Quaker’s meeting has begun.
No more laughing, no more fun.

—Children’s rhyme
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It’s fall again. Harvest time. Lancaster County’s Amish churches have now held their baptismal services. Next come the Ordnung’s services. Then two weeks later, Big Church. Then the flood of weddings in November.

But before that, one other tradition unfolds. They gather twice a year. Semi-annually. For one long day. The Amish Bishops of Lancaster County.

They came last week from all corners of Lancaster County. The neighboring counties of Lebanon and Perry. And from out of state. One hundred and forty-four of them.

It boggles the mind on several fronts. Or at least my mind. First, that there are so many of them. Around 150 Bishops total. Each usually is responsible for two districts. Do the math. Second, that they all actually assemble twice a year. To keep unified. On the same page. A united front. That’s admirable.

It must be quite a sight. A sea of somber gray-haired leaders, all gathered in one spot, standing about in their broad-brimmed black hats, stroking their beards. Humor would have been at a premium, I would imagine. Perhaps a few strained smiles and restrain-ed chuckles. I’d wager Big Blue there were no guffaws to be heard the entire day. Their frontless buggies all parked neatly in long rows. Had I known of it, I might have driven by in Big Blue and tried to snap a few pictures from the road. But my sources didn’t inform me until it was all over. Probably on purpose, but just as well. Wouldn’t want to antagonize the few connections I have around here.

Preachers’ meetings of all kinds still make me shudder, because where I grew up, they inevitably resulted in trouble for everyone. But apparently that’s not the case here in Lancaster County. They’ve been doing it for years. Quite successfully.

Lancaster County churches are quite diverse. Northern and eastern districts are generally pretty permissible. Progressive. But in the southern end, not so much. There, people tend to cling tightly to the old ways, and the old traditions. You see grown men running around the farm barefooted in summer. They raise lots of tobacco down there too. Like they always have. The Surgeon General can stuff it. Their forefathers raised tobacco, and by George, they will too. Not that I have anything against raising tobacco. Or smoking it.

And so they gather, the Bishops do, to meet formally and discuss the issues of the day that are affecting their churches. I know little of the structure of their meetings. Cultural secret, I guess. I suppose the hierarchy centers on their age, or how long they’ve been in office. At the end of the day, I’m sure each one sees things from his own perspective. Thus, they return to their flocks, some to emphasize one issue, some another. However it’s done, it works. Lancaster County is probably the most stable large Amish community in the world.

I don’t know if they do the same in northern Indiana. Meet regularly like that. If they do, I’ve never heard of it. When I lived there in the late 1980s, all the districts were unified, even though some were much more progressive than others.

It would be impossible to hold such an inclusive gathering in Holmes County, which consists of a patchwork hodgepodge of all kinds of groups who don’t fellowship with each other. Old Orders. Swartzentrubers. Andy Weavers. New Orders. New New Orders. Abe Troyers. And maybe a few other groups I’m missing. They co-exist. But they don’t fellowship.

But maybe they do hold similar but smaller gatherings in both Holmes and northern Indiana. I just don’t know. Perhaps my readers can enlighten me.

When I was a young man in Bloomfield, we had a saying: “Nothing good can come from a preachers’ meeting.” The truth of that saying was proved again and again.

Bloomfield had two or three districts back then. A full contingent of preachers and a deacon in each one. They usually met once a year, on a Saturday. An all-day affair. Everyone held their breath, because at church the next day, we would learn what they had decided would no longer be allowed. Picky little things. Bigger coverings for the women was an old tried and true favorite. And longer, baggier dresses. Always admonitions for the youth, their attitudes, the way they combed their hair, the length of their sideburns, whether the top buttons on their shirts were properly closed, blah, blah, blah.

It was always something. I can’t remember a single preachers’ meeting where they met and decided all was well and they could just go home. Guess they figured if they went to all the trouble of meeting, they might as well make a few “improvements.” A few of the younger, inexperienced preachers let their passions run, their pet peeves blossom into causes, then crusades. Their power swept to their heads and made them giddy. They always convinced the older graybeards to go along with them, when the graybeards should have known better. Taking away existing rights and privileges from members never goes down well. It’s always a bitter pill.

Of course, those who grumbled at the incessant rule changes were considered rebel-lious. The young preachers figured that if they decided as a unit to ban something that was allowed to that point, their proclamation was the equal to a word from God. There was always much braying about how they, the preachers, were actually our servants, and not petty tyrants. It was sin to grumble or resist.

