As the Peachey church accepted electricity, the Old Order position began to gel. Three incidents in about 1919 hardened the Amish policy. A tinsmith known as “Tinker” Dan Beiler ran some of his power tools with a gasoline engine. An inventive Amishman, he rigged up a light bulb whose brilliance flickered with the speed of his generator. Community folks—Amish and non-Amish alike—often stopped by to see the contraption. One person noted: “He didn’t really need the light for his tinsmith business. He was a tinkerer, and he liked to tinker with the light.” Ben Beiler, an influential Amish bishop, was not amused. He did not mind if “Tinker” Dan tinkered with his tin, but tinkering with a light bulb was taking things too far. The bishop’s “no” was firm. Unwilling to yield, “Tinker” Dan soon packed up his light and moved to Virginia.
At about the same time, Ike Stoltzfus, who lived a few miles down the road, bought a Genco electric plant for his greenhouse business. An electric water pump provided a steady supply of water for his vegetable plants. According to one account, Bishop Beiler “just clamped down on him without taking it up with the church. Ike didn’t know it was wrong, but the bishop, in his mind, thinks this member here was always kicking over the traces and his attitude isn’t too good toward the church and we just can’t tolerate this. So they gave Ike several weeks to get rid of it.” And he did.
Another member, Mike Stoltzfus, used electrical power tools for repairs in his carriage shop. According to one informant, Bishop Beiler said, “‘This may not be.’ He was just not going to have any of this stupidity.” So Mike got rid of his electric tools. A former member said Bishop Beiler “was very influential on this electric question, in setting the direction, definitely. With another bishop it might have gone a different direction. It probably would have.” In any event, the Amish taboo on electricity solidified.
The Peachey church’s use of electricity and Bishop Beiler’s influence were not the only factors involved. Electricity provided a direct connection to the outside world, and to practical-minded rural people, electricity was mysterious. Where did it come from? Where would it lead? The fear was articulated by an Amish farmer: “It seems to me that after people get everything hooked up to electricity, then it will all go on fire and the end of the world’s going to come.” For a people trying to remain separate from an evil world, it made little sense to literally tie one’s house to the larger world and to fall prey to dependency on outside power.
Fearing an unholy alliance with an evil world, steering a careful course away from the Peachey group, and bearing the imprint of a strict bishop, the electric taboo became inscribed in the Ordnung by 1920. One member recalled: “The church worked against it when electric first came and set a tradition, and it just stayed a tradition up to today.” The tradition that crystallized about 1920 permitted the continued use of electricity from 12-volt batteries. Higher voltage electricity, tapped from public power lines or generated privately by a Delco plant, was forbidden. Electric light bulbs were taboo as well. As before, batteries could be used to start motors and power flashlights. So in essence, the decision was not a new decree; it was merely an attempt to uphold customary practice, to set a limit, until the Amish could see where the new electrical trends might lead. The distinction, however, between 12-volt direct current (DC) stored in batteries and 110-volt alternating current (AC) pulled from public lines became a critical difference over the years as standard electrical equipment became dependent on 110-volt current.22
Reflecting on the church’s decision to limit the use of electricity, a member said: “Electric would lead to worldliness. What would come along with electric? All the things that we don’t need. With our diesel engines today we have more control of things. If you have an electric line coming in, then you’d want a full line of appliances on it. The Amish are human too, you know.” Another person noted: “It’s not so much the electric that we’re against, it’s all the things that come with it—all the modern conveniences, television, computers. If we get electric lights, then where will we stop? The wheel [of change] would really start spinning then.” “Electric is just not allowed,” said one member, “because it’s too worldly. Air power is better because it’s privately owned.” And according to one bishop, using electricity would simply mean “hooking up with the world too much.”
In 1920, Bishop Beiler had no inkling of the avalanche of electrical appliances that would sweep across society in the following years. The taboo on 110-volt electricity conveniently preempted debate over each new gadget and eliminated them from Amish life. Banning electricity was an effective means of keeping the world at bay—literally and symbolically.
