Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [84]
I settled in uneasily, always aware of my surroundings, always aware of my status in this place. I was a stranger here, in a strange land.
The first order of business was to get myself some means of transportation. In northern Indiana, the Amish are allowed to ride bicycles. In fact, the roads are practically clogged with Amish bikers, and after trekking to a local Amish cycle shop, I joined their ranks. I chose a brand-new, bright blue twelve-speed, with collapsible baskets mounted over the rear wheels. It was the first bicycle I had ever owned. And that was my transportation, except on Sundays when I drove to church in an old buggy Phillip owned.
I knew no one. People were friendly enough, and they did their best to visit with and include me, but it was tough. I was an older single guy, and I didn’t exactly fit in anywhere, under any circumstances. That was bad enough. But then almost immediately, I walked smack into a serious roadblock as the Amish bishop in the Ligonier District, a harsh, screeching man who will remain unnamed, rose like a specter to confront me.
After my last desperate flight from Bloomfield, I had been excommunicated from the Amish church. As was the custom, immediately following services one Sunday, good Bishop Henry Hochstedler had stood before his flock, sadly proclaimed me a heathen, and formally cast me over to Satan, to be shunned as an outcast. There were tears in his eyes, I was told, as he officiated over that somber little ceremony. I was also told that Mom was “sick” that day and stayed home, so she wouldn’t have to endure the pain of hearing the bishop’s words. I was her son. I would always be her son, excommunicated or not.
Now, after moving to Ligonier, I planned on performing my official penance there and doing whatever it took to be reinstated and have the excommunication lifted. It wasn’t that unusual, what I was planning. Those who left and were consequently excommunicated were known to rejoin somewhere else in another area, for a fresh start and all. It happened, here and there, and the preachers usually understood and did what they could to ease the journey back.
On my new bright-blue bike, I cycled over to see the bishop on his farm one fine summer afternoon. He was outside, puttering around the barn. He was a short, dark hulk of a man with a large, untrimmed, red-black beard. Not that old, really, probably in his midforties, but he seemed old to me back then. He saw me approaching and paused, almost as if he were irritated at being interrupted in his work. He grimaced with what barely passed as a smile.
I introduced myself and his “smile” disappeared. He glared at me suspiciously.
“I’m here,” I stammered, “to see if I can rejoin the Amish here in your church, be taken in as a full member.”
I explained how it had gone in Bloomfield, the people I had hurt when I left, and how I had been excommunicated. I really didn’t want to have to go back there, to rejoin, I explained. I would also save face rejoining here, I thought, but that fact remained unspoken. We both knew the real reason.
The bishop did not seem receptive, or even cordial. He stared at me grimly, unsmiling and hostile. I could feel his spirit, thick as smoke. Then he spoke, his rasping voice echoing across the barnyard.
“No,” he said. “You will need to return to Bloomfield and make things right there. After they take you back as a full member, you are welcome to move here and transfer your membership to my church. But not before.”
I tried to reason with him. “You don’t understand,” I said. “I really don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back. There’s just too much there, too much bad blood.”
I may as well have choked on my words, for all it mattered. He listened to me speak, but he refused to hear. Nothing would sway him. He was every bit as dense as he appeared. Denser, even. Obtuse. And hard inside, like a rock.
“I won’t lift your excommunication. I will not do it. So you can decide,” he thundered. “Go back and make things right, where