Almost Amish

by Nancy Sleeth

  It was my first time worshiping at a Mennonite church. The building is, appropriately, a converted barn. About fifty or sixty people worship together, and most of the families are related.

  I happened to come on a very special Sunday—the naming ceremony for two babies, Sara and Ezra. Talk about adorable! The five- and seven-month-old cousins looked like Gerber babies: O ye of little hair and lots of happiness. I have a weakness for babies, but what captivated me even more than their plump little clapping hands was how the church leader opened the service.

  Nathan stood up, a grandfatherly yet somehow youthful man who looked as though he could still mend a fence or frame up a house without working up a sweat. His body was tall and erect, but his voice faltered.

  “As most of you know, I’ve been going through some difficult times recently. After suffering a few losses, I just haven’t been able to bounce back like I usually do, despite the good counsel of our pastor—my brother, Jim—and the generous prayers of so many of you.”

  Nathan paused, clearing his throat before continuing. “Today I want to honor two members of our congregation who have been of particular help to me. Every time I was down, they lifted me up. On my darkest days, they made me smile. They have ministered to me in countless ways, without ever expecting anything in return.”

  Even from the back row I could see his eyes tear up. “These two members are like family to me. In fact they are family. And they also happen to be the youngest members of our congregation.”

  That’s when Nathan beckoned forward the parents of Sara and of Ezra—the two members he had been referring to—and began the baby-naming ceremony. He blessed the babies and all four parents, asking them to pledge to raise their children to serve God and serve their neighbors. After a prayer, he concluded by saying, “Parents, you are not alone in your responsibility. We will help you.”

  Nathan then asked the congregation to rise and solemnly recite together the following promise: “With love, joy, and thanksgiving—as Christ’s church, and with God’s help—we promise to serve, encourage, and support you as you follow Jesus and train your children in the truth.”

  What I loved most about this Mennonite tradition is how it underscores the reciprocal nature of service. The parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents all agreed to help serve these two helpless, precious children grow to healthy adulthood. And the babies, though too young to speak, were already ministering to the church community, as Nathan so eloquently testified. Both the giver and the receiver get something back from the act of service. The more they give, the more they gain.

  This reciprocity also permeates our relationship with God. He wants us to serve him with a glad heart, not because he is lacking anything, but because the very act of getting outside our selfish, small concerns enriches us. Service is the agent through which we act out our love for God and for one another. Serve God: serve your neighbor. In doing one, we are doing the other.

  In the beginning, God asked Adam to name the animals and then instructed humanity to serve and protect not only his creatures but all creation. Naming is both an act of intimacy and a commitment of responsibility. The Mennonite naming ceremony reminded me that all of us are being served, constantly, by God through the actions of our neighbors. It’s our responsibility to acknowledge these acts, to give thanks, and to reciprocate with everyone, everywhere, every chance we get.

  Serving Others

  After the naming ceremony, the pastor gave a sermon on worshiping false idols. I was struck by this topic because of its juxtaposition to a strongly interdependent tradition. One of the great false idols of our day is independence. Despite (or because of) our hyperconnectedness, this independence often leads to isolation and its twin, loneliness. We live in communities where neighbors rarely catch glimpses of their next-door neighbors, let alone share one another’s lives. Hundreds of miles separate family members. Jobs are transient. Marriages are until digital distractions do us part.

  As with the Mennonites, daily interaction within the Amish community makes such isolation nearly impossible. When something goes wrong, the community is there to fill the gaps. If a husband falls ill, the firewood is cut by neighbors. He does not need to worry about farm chores getting done or crops being harvested—the community will pitch in. When a wife gives birth, her friends and family will help with meals, child care, and household chores. A young farmer who faces an unexpected loss will receive not only helpful advice but a loan of tools. When there is a fire, the community, not an insurance company, is there.

  While Scripture tells us to do good to all people, the Amish take especially seriously Paul’s admonition to care for their own “household of faith” (Galatians 6:10, KJV). Though not all Amish make their living directly on the farm, communal activities continue to bind them together. Quilting, sewing, and special days when women will gather to share household chores allow not only for many hands to make light work, but for neighbors to know the needs and circumstances of one another. Preparing a house and barn for the worship service, which takes place every two weeks, requires not only families working together, but the participation of the entire community. While barn raisings after a fire may seem like an Amish cliché, the principle is not: God reveals himself every day through the actions and words of our neighbors, if only we have eyes to see and ears to listen.

  Two Kinds of Service

  In general, service takes two forms: service to people we know and service to those we don’t. The Amish engage in both.

  Service within the community is primarily informal. Because word of mouth travels even faster than Facebook, the Amish know the needs of their neighbors and help out as a regular matter of course. There is little hesitancy to accept help and no awkward sense of obligation because the give-and-take is mutual—a normal part of Christian community.

  For large disasters, they draw upon a more formal program of assistance. The Amish Aid Society was established in 1875 to spread the costs of disaster across the community. Families contribute to a general fund once every year or so, based on the value of their property. The purpose is to provide a network of support to one another. It operates without insurance agents, office buildings, copiers, computers, lawyers, or lobbyists. Lack of bureaucracy means no overhead and no seven-figure salaried executives. Because neighbors are helping neighbors, assistance always wears a human face.

