Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [9]
The sermons mostly consisted of a mixture of Scripture, gospel, and Amish rules. We heard from earliest memory the old Bible stories, spoken in intimate detail. From Adam, through Abraham and the patriarchs, all the way to the life of Jesus. And his death on the cross. It was all there, and it was all preached. And yet, somehow, the preachers all managed to weave the story into some strange brew of Amish context, the Amish rules and Ordnung. We were convinced, as children, that the Amish way was the only right way, the only true way. And that all those who were not Amish probably would not make it to heaven. Not that such a message was explicitly preached. But messages were preached in such a way that we could reach only that one stark conclusion. At least back then, that’s how it was.
Aylmer had the normal contingent of three preachers: Peter Yoder, the bishop; Nicholas (Nicky) Stoltzfus; and Jacob (Jake) Eicher.
Nicky Stoltzfus was my least favorite. A tall, gaunt man with a long, majestic beard that curled out at the tip, well below his chest, he had hollow eyes hidden under bushy brows. The real theologian of the three, he preached by far the deepest sermons.
Barefoot he stood, preaching in a bone-dry voice.
Paying little heed to the time.
As a child napping with my head on my father’s lap, I often wished Nicky would just shut it down and sit down.
I liked it much better when Jake Eicher preached. A fiery man with flat, straight-hanging hair and a bushy beard, Jake preached in a powerful, high-strung voice that invaded the last crevice in the remotest corner of the largest house. I’ve heard it said of Jake, perhaps unkindly, that he had one good sermon in him and we heard it many times. Probably true. But the man could keep the children awake and alert. He was my favorite, and the favorite of most children. We never napped when he rose to take the floor.
After the main preacher finally wound down, there was another long prayer—more kneeling. And finally, one last song, which could go on for another agonizing ten minutes or so.
Then—and only then—was church finally over.
I don’t remember learning very much in church, mostly just wishing that it were over. Truth be told, the greatest lesson I ever learned in church actually came from my sisters.
One Sunday morning when church was at Alva Eicher’s place, a family of strangers—probably relatives of somebody or other—had come in for the service. The father was really slick and cleaned up. Even his beard was trimmed. I heard later that they were from Nappanee, Indiana.
As we tied up the horses and prepared to go into the house, I noticed a couple of young boys hovering close to the slicked-up man from Nappanee. One of the boys was about my age and inordinately rotund. I stared at him, fascinated. His body was almost as round as it was tall.
All throughout the service, I watched this family, still marveling at this boy’s size. I’d never seen anyone so young quite so large. When church finally ended and the children were released, we all excitedly rushed out to play.
Somewhere in the course of our play that afternoon, I approached the little boy. Round cheeked, he wore glasses perched on his pudgy nose. We stood there, sizing each other up. Hands in pants pockets. Awkwardly scuffing the dirt with our bare feet. At least, I was barefoot. He probably wore shoes, coming from Nappanee and all.
We stood there, face-to-face. I was on my home turf. He was a stranger in a strange land. He smiled hesitantly.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Ernest,” he said shyly. He smiled again, almost pleadingly.
Ernest. Never heard of a name like that before. I looked him up and down. Then into his eyes. “You are fat,” I said. Flatly. Matter-of-factly. Little