With the birth of our daughter in 2014 and as the events of 2015 transpired, I became increasingly disillusioned with the prospect of raising a family in our beloved Aylmer. When I arrived as a wee helpless one back in the 80s, the prevailing idea was that babies are born perfect and innocent. However, they are also born in sin and with an old fallen nature. This old self-will needs to be broken. “He that spares the rod spoils the child.”
And so, as I started to get old enough to begin wanting to make some of my own decisions, the subjection treatments began. Things probably started with a slap on the wrist or a snap on the cheek; however, eventually, we arrived at the terrible twos. I vividly remember the burn of lash after lash across my backside and the panic of gasping for air and desperately clawing at the huge hand that was clasped over my face, trapping my cries inside.
One evening, as we were preparing for bed, I happened to catch a glimpse of my buttocks. Large red welts lined across my little butt cheeks and lower back. “Mom! What is wrong with my back?” I cried in consternation.
Her sad reply, “That is from spanking when you don’t obey Dad.”
Each of my siblings went through a similar process until they, too, finally gave up and learned to “submit” and be good little boys and girls.
I instinctively knew that this process does not accurately model the heart of God. And then I became a father and looked into the eyes of the little daughter my wife and I brought into the world; I began to realize that in the spirit, she is not less adult than I am, nor I less a child than she. I got glimpses of who God really is and how he relates to us, his children. And by extension, how I should relate to the children he entrusted into my care. Increasingly, I could not stand by and watch as others assaulted my daughter’s intelligence, and I could not conform to the cultural norm of “breaking a child’s will.” (Dad has apologized for how he administered what he thought was his Godly duty. I have forgiven him.)
Along the same lines, as that summer progressed, what we were experiencing at the hands of “concerned” leaders and shepherds of the church increasingly did not feel right. The fear and control were becoming tangible. God began giving me glimpses of an alternative reality. A reality where fear did not dictate our response to those around us. A reality where each of us truly did have free will and where people could live together in unity with nothing to fear, nothing to lose, nothing to hide, and nothing to prove.
Also, with my research in human health, I began realizing that our diet was not necessarily conducive to optimal health. I felt much better having removed wheat and dairy from my diet, but it was very challenging to lead a normal life in Amish culture while feeding myself what I knew helped me feel best.
And so, while I was still very much committed to the Amish way of life, I knew there were improvements that could be made. What would a community look like that understood and cared for their physical well-being over impressing each other with the most elaborate, sugary, and creamy dessert? How much would their mental health improve? What about a community that did not concern itself with cult-like levels of control that are so much a part of society that we consider them normal? How much happier and healthier would future generations be if they did not grow up with the trauma and baggage that I carried with myself to adulthood?
In the beginning, I naively expected to see things shift and change right here in the middle of the community. I was a respected member of the church and had close relationships with several of the ministers. Change would merrily be a process of discussing and sharing what we were seeing. I envisioned a small group coming together and living out a life that more closely modeled what I had seen and felt of God’s heart.
That summer, the ministers were discussing some changes to the Ordnung. Each male church member was given an appointment and invited to share what lay on his heart. I attempted to write about some of the points I was seeing and went to my appointment expecting an open conversation about the amazing possibilities and the joyful reality that we could be living. That conversation didn’t last long. The ministers listened politely enough, but there was zero openness to consider that the current state of life in the Amish community at Aylmer Ontario was anything less than the apex of what was achievable this side of the fall of man.
As the dog days of summer bore down, I began realizing that what I was facing was an irrational, demonic beast. These people that I had known my entire life and with whom I had shared a close relationship and enjoyed heart-to-heart conversations with had become unreachable. A huge monster bigger than themselves was at the wheel. Nothing I said or did at this point would satisfy its desire to control, strangle, and suck the life away. Anything I said or did was twisted and bent out of shape. These dear friends and family members now no longer believed what I said about what I believed.
And so, as summer gave way to fall, Joseph, Stephen, myself, and our families began to have serious conversations about moving. Moving somewhere where we could dream without limit. Someplace where anything would be possible. Some place where we could learn to be fully alive in all that God had intended for us. And somewhere where our families could live and become the most perfect expression of what God intended for His children.
At first, we started looking for farms in remote areas of Ontario. I began the application for a mortgage to purchase land. And then suddenly, BOOM! We realized that a remote area in Ontario would be a death trap. We would never survive. So we started asking around and checking places in the USA. Eventually, settling on Bloomington, Indiana. I searched online for a house to rent, hoping for something large enough for two families, and felt led to rent a certain house slightly north of town on Hinkle Road. A little later, we were delighted to learn that a small farm was available for rent less than a mile from that house.