Diesel engines are used to operate air and hydraulic pumps to power equipment on Amish farms and businesses.
THE GENERATOR DEAL
Amish farm equipment changed rapidly in the 1960s as horse-drawn machinery became more difficult to buy. To replace worn-out equipment, Amish machine shops began converting tractor-drawn machinery to horse-drawn in a backward technological step. Electric welders, an important tool in this process, were also used to repair broken machinery. Portable electric generators, powered by gasoline engines, could produce the powerful electricity needed for welders. Amish farmers and mechanics gradually began using portable generators and welders, clearly breaking the 12-volt tradition. Given the compelling need to adapt farm machinery for use by horses, the bishops looked the other way. But the mechanics who began using electric generators for welders were tempted to use them in other ways as well.
Testing the rules of the church, some farmers began plugging home freezers and other electrical motors into their generators. Some even hung light bulbs in their barns. Worried about where this trend might lead, ordained leaders condemned the generator in a special series of ministers’ meetings in the early 1960s, with one exception—it could still be used to operate electric welders to repair farm machinery. Asked about the use of generators for welders, a farmer said: “Our bishops are sometimes pretty hard pressed. They don’t know where to draw the line. Now the welder’s a piece of machinery that was allowed. They said it is something that we can have, it is almost necessary to keep our equipment running and that sort of thing.” Allowing generators to be used for electric welders enabled Amish farmers to convert tractor-drawn equipment for use by horses. It was better to permit selective use of generators than to lose the horse altogether.
THE MILK TANK BARGAIN
The electricity issue returned again in 1968. To improve sanitation and reduce hauling costs, milk companies began requiring dairy farmers to store and chill milk in large stainless steel tanks instead of in old-fashioned milk cans. Bulk storage tanks, powered by electricity, could hold a ton or more of milk. Amish farmers had already been chilling their milk in cans in mechanical coolers powered by diesel engines, but the bulk tank edict placed church leaders in a quandary. The dairy industry was booming in the 1960s. Amish herds with a dozen cows were doubled and sometimes even tripled. Milk prices were good. The diversified farming of the past was giving way to specialized farming. Amish farmers were using mechanical milkers, and the monthly milk check was becoming the prime source of income for many families.
In 1968 Amish farmers received a series of letters spelling out the stark ultimatum: install bulk tanks or lose the market for your milk. The tanks required electricity. Amish leaders were caught in a dilemma. If they banned the tanks, many members might lose their prime source of income: some would be forced to quit farming altogether, and others would sell their milk for cheese and take a financial loss. Rejecting the bulk tank might encourage young farmers to leave the church or force them to take factory jobs, placing the family farm in jeopardy.
An Amish farmer summarized the impasse: “The milk companies said we had to get bulk tanks or lose our milk market. Milk was our most important income and so we tried to keep it. The bishops had a hard line to draw so that farmers could make a living off the family farm, but yet not get too big and go in debt or go for government fi
nancing. We didn’t want electric or to have to tap into public lines.” If the bishops took a hard line on bulk tanks, they might annoy enough members to trigger a new division—something they surely did not want two years after the schism of 1966. And yet the bishops could not capitulate to modernity by overturning tradition and using public power lines. They could not rescind their recent taboo on electric generators. If they did, history and the Lord himself would never forgive them; moreover, how would they ever control the use of electricity with all its complications?
Although the milk companies pressed the issue, they also needed milk from Amish farmers and thus were willing to negotiate. In a series of three delicate meetings, a settlement was chiseled out between the stewards of tradition and the agents of modernity. Five senior bishops and four milk inspectors negotiated the deal in an Amish farmhouse. The senior milk inspector, who spoke the Amish dialect, called the meeting. He said in retrospect: “We had a long battle with them, but we didn’t want to lose them.”