  The Amish also have a reputation for coming to the aid of those outside the community through their sister organization, the Mennonite Disaster Society—a network of volunteers who respond with cleanup, repair, and rebuilding assistance after tornadoes, hurricanes, floods, and other disasters. In recent years, there has been tremendous demand for relief workers. Because Mennonite and Amish people often possess higher-than-average practical skills and a strong work ethic, their services are highly valued.

  Jesus as Example

  Of course, it’s little wonder that the Amish are so service oriented: they try to model their lives after the pattern set by Christ. It is he who is our highest example of service.

  Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is constantly serving his community. Jesus, for instance, heals the mother-in-law of his disciple Peter. In one of his most dramatic miracles, he serves Lazarus, the beloved brother of Mary and Martha, by raising him from the dead. But he also serves people in his faith community who are not close friends. He helps the paralyzed walk, the blind see, and the deaf hear. He cures epilepsy, stops hemorrhaging, ends fevers, and restores a withered hand.

  Though his first mission is to serve the Jewish people, Jesus also makes it his business to help strangers. “News about him spread as far as Syria, and people soon began bringing to him all who were sick. And whatever their sickness or disease, or if they were demon possessed or epileptic or paralyzed—he healed them all” (Matthew 4:24). Many of these people are non-Jews, or Gentiles. For example, in chapter 3 we discussed the story of the ten lepers. Nine of these lepers are Jews, but the one who returns to give th
anks is a Samaritan, an ethnic group that, to put it mildly, did not get along well with Jesus’ people. Perhaps the most famous foreigner is the Roman centurion. Jesus heals his servant because of the centurion’s great faith (see Matthew 8:5-13). Jesus even travels to hostile territory, Tyre and Sidon, where he heals the demon-possessed daughter of the Canaanite woman.

  The Amish follow the example of Jesus. They primarily serve those within the community where they know the needs and where opportunities abound. But, when appropriate, the Amish also travel to “foreign territory” to provide relief in times of disaster.

  Helping Through Being Rather Than Doing

  Remember the story of Sara and Ezra, the two babies who ministered to the congregation and to Nathan in particular? They did not do anything to serve others. Their gift to the congregation was in being a healing presence.

  The Amish certainly are doers of good. But one of their most attractive qualities—and one of the most important ways they serve the outside world—is simply by being who they are. Like Sara and Ezra, the Amish show us that a more innocent, less harried state of being is still possible. They preserve skills and practical arts that would otherwise be lost. And they demonstrate that life without communication technology is not only doable but desirable. By taking us back, they help us move forward. Teaching through example, the Amish show us how to make conscious choices about the kind of world we want to leave to Sara, Ezra, and all the other utterly dependent babies of the world.

  The Almost Amish Way: Service to God and Others

  The Amish look for opportunities to serve children, parents, neighbors, coworkers, and the faith community. In serving others, they are serving God. Throughout the following sections, we will look at examples of service and see how this Amish ethic can be applied in our twenty-first-century lives.

  Serving children

  The very first book I remember being given was Little House in the Big Woods, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Laura, like the Amish today, reminds us of a time when helping Ma make piecrusts or Pa collect maple sap was a labor of love.

  In second grade our daughter, Emma, lived a whole year through the eyes of Laura and her sister Mary. She dug in the banks of our creek bed, unearthing shards of pottery and beads like Laura did in Little House on the Prairie. She practiced sewing with her eyes shut, trying to make perfect stitches like Mary did after she went blind. And she became obsessed with cooking pancakes, like Almanzo did during The Long Winter. Our family cheerfully ate those first few soupy-middle batches, which Emma more than made up for later with years of breakfast-for-dinner blueberry pancakes, an enduring family favorite.

  Some children, however, end up more like blind Mary than Laura, dependent on their parents even as adults. One of the most beautiful examples of parents serving children is our friends, Chris and Cara. We met Chris when he was in medical school with Matthew. Cara was pregnant with Robin while I was pregnant with Clark. At the end of her pregnancy, Cara stopped feeling Robin move, so they went to the hospital. Unfortunately, Robin had been in distress for quite a while, so the doctors performed an emergency C-section. Robin was essentially born dead. The medical team brought her back to life, but she was left permanently and severely brain damaged. Now twenty-four, Robin cannot walk or talk or care for herself, and at many times in her life, she has been unable to breathe or eat without a tube.

  Because of their deep faith in Jesus, Chris and Cara took care of Robin at home. They had two “normal” children, who—like so many siblings of disabled children—have grown into extraordinary adults. Through the example set by their parents, they learned to love Robin for who she is, helping with her feeding, transport, entertainment, and bodily care with grace-filled joy.

  In the most important ways, however, Chris and Cara treat Robin exactly like their other children. As parents, their job is to prepare Robin for later life, just as it is our duty to prepare children—our own and those within our spheres of influence—for adulthood.

