, home of many Amish, began building the new school despite local objection. Incensed that the plans would place their children on school buses and in large classrooms with strange teachers, a coalition of citizens, largely Amish, organized themselves. Without the blessing of the church but with the help of Philadelphia lawyers, they obtained a court order in April 1937 to halt construction. The two-month delay was soon overturned by a higher court. Construction resumed, and the “newfangled” school opened in the fall of 1937. Some Amish children attended a one-room school that was still open, but others hid at home.8

  In a surprising display of stubbornness, attorneys for the Amish renewed their fight in court. After meeting with Amish parents, Governor George H. Earle declared that he would reopen the ten one-room schools. The local school board balked, and the matter was tossed back and forth in a game of political ping pong for another nine months. The issue was finally settled when the U.S. Court of Appeals blessed the new school. In a conciliatory gesture, public officials maintained a one-room school for the Amish, but it only accommodated a few of them. The highly publicized dispute divided the larger community as well as the Amish themselves.9 Such aggressive use of the law was rare, if not unprecedented, in Amish history.

  In the midst of the East Lampeter dispute, a more ominous cloud loomed over Amish country.10 School codes required attendance until age sixteen, but farmhands and domestic workers could drop out at fourteen. Hoping to bolster public education, legislators wanted to stretch the school term from eight to nine months and raise attendance age for farm youth to age fifteen. Such talk, on top of the recent strife, frightened Amish leaders. Raising the compulsory age to fifteen years for farmhands and extending the school year would deprive farmers of valuable help. Moreover, Amish youth would be bused to a large consolidated high school for a year until they were fifteen.

  Frightened by the rumors, eight Amish bishops, representing all sixteen districts, petitioned a state legislator in March 1937 to “oppose all legislation” extending the school year and raising the age of compulsory attendance. The proponents of progressive education were not intimidated, however, by a few barefoot farmers. In July 1937, as the Amish began their wheat harvest, state legislators raised the compulsory attendance age for rural youth to fifteen and lengthened the school term to nine months. This action mobilized the Amish in a massive protest that would dwarf the ongoing dispute in East Lampeter Township. After finishing their harvest and watching the completion of the consolidated building, the bishops met in September to chart their course. Sure that the revised school code would “lead our children away from the faith,” they asked someone in each church district to tap local sentiment. Most of the members supported making a plea to state officials if it could be done in a “gentle way.” The opinion of a small minority was articulated by preacher Jacob Zook: “Better leave our fingers off; the Amish have stirred up enough stink for the present.”

  Most of the Amish, however, wanted action. With tacit support from the bishops, sixteen delegates, preachers, and laymen met on 14 September 1937. They organized themselves and began a two-year struggle that would take them to legislative halls and the governor’s office. Calling themselves the Delegation for Common Sense Schooling, they hammered out a bargaining position with two key features. First, they would not send their children into the nurture and teaching of the world until they were grown. Second, they would send their children to public schools on four conditions: an eight-month school year, exemption after eighth grade, one-room schoolhouses, and teaching children the truth. After polishing a formal petition, the delegates launched a plan to gather sympathetic signatures and agreed “not to go to law, nor court, nor hire a lawyer.”

  Armed with a thousand copies of their petition, the Amish canvassed for signatures in numerous townships among members and nonmembers. Public opinion split in response to the Amish plea. To haggle over one additional year of schooling seemed petty to many, but others applauded the Amish. In any event, the Plain folk were able to garner more than three thousand signatures of support, which they pasted into a 130-foot scroll. Moreover, prominent businessmen from several communities rallied in support of the Amish with their own petition.

  Bearing their signed petition, Amish representatives visited Governor Earle. Surprised by the public outcry, he stalled by asking Attorney General James H. Thompson to investigate whether the new school law violated religious freedom. Shifting their tactics in the Thanksgiving season, the Amish tried some rural diplomacy on the governor. They presented him with a basket holding a dressed turkey, a gallon of cider, and an ear of corn—symbolic first fruits of the field, flock, and orchard—hoping he would reciprocate with leniency.