The milk inspectors and the moral inspectors dickered over a variety of issues. First, how would the tanks be powered? That was easy. The Amish were already using small diesel engines to operate mechanical coolers to chill their milk in cans. The refrigeration units on the bulk tanks could also be operated by a diesel engine. Running the diesel twice a day would power the vacuum milking machines as well as run the refrigeration unit. This was acceptable to the milk inspectors as long as the diesel engine was outside the milk house. Second, the milk inspectors insisted that the milk be stirred by an agitator five minutes per hour to prevent cream from rising to the top, inviting bacterial growth. Additionally, the inspectors demanded that the agitator be operated by an automatic switch, which placed the negotiators at loggerheads.
There were two problems for the Amish. First, the word automatic sounded too modern, too convenient, too fast—downright worldly. Second, an automatic agitator required 110-volt electricity. Small generators could be installed on the diesel motors to provide 110-volt current for the agitator; however, the generator had been restricted to welders just a few years earlier, and it would require swallowing a great deal of pride to erase a decision so recently engraved in the Ordnung. Moreover, having a generator in every Amish diesel shed would open the door to other temptations. Ingenious farmers might start plugging a host of other gadgets into their generators—fans, cow clippers, radios, televisions.
A 12-volt motor stirs the milk in this bulk tank, but lanterns illuminate the milk house and cow stable. The mobile “sputnick,” lower right, is used to bring the milk from the cows to the bulk tank.
The milk inspectors would not budge on the automatic agitator. Nor would the Amish on the use of generators. Was there no escape from this dilemma—no way to prevent an economic disaster and also maintain faith with tradition? Could the agitator be powered by a special 12-volt motor rigged up to a battery? The Amish reluctantly agreed. They could live with the automatic starter, but only if it was powered by a 12-volt battery. And so a deal was forged. The bishops would accept bulk tanks if their refrigeration units were powered by diesel engines. They also agreed to automatic agitators run by a 12-volt battery, recharged by small generators.
There was one more snag. The milk companies planned to haul the milk in large tank trucks every other day. Thus, they would collect Amish milk on every other Sunday. In the past, the Amish never shipped their milk on “the Lord’s Day.” An automatic electric starter was one thing, but shipping milk on Sunday was an unthinkable profanity. The Amish “no” was adamant! It was the milk companies’ turn to concede, and concede they did. When asked if the milk companies considered dropping the Amish because of Sunday pickups, the head inspector said: “We never took it that far because we needed the milk. When you need it, you can’t bargain too much. You can bargain, but you can’t put too much pressure on.” So at great inconvenience, plus the cost of overtime pay and extra miles, bulk tank trucks arrive at Amish farms on Saturday, or very early Monday morning.
The tank deal of 1969 was an ingenious settlement for the Amish as well as for the milk inspectors. The family farm could survive without using 110-volt electricity from public power lines. Moreover the Lord’s Day would not be tarnished with Sunday milk pickups. Both religious tradition and economic vitality had been preserved. A few bishops were unhappy with the modern trend, but most Amish farmers quickly installed bulk tanks, stabilized their economic base, and thus preserved the family farm. The basic arrangement continues today. Small generators, run by diesel, recharge 12-volt batteries, which power the bulk tank agitators on the tanks.
Despite these efforts to stay on the farm, land was becoming scarce and expensive. So in the 1970s some Amish began working off the farm. Carpentry was a traditional and safe choice, but carpentry crews also needed power tools for commercial work. Reluctantly, portable generators were permitted so that mobile carpentry crews could operate electric tools at construction sites. In addition, carpenters working at construction sites with electricity were allowed to tap into public lines. On the farm, however, the generator did create new temptations. One farmer said: “If you got in a pinch, it might be necessary to use electric to clip cows or debeak chickens, as long as no one happened to be watching.” Other farmers found it convenient to “get in a pinch” in other ways. Some ran their hay elevators and other small motors with 110-volt current from the generators until “the bishops really tightened up on these devious uses of the generator,” according to one young farmer. In cases of special need, the regulation is relaxed. For example, a family with an asthmatic child needed 110-volt electricity for an oxygen pump, and they were happily granted the use of a generator.