One fateful year, the preachers decided that the youth would no longer be allowed to sing in four part harmony at the Sunday evening singings. It had always been allowed, and we enjoyed it. Then, just like that, because one or two of the younger preachers were against it, they decided to unilaterally ban it. Singing in harmony was prideful, they opined piously, stroking their golden beards.

Bloomfield had only two districts back then. That day, church was at our home. My buddies and I weren’t members, but we knew what was coming. Sure enough, after the last song, Bishop George announced that all members should remain seated.

Half an hour later, they were dismissed. Our friends who were members emerged glumly. No vote had been taken. The preachers had just decreed that four part harmony singing should no longer be done. But they didn’t go so far as to say it was absolutely outlawed. Just strongly discouraged. They fully expected their proclamation would be heeded.

We had other ideas. That afternoon, my buddies and I huddled in the shadows and craftily plotted our rebellion. After some somber discussion, we decided that when the English songs started that night, we would just go ahead and sing the four part harmony anyway. One of us would announce a song, lead it and force the issue. We knew that if the ban wasn’t confronted that first night, it would forever be too late. Once harmony singing was gone, it would never return. That’s just the way it worked.

After supper, the singing started. We filed in and sat down. German songs for the first fifteen or twenty minutes. Then the English songs.

The four of us, Marvin Yutzy, Mervin Gingerich, Rudy Yutzy and I sat together. I forget who announced the song or who led it. One of us. The song was “Living by Faith.” Which had clear harmony parts in the chorus.

In the first chorus, the four of us loudly bellowed the parts. Painfully off key, I’m sure. The rest of the youth, most of them church members, stumbled and stuttered a bit, then joined us. The first verse. The second. The third. Then the last. My father sat on a back bench, frowning rather darkly. To his credit, he didn’t make a scene. Then it was over. We sagged on the bench, triumphant. We had done it. All the rest of the songs that required parts singing that night were heartily sung the way we always had.

And so harmony singing was saved in Bloomfield. As far as I know, it’s still done today. But just that close, it was nearly lost. Four young rebels rescued it. With admittedly less than pure motives. But we knew demagoguery when we heard it.

And the trouble all started at one of those infernal preachers’ meetings.

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Last Saturday night I attended a birthday party. Anne Marie Zook’s 40th. Paul and Anne Marie invited a sizable group of friends to their house. Delicious food was served, grilled pork sausages and all the fixings.

Anne Marie is doing well. She’s still on her natural treatment program, fighting the malignant brain tumor that was diagnosed almost a year ago. Because of all the natural foods, she has more energy than she’s had at any time since I’ve known her.

She’s not out of the woods, by any stretch. But her last PET scan about two months ago showed no traces of the cancer. They live day to day, fully aware that circum-stances might change dramatically for the worse without warning. But hope is a beauti-ful thing, and they cling to that and their faith as the months and, God willing, the years pass by.

The baseball postseason is upon us. Around here, Phillies fans walk about with exaggerated swaggers. They’ve done it again, won their division in a tight race with a close finish. Gotta’ give them credit. Ryan Howard just might take them all the way.

The poor Mets choked again in the last game of the season, same as last year. I do take great solace in the fact that the vile Yankees are out of postseason play for the first time in thirteen years. Evil Jeeter walks around forlornly, unsure of what to do with himself.

My prediction for the World Series: The Rays and (how this pains me) the Phillies. Go Rays.

My condolences to all those in the south who are experiencing gas shortages. If the government would get out of the way and allow the market to function naturally, you’d have all the gas you needed. Remove the price controls, and watch it flow in. Sure, you’d pay higher prices for a week or two, but the prolonged shortage would never have materialized. It’s basic economics. Too bad our esteemed leaders are blithering idiots.

It’s been a tumultuous week economically. I’ve seen nothing that would make me retract anything I wrote last week. The next seven to fourteen days will be interesting and probably a little frightening. Something’s gotta’ give, and it will. The craven Senate passed the boondoggle bailout bill in the late hours Wednesday night. This afternoon the spineless House caved and passed the abomination into law. Our Congress has rarely sunk this low in its corrupt and shameful history.

We are entering uncharted terrain. Night is coming on. And after November, it looks like a child will be leading us into the darkness.