Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [51]
“The war, you see, made me lose faith in all institutions. When I got home, my mother asked me if I was going to wear my uniform to church. I had a hard time responding because I wasn’t planning on going to church.”
One thing led to another, he explained, and he gradually began moving in Mennonite circles. Then he met Grace, who though raised Mennonite had made an unusual step into college. After marrying, their search for an authentic Christian community finally landed them here. There were several attractions for them. First and foremost was the group’s adherence to “non-resistance”—the refusal to bear arms of any kind or even to defend oneself from an aggressor. Second, of course, was an interest similar to my own, the elemental, untechnological way of life, the close ties of a face-to-face community. The third attraction, however, left me uneasy. They honestly agreed with the group’s interpretations of Scripture and its refutations of Catholic positions. Unlike Mr. Miller, Edward had no problem accepting this small local assembly as the only true Christian church, whose doctrinal and disciplinary proclamations could not be gainsaid. He then provided me a scriptural basis for this belief, which I had a hard time following.
It was not easy for me to understand how someone with his intellectual aptitude could have accepted this. The only way I could make sense of it was that he had become an enthusiast. He had, somewhere on the bumpy ride from the battlefields, crossed a subtle line—not only to live the way of life, not only to love it, but to idolize it. All too ironic for a lapsed Catholic. But with so much in common between us, I could sense an unspoken bond already forming. I knew I was extreme in my own way and had come well nigh as far as he had. I sympathized.
When he was done with his story, he led me back out to the barnyard. There I gazed upon more evidence of his single-mindedness: fresh paint on the buildings, well-swept stalls and shop, orderly arrangement of tools. At an outdoor storage closet he paused and extracted two hoes; he mentioned he had some catching up to do and gestured towards the cornfield. “How would you like to—?”
My request to join him in work was being granted. But I sensed more than this: that Edward was proposing a sort of test of my mettle. I hesitated, wondering where this was leading. Could I possibly meet his rigorous work standards? I felt a tingle of adrenaline.
We strode over to the field and took aim. What ensued was like a hockey match. The challenge was all-absorbing, mentally as well as physically. Every weed posed its own size, shape, thorniness, and root structure, as well as distance from the corn. Each called forth a fresh judgment for the mind, a new nimble jab of the hoe. We finished a row; the sunlight was ebbing. We circled back, neck and neck. I batted corn leaves from my eyes and kept my line of vision clear. I gasped and slashed. If I could just hold out a bit farther.
There! Edward finished only slightly ahead. It had been a good showing. My heart was pumping, my lungs heaving. In the afterglow of success, I realized where I had seen a face like his before—the set jaw, the wry grin. Here was the visage of my college rowing coach, which of course made me question his pacifism.
A little later Bill joined us. The weeding was light but the field was huge, so there was plenty of work for three. We stayed together in a clump. To keep up with Edward, half-consciously I had refined my technique. I alternated between hoeing and bending over to pull by hand. Whenever I bent, or sometimes kneeled, to pull a large weed, I would throw the hoe on the path in front of me, grabbing it again quickly when I stood up.
With enough practice it was possible to talk even at this pace, though not easily. As I worked I strained to hear bits of what Bill was saying. My ears perked up when he began to mention something about the latest, most asinine application of modern technology.
“There was a woman in Missouri who just finished washing her dog,” I heard