We had conversations about what our Ordnung would be. We knew we wanted to be able to leverage the power of electronic communications; small tractors would help make farming more practical and efficient, and electric power would be fine, but we didn’t like the idea of being connected to the grid. Clothes should be elegant but modest. We finally settled on not making significant changes for at least six months as we stepped away from the tempest for a time of respite.
When should we move? We discussed with a bishop friend from another community, and he advised us to stay until after communion. Well, there were some challenges in the East district that fall, and so communion kept getting delayed. We knew that if people learned about our plans before communion, we would not be able to participate. And we felt it was important for us to take part in communion as a gesture of not holding any animosity towards them. So, we kept planning behind closed doors.
Finally, late in November, Communion was held at the Coblentz house. In two weeks, church would be at our house. And in three weeks, on December 4, we plan to leave.
That following Monday, I made the trip up Carter Road to my parents' house to break the news to my family. Of course, this was an awful lot for them to take in. I attempted to describe what I was seeing. I spoke of seeing a coming upheaval in the church and globally, and that I believe God has called me to go out ahead and pioneer a new style of church. That did not make sense to Dad, and our conversation rather quickly went nowhere good.
My next task was to personally break the news to Chris, a dear friend and the deacon. On the way home from delivering eggs to Green Meadow Eggs, I stopped in and chatted a bit, then told him of our plans. He thanked me for telling him and mentioned that we could discuss more in the next few days.
Those were a busy few weeks. We were preparing to host church while preparing to move, and there was an onslaught of meetings and sessions as the forces that be desperately attempted to head off the coming freight train. The fact that there was not more notice before our move turned out to be a blessing. Two weeks of that pressure was enough for all of us.
In due time, the bench wagon arrived at our house. We set everything up and got everything ready. On Sunday morning, friends and neighbors gathered for church. I was responsible for selecting the songs and finding song leaders. A somber, oppressive fog hung over the area and settled down between the giant spruce trees that surrounded our house. The sermon delivered that day by our aging bishop was dark and heavy. And felt targeted at one specific family present that day. Men in the congregation wept and wiped their eyes. As the lunch hour approached, the grey-haired gentleman finally took his seat and asked several men to agree that it was God’s word or in alignment therewith. Usually, the man of the house was among those called upon. That day, I was not.
When the last song had been sung, and before the bishop dismissed everyone, he wearily got to his feet. He cleared his throat and mentioned that he needed to inform the church that a family from the East District was planning to move away from the community. He said, “They have become wrapped up in deep dark ‘irriglauben’ (heresy). He doesn’t really know what, but it’s so dark he does not want to find out. And the church can in no way bless this move.” The rest of the day and singing in the evening passed in due time. People chatted; some shared their concerns and said they’d be praying for us.
Those final days passed in a flurry of packing, more meetings, and doing everything I could to prepare for whoever would be managing sales at HOPE Produce the following season. On Friday, we loaded a small truck full of essential belongings and set the benches ready for Sunday School that weekend at our house in our absence.
We finished the day with a sad dinner at Tina’s family one last evening, then Tina, Hannah, and I drove back to spend one last night in the dear little house at 10986 Carter Road that had become our home. I turned Sir Ben out to the pasture where one of my brothers could get him the next day and board him at Dad’s place till we could move him to Indiana. In the dark twilight, there was a commotion by the chicken hutches as Chris and his daughter caught our 200 hens and moved them home to their barn.
Early the next morning, before the light of day, our driver pulled in. The others were already in the van, so we piled on and drove west through the community. Past the Herrfort place, over Catfish Creek, and past the loading dock. We made a brief stop at Mark Stoll's house. Just wanted to say goodbye. His wife cheerfully greeted us from the woodstove where breakfast sizzled and told us Mark was out milking the cow. The three of us men marched out to the barn, meeting him as he made his way towards the house with a bucket of steaming milk. Mark commented about the beautiful dawn. We cut to the chase, “we wanted to say goodbye. We hold nothing against you and appreciate all that you have done for us over the years.”
He thanked us for stopping in. We turned on our heels and strode resolutely to the waiting vehicle. Something crumbled in Mark’s world that minute. Reports circulated later that he took our move so hard that he has never been the same again and looks ten years older.