  Despite their Thanksgiving offering, the Amish soon realized that their only recourse was to petition the General Assembly of Pennsylvania. So the Delegation for Common Sense Schooling wrote a new petition, “To Our Men of Authority,” hoping to persuade state legislators to change the statewide law. They pleaded again to have Amish children exempt from schooling after the eighth grade regardless of their age. “We do not wish to withdraw from the common public schools,” they concluded, but “at the same time we cannot hand our children over to where they will be led away from us.” The delegation also sent a pamphlet explaining their goals to Amish churches and promised that they would defend themselves “with the word of God rather than . . . with the services of a lawyer.”11

  THE POLITICAL STRUGGLE

  In December 1937 three events shrouded the traditional gaiety of the Amish wedding season. First, the consolidated East Lampeter school had opened its doors despite Amish protests. Second, their Thanksgiving offering, formal petitions, personal meetings with state officials, and pleading letters had not exempted Amish fourteen-year-olds from school. Many, in fact, were hiding at home. Third, the Amish learned that Moderns cherished education and would not cater to rural peasants. Amishman Aaron King, living on the settlement’s eastern fringe, wa
s jailed for refusing to send his fourteen-year-old daughter to high school. King was convicted after a federal district court turned down his appeal in December 1937.12

  The Christmas present that the Delegation for Common Sense Schooling had hoped to receive in exchange for their Thanksgiving offering had not arrived. Instead, they faced a frightening question: Would they be willing to sit in prison for the sake of their children? The new year opened on a bleak note. Attorney General Thompson declared that religious freedom and the rights of conscience could not obstruct the enforcement of law. In a blunt assessment of their bargaining clout, the Amish school committee concluded in January 1938 that “we got nothing.”

  Writing a letter to Attorney General Thompson the next day, Stephen F. Stoltzfus, the head of the Amish delegation, said that his impatient delegates wanted “to take a stand, but I tried to cool them down and got them persuaded to just keep quiet and see what we get.” He ended by saying: “If we get nothing from our men in authority, we must do something ourselves. Why can’t the Board of Public Instruction show us leniency and exempt our children when they have a fair education for farm and domestic work? If we educate them for businessmen, doctors, or lawyers, they will make no farmers.” Hoping to avoid a public confrontation, the attorney general urged the Amish not “to do something drastic such as take a stand, as you call it.” Citing the rumors and publicity that would surely come if they “took a stand,” he admonished them to have “patience as taught in the Bible.”

  By the late spring of 1938, Amish patience was dwindling. They discussed setting up private schools and decided to consult state officials. Public officials discouraged such schools and urged the Amish to bring their plea to the legislative assembly. The Amish proceeded on both fronts. They laid plans to open two private schools and to approach the State General Assembly. So in the midst of the July wheat harvest, the Amish were once again drafting a petition. After receiving the bishops’ blessing, 500 copies were sent to legislators and other public officials. Included with the petition was an amendment to the school code prepared for the Amish by the attorney general’s staff to allow fourteen-year-olds to obtain work permits. Thus, in May 1939 state legislators passed a measure permitting fourteen-year-olds to quit school for farm and domestic work. But by then the Amish had already opened their first two private schools—on nearly the same day that the ten one-room schools were sold on public auction.13

  After two years of strenuous effort, the Amish had reached only one of their goals—work permits for fourteen-year-olds who had completed eighth grade. Accordingly, fifty-four permits were granted to Amish youth in the fall of 1939. The two-year battle had not achieved much, but it brought a gift in disguise. The struggle had forced the Amish to hone and clarify their educational philosophy for the first time. In the midst of intense bargaining, they had developed strong convictions about the nature of Amish education that would guide them in future battles for the minds of their children.

  Some outsiders were dismayed by the Amish. Ralph T. Jefferson, an “educated” state representative from Philadelphia, wrote to the Amish and declared that “education is the greatest gateway to knowledge.” Displaying gross ignorance of Amish culture, he urged them to “turn on your radio, the water, the light, the heat, the gas, the electric, and turn your mind again to the electric churn, milker, sweepers, irons, and washers” as evidence of the fruits of education. Such counsel to the Amish was a superb example of the folly of higher ignorance!

  Ironically, World War II gave the pacifist Amish a brief reprieve. The demand for farm products and the national preoccupation with the war put domestic politics on hold. In May 1943 new legislation gave local school boards more flexibility to issue work permits. The war also stalled construction of new Amish schools for another decade. Apart from minor skirmishes in local school districts, the battle for the minds of Amish youth was eclipsed by the war, and leniency prevailed.

  IMPRISONMENT

  The educational peace of the war years vanished in 1949. With the war behind them, educators and politicians across the country were more convinced than ever that public education was the key to keeping the world safe for freedom and democracy. In April 1949 new legislation raised the compulsory school age to sixteen, unless children were excused for farm or domestic work. A hidden clause gave the state superintendent of public instruction new power over work permits. The new law also required districts to bus students to high schools in neighboring townships if the district did not have a high school of its own. This sudden turn of events incited a bitter dispute between the Amish and public officials. Hundreds of Amish parents were arrested, and many were jailed until a compromise was struck in the fall of 1955.

