Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [39]
At some point I heard a sound like the low putt-putt of an out-board motor. I looked and saw, three rows over, a man with a gray beard, snoring. His head was tilted forward on his chest, rising in rhythm with his breathing. Then something even more extraordinary began to happen. Other heads began rolling forward and popping back up again. Soon the whole men’s section was like a shooting gallery, with moving targets challenging the expert marks-man. It was a contagion from which I could not escape. I tried propping up my sleepy skull with my right arm, resting in turn on a crossed left leg, until the sweat from my palm greased the downward slide of my cheek. Up popped the head. Ouch. It was really an unpleasant involuntary reflex, as if God himself were spanking me inside the brain.
Next I tried holding my head erect and sleeping with one eye open. This was about as effective as trying to breathe with only one nostril, and soon enough—up popped the head. Ouch. What was the use. Not even weeding thistles had been as physically challenging. I doubted a gung-ho Marine inured to sleep deprivation could pass this test. I was in the row next to the wall, so I leaned my head and shoulders back and—
There was an interruption. A child began wailing in the women’s section and the mother, unable to quiet it, quickly marched it past the whole assembly and out the door. Through the open windows, all heard the ensuing spanks. Spank, spank, spank, spank—(we were all counting)—spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank.
Ten. Ten was the number we had all arrived at. It was the reverse of counting sheep, and it did the trick. Though at the expense of the miserable child, everyone was wide awake. When the mother came in, she and the red-faced daughter looked wretched, but we were refreshed and indebted to them for the diversion.
What about this practice of spanking cranky children in church? I didn’t dwell on it at the time, but later I reflected a little. For the most part, these young ones are supremely well behaved. The reason is manifest. In the strict German tradition of child-rearing, which these immigrant-descendants retain, disobedience to parental will is simply not tolerated. The slightest lapse or transgression is roundly rewarded, so it takes only a few lessons before the child wises up. This unflinching submission to authority may help to explain why even Amish adults submit meekly to the regimentation of Old Order groups. But even the sturdiest willpower cannot withstand certain challenges—such as staying awake during a boring church service.
After about an hour, Bishop Henry’s monotone trailed off. One of the older gray-bearded men, presumably the deacon, stood and read the Gospel according to Luke, Chapter 14. He read it first in German, then in English.
It was the passage where Jesus told the parable of a certain man who planned a banquet. He invited many guests but they all turned him down, citing various excuses: one was buying land, another proving oxen, another doting on his new wife. At this the host grew angry and shifted his attentions to the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame, inviting them in place of the others, who he vowed would have “no taste of my supper.”
On the surface, the scripture appeared to be an open exhortation to enjoy life, to feast and be merry, to set aside necessary work and join in a party thrown for no apparent purpose other than the host’s desire to hold one! I was curious to see how the puritan preacher would interpret this.
As the congregation settled back in their benches, Henry’s son James, who was one of the assistant ministers, stood up. He was much younger than the others, with a dark black beard and an animated face. Fire danced in his pupils. Turning a wrathful