CURRENT UNDERSTANDINGS
The present “understanding” of the Ordnung on electrical usage is fivefold. First, 110-volt current from public utility lines is forbidden, as always. Second, battery-supplied 12-volt current is acceptable for a variety of uses: fence chargers, cow trainers, agitators for bulk tanks, calculators, adding machines, reading lights for the elderly, hand-held drills and small motors to operate equipment in shops. Third, generators are permitted for welders, bulk tanks, and the electrical tools needed by mobile construction crews. Generators may also be used to recharge batteries for a variety of uses. Fourth, 110-volt current for uses other than welders and carpentry tools is forbidden. In several cases computers, appliances, and motors using 110-volt alternating current that were operated directly from generators had to be “put away.” Fifth, inverters are widely used. They gradually came into use in the 1980s and 1990s, but that interesting story requires a telling of its own.
The inverter became available in the late 1970s. This small electrical gadget—the size of a car battery—could convert, or invert, 12-volt current into “homemade” 110-volt current. The trail of electricity thus goes from diesel to generator, to 12-volt battery, to inverter, and finally to a typical 110-volt appliance, bulb, or motor.
This fascinating circumvention symbolizes the delicate tension between tradition and modernity. A 12-volt battery provides the electricity for the inverter, which is certainly within the spirit of the 1920 taboo. Yet the inverter, in turn, produces “homemade” 110-volt current, which can run electronic equipment—cash registers, soldering guns, digital scales, calculators, copy machines, typewriters, and other small gadgets. The inverter brings temptations because toasters, TVs, CD players, computers, and light bulbs can also be plugged in. But because the inverter depends on a 12-volt battery, it severely limits the number and size of appliances that can be attached, and the battery must be periodically recharged. In Amish culture such limits are welcomed. Inverters are primarily permitted in shops and businesses, not homes.
Asked what the difference is between electricity coming directly from the generator or coming from an inverter via a battery, an Amish businessman replied: “It’s more acceptable from a battery, but it does the same thing in the end. A generator produces electricity, pure electricity, and really, I gues
s an inverter after the battery also produces electricity but it is in a different sense, in a different form. If we were to allow generators across the board, then we would have our own electricity right off and then everything, everything, deep freezers, lights, and the whole bit.”
Inverters are widely used by businesses, but the use varies somewhat by church district and the disposition of the local bishop. On this issue, there is a good deal of polite looking the other way. If inverters are used to operate computers, televisions, and popcorn poppers, they will challenge the limits and may have to be “put away.” For the moment, at least, they remain an ingenious bargain that permits electric cash registers in retail stores while respecting Amish tradition. Such cultural compromises perplex those who appreciate neither the importance of tradition nor the fragile base of a peaceful community.
The distinction between direct current stored in 12-volt batteries and 110-volt alternating current tapped from public utility lines sounds absurd to Moderns. When the Amish church distinguished between batteries and higher voltage electricity in 1920, they were merely drawing a safe line. The long-term implications of their distinction were unknown, but in the wisdom of their ignorance, the ban on high-voltage current became a useful way of regulating social change. To a young Amish farmer, it makes sense to draw the line at 12-volt direct current: “You are really limited, you know, with 12-volt direct current. You can’t go and put in a television or something like that because you don’t have enough current, unless you hook up dozens and dozens of batteries. If you have alternating current, your 110, there is no limit to what you can do. You can get yourself a hair dryer, if you want to. You really don’t have anything to keep you from doing it, either. Because if you can have a coffeepot, who says you can’t have a hair dryer?” So over the years, limiting electrical use to 12-volt current became a practical way of arresting and controlling social change.
The Riddle of Amish Culture Page 23