  Serving children can be frustrating and demanding and exhausting—like riding an emotional roller coaster without a safety bar. But it can also be exhilarating, fun, and delightful, teaching us to become selfless in ways that are often not otherwise possible.

  Robin now resides in a group home, just a few miles from Chris and Cara. To the extent possible, Robin lives as an independent adult. Chris and Cara have prepared her for adulthood and continue to be involved in her life.

  Their care for Robin mirrors God’s care for us. We are helpless, hopeless, and often severely disabled without our Father’s strength. Yet as the apostle Paul says, God wants to help us grow from spiritual infancy to spiritual adulthood (see 1 Corinthians 3:1-4).

  The Amish expect their children to gradually learn the skills necessary to serve others. If we are to serve our children in the fullest sense, we must prepare them physically, emotionally, and spiritually for adulthood. The model set by the Amish and by our friends Chris and Cara is not the path of least resistance, but it is the path of greatest reward, ultimately, for both parent and child.

  Serving parents

  The Amish take care of their aging parents. It’s an expected part of life—a joy, not a burden. Just as parents will build wings onto their homes for their married children, so the established children will build additions for aging parents and grandparents. One child will add an apartment onto his or her home, while the other children and grandchildren participate in the care. In this way, elders do not become isolated and can share their wisdom and experience with the younger generations, even as their own physical abilities diminish and they begin to need care again themselves.

  This is a rule of living we can certainly—if not always easily—adopt as our own. One of the most beautiful examples of service to parents that I have witnessed came from a non-Amish colleague at Asbury. When this family moved to town, they purchased a home that could accommodate his mother-in-law. They built a separate apartment for her within the modest house. She lived with them for seven years. It was a win-win-win: my friends had a built-in babysitter, the grandchildren loved being able to visit Grandma, and Grandma was never lonely. She had her separate space, but she also was very much involved in the family’s daily lives.

  Not once by word, tone, or action did I ever detect even a hint of resentment from my colleague. When his mother-in-law was released to heaven after a difficult last illness, the family grieved, and yet even more than sorrow, they felt blessed. They had no guilt, no regrets, no lost chances to haunt them. In serving Grandma, they were ministered to; in giving, they received a trove of memories.

  Again, caring for our parents echoes our relationship with God. Instead of keeping tabs on who gives what to whom, God operates out of infinite abundance.

  The Amish understand that serving our earthly fathers, just like serving our heavenly Father, helps us grow as spiritual beings. In the upside-down world of Christ, we reap more than we sow and we gain more than we give.

  Serving neighbors

  Long, long ago, in a city far, far away, I worked for a Fortune 500 company as a director of communications. By the time Matthew was in his final year of medical school, we had been married seven years. We planned for our child to arrive at the end of April, a month before Matthew would graduate.

  But our baby had other ideas. In mid-February, while celebrating my dad’s birthday, I started to feel strange pains in my abdomen. I described them to Matthew. He called the doctor, who instructed Matthew to give me a glass or two of wine (an old-fashioned remedy to slow labor) and then head to the hospital. When I arrived, I was tipsy and the labor had stopped. I don’t normally drink, and definitely did not during pregnancy, so the alcohol had an immediate and strong effect. The nurses pegged me as a hapless, drunk mom-to-be. Five minutes after our arrival, the alcohol wore off and the contractions started again.

  My preterm labor brought an abrupt end to my seven-year career with the company, as I spent the next seven weeks on strict bed rest and never return
ed to the office. For a type A personality like me, Alcatraz would have been a better sentence: at least the prisoners get to do jumping jacks in the prison yard. But bed rest was also one of the most game-changing nonevents of my life. Before, I had been a giver, rarely a receiver. Bed rest left me dependent. I was forced to accept help or risk endangering the life of my unborn child.

  My coworkers dropped off meals, knit bootees and blankets for the baby, and thought up creative ways to spoil me. Matthew left a plate of fruit, a pitcher of water, and books by my bed each morning, came home to fix me lunch, and cleaned the apartment meticulously so I wouldn’t be tempted to get up. My mom ran errands, kept me company, and contributed meals. And my downstairs neighbor, a nurse married to a medical resident, brought their little toddler up to visit with me so I would not forget the purpose of my incarceration.

  One of the angels in my life was an obstetrics nurse. I was in and out of the hospital a number of times, and somehow she ended up “adopting” me. We became friends. She called me and even visited me at home. She calmed my first-time-mother fears, lent me books, and gave me a set of cloth diaper covers that I could use once Clark was born. Her quiet, beyond-the-call-of-duty attentions lessened my anxiety and offered me peace.

  By God’s grace, acting through the kind hearts and actions of my circle of friends, Clark stayed put until April and emerged a healthy seven-pounder with fully developed lungs. I learned several lessons while on bed rest:

  1. Tipsy pregnant women are not looked upon kindly in the OB ward.

  2. Once you are sober, OB nurses will cover you with warm blankets and tender care.

  3. In heaven, I’m pretty sure angels will greet us with warm blankets.

  4. Even the best laid plans can change in an instant.

  5. When life takes a bad turn, friends can help—but only if you let them.