  Brandishing the new regulations, the state superintendent restricted work permits to “dire financial circumstances.” The permits had to be approved not only by local and county educators but also by the superintendent himself. As a final gesture of his determination to enlighten Amish citizens, he threatened to withdraw state subsidies from school districts that overlooked the new regulations.

  These actions only crystallized the Amish resolve. At least two dozen Amish fathers were arrested in the fall of 1949 for refusing to send their fourteen-year-old children to school.14 Two fathers appealed the conviction, but a court decision upheld the Amish arrests by ruling that religious sects were not immune from compliance with reasonable educational duties.15 Provided with such legal ammunition, the Pennsylvania Department of Public Instruction opened a vigorous campaign to keep Amish youth in school.16

  Meeting in February 1950, Amish bishops issued a fifteen-point statement, once again reiterating their traditional opposition to education beyond eight grades and fourteen years of age. Unlike earlier statements, this one was not addressed to legislators and did not plead for leniency. It merely spelled out their position and implied that this time they would “take a stand.” They would follow their conscience, and like Anabaptist martyrs of old, they were willing to suffer the consequences. One thing was certain in this round of negotiations—they would sit behind bars before acquiescing to educational progress.17

  The bishops’ statement fell on deaf ears. In the fall of 1950, 98 percent of the work applications from Lancaster County were rejected by the Department of Public Instruction.18 Realizing that the state’s threat to withdraw financial subsidies was not a bluff, local school districts began arresting Amish fathers who refused to send fourteen-year-olds to school. Within a three-day period in September 1950, thirty-six fathers were prosecuted. Refusing to pay fines because, they argued, they were innocent, many spent several days in jail until they were bailed out by non-Amish sympathizers.19 Frontpage newspaper photos showed Amish entering the Lancaster County Prison. Bold headlines declared: “Dozens Go to Jail,” “Twenty Amish Violators Prosecuted,” and “Two Ministers Among Nineteen Sent to Jail.”

  Some fathers are released from prison during the school crisis of the 1950s.

  The arrests and jailing continued intermittently for five years. In Leacock Township alone, more than 125 parents were arrested, some of them five to seven times. One Amish father, arrested seven times, appealed his conviction as a test case in February 1954. Once again, a higher court sustained the conviction. This spurred a new round of arrests in the fall of 1954.20 The five-year confrontation was bitter. Public opinion split. Amish members of local school boards as well as some other members resigned. Still, many officials were annoyed that the obstinate Amish were making such a ruckus over one year of schooling.

  In order to keep their fifteen-year-olds out of public high school, some Amish parents made them repeat eighth grade. Others held their children back from first grade so that they would be fifteen by the time they completed eighth grade. Still others decided to take a stand and suffer arrest and brief imprisonment. One township developed an “eighth-grade-plus” program so that Amish students did not have to go to public high school.

  Not all Amish were willing to sit in jail. O
ne Amishman recalled his experience as a fourteen-year-old after his father had taken him out of school: “We were in the field one day, and the constable came and served Dad some papers. I had three days to appear in school. The next morning Pop said, ‘You are going to school. I have neighbors all around me, and I am not going to sit in jail. I just can’t.’ He was looked down on by some. After repeating eighth grade again, I read a hundred books, everything from classic literature to a series of biographies of the leaders of our country. And the irony of it was that when we had to take our high school entrance tests, I had the highest mark in the whole county.”

  THE VOCATIONAL COMPROMISE

  Was there no escape from this bitter battle between modernity and tradition? After his adamant stand on work permits, the state superintendent could hardly renege on his policy. But he was also tired of the rancorous public opinion that scorned his interpretation. Finally, he conceded that “something might be able to be worked out within the law for both.” For their part, the Amish had chosen martyrdom over political action, and they were not about to lose face. As the arrests continued in the fall of 1953, the Amish bishops endorsed a proposal that promised to save face for everyone involved.

  The Amish position congealed in December 1953, when the bishops and the Amish School Committee approved a proposal for a vocational training program for children who had completed eighth grade in a public school. The proposed solution appeased both parties. On the one hand, the state could say that Amish fourteen-year-olds were indeed in school; and on the other hand, the Amish were able to control the educational context and curriculum. After several delays and rounds of discussion, an agreement on the compromise was finally reached in 1955. With the blessing of the state, the six-year struggle ended when the Amish opened their first vocational school in January 1956 in an Amish home.21