And, lowering his voice to an ominous and foreboding whisper,
he said mysteriously, “Beware! Beware! Do not be deceived!”

—Thomas Wolfe
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I know it’s the end of the year, and I certainly meant to write about all that. I’d sure planned to start off about how great the year was, and how so many blessings rained down all around me. But then something happened at work last Saturday, where a lot of odd stuff keeps coming at me. And now that’s what wants to come out.

I don’t like to work on Saturdays, any more than I have to. We’re open until noon, and only lightly staffed. One guy in the office, one in the yard. It usually comes out to about one Saturday a month, for me. And last Saturday, the weekend before Christmas, it was my turn. I dragged myself out of bed, not really feeling sorry for myself, but just a bit grumpy. At least the weather had warmed up, and all that awful snow was sinking out of sight. And right at eight, we arrived, one of my yard guys and me. It would a be slow day, we figured. Couldn’t be much going on, not on a weekend like this. Christmas was too close. I fired up my computers and settled at my desk.

The phone rang, now and then. And there were a few walk-ins. But overall, it was very slow, just like I’d figured. I puttered around, caught up on some quotes that had piled up the week before. And then, around 9:30 or so, the bells on the front door jingled. And I looked up, from what I was doing. A man walked in. And he was dressed distinctly. Plain Mennonite. You can tell, pretty easily, those people. Normal dress, mostly, for the men. Except they tend to wear those funny little pointed hats with a real narrow brim all around. They’re clean shaven, at least the ones around here. In the Midwest, it might be different. Unlike the Amish, Mennonites never had any particular conviction about beards. Well, they do have convictions, just opposite from the Amish. A lot of them take a pretty hard stand against beards. And their hairstyle is always a certain way, too. The women wear cape dresses and usually a pretty good-sized covering. Overall, those groups are just a little too clean-cut to be real. But that’s just me, saying that.

I have some good friends among those people. They’re fine and upstanding and honest, mostly. My friends all are, of course, but I mean the Plain Mennonites as a group. They consider themselves a light to a dark world. But overall, it’s just a bit wearying, to think of them. They’re about as diverse as the Amish, all sorts of levels and factions. Nationwide. Fellowship. Eastern. Mid Atlantic. Charity. Pilgrim. And a whole lot of other groups I never heard of or can’t remember. All doing two things, mostly. Fiercely erecting walls to keep the evil “world” from encroaching too close to where they are. And fiercely judging each other. They don’t think of it that way, about judging each other. But that’s what it is, when you refuse to break bread and drink communion wine (Grape juice, of course, in those groups. The first miracle of Jesus is just explained away as if it never happened.) with each other. They make all kinds of nonjudgmental noises when I talk to them and ask them about the other groups out there similar to them. But there’s a bottom line. We’re just a little better than they are. Because we follow the law more closely, and we got it all figured out, how to work our way to heaven.

I have a little bit of an inside track to how it can be (Not saying it always is, so don’t get all defensive if you’re in that world.) because of what Ellen told me she saw and experienced, growing up like that. All kinds of ruthless power trips and all kinds of heavy, heartless ruling going on. I heard what she told me. And from what little I saw of the people she told me about, it was true, pretty much, what she said. And I’ve thought about it all a lot since. It’s a hard place, to come from. A real hard place to break out of. I’d rather have grown up in the world I grew up in, than that world.

The guy was real nice, last Saturday morning, the guy in the funny little short-brimmed hat. And I got up and greeted him. He was about my age, probably, maybe a few years older. And he was wondering about the cost of a pole building, a little garage his Dad wanted. It just depends on the size, I told him. And what all you want on it. Add stuff, it costs more. Get a basic building, that keeps the cost down. And he told me, “Dad is 80 years old, and he’s determined he wants this building for a shop. And of course he wants his boys to take care of all that for him.” And I kind of scolded him about that attitude. Good naturedly, of course. Be grateful your Dad is active when he’s 80 years old, I said. My Dad’s 92. He doesn’t have the energy anymore to even want such a thing. Be thankful your Dad does. And he made the appropriate noises, agreeing with all that.

And we just talked along. I helped him figure out what size building he wanted, and got to working on the quote. We got along real well. And I asked him, as I was finishing up. Where would it be shipped to? That makes some difference in the cost. I totally expected a local address. Lancaster County has all kinds of Plain Mennonites. I figured he came from over on the north side, somewhere. And I really didn’t figure I had much chance of actually selling it to him, anyway.

And he told me. A town down by the eastern shore in Maryland. About 150 miles away. I was startled, and told him so. I had no idea there were Mennonites like you down that far. What group are you with? And it was his turn to be a little startled. What in the world did this English man know about Plain Mennonites? Are you Nationwide? I asked him. “No,” he said. “We’re Bethel Fellowship. (I think that’s what he said. I didn’t write it down. It was “Bethel” something.) We’re not connected to the Nationwide groups, or any of the others.” That’s real strange, I said. Never heard of you people before.

And it could have all ended right there, and would have ended right there, in any kind of normal day. But this was the Saturday before Christmas. Things were slow. And I just got to visiting with the man. All while working up his quote. He asked for a printed copy, and I stayed busy getting that together for him. And I asked him. So what are all your rules? Do you listen to the radio?

“Oh, absolutely not,” he settled right in, too, to tell me. “We have no instrumental music, filtered internet only, and no TV. We’re not like those liberal Mennonite churches out there.” And I asked him a bit about the size of the community he’s in. “Twenty-five families,” he said. I asked how many youth they had, and at what age they usually joined the church. “We have about twenty youth,” he said. “And they usually join when they’re twelve or thirteen years old or so.” That’s a lot of pressure, there, to join at that age, I thought. That’s how they rope them in. I didn’t say that, though.

And we just kept chatting. I told him I had come from the Amish. By then, he’d figured that out, and wasn’t surprised. He kept going off about instrumental music, and how that was always the first step that leads churches right down the wrong road. What do you listen to when you’re driving down the road? I asked. “All a capella singing,” he said. I bet that gets pretty old, I told him. He claimed it didn’t. He got a little loud, saying all that. But he didn’t mean to, I don’t think. He just had an English guy listening and asking questions about what he believed. Nothing wrong with talking a little loud when that happens. But I kept asking all kinds of questions. And the next one came.

You don’t have radios, I said. How do you know your youth aren’t sneaking around listening to all that evil music when no one’s looking? He looked genuinely shocked. I don’t think he’d ever even considered that possibility before. “No, no,” he half sputtered. “We don’t feel that happens. And if one of them got caught doing that, strong discipline would follow.” And what if he’s still rebellious? I asked. What if the guy won’t put away his radio? “Then he would be excommunicated,” was the answer.

We were talking about his building quote right through all this. I showed him from our little model in the showroom. How a sliding door works. The components we sell. I figure our products are just about the best out there in the market, I allowed. He seemed impressed. And always, the talk drifted back to what his little group believes, because I kept nudging it there. And somehow we ended up over by the counter by the front door. No other customers came. The phone didn’t ring. And soon, an hour had whooshed right by. And we still stood there, talking about a lot of things. The people we came from, the Anabaptists, and how deeply our roots affect who we are. I respect my people a lot, I said. But I could never live like that. And off and on, he kept slamming all those liberal Mennonites out there, so worldly, all of them. Their women wear pants and cut their hair, pretty much an abomination in his book. And it just slipped out of me. That all sounds like a whole lot of judgment, what you’re saying there. Why is any of that stuff your business? And again, he looked a little dumbfounded. “We know them by their fruits,” he spoke as if talking to a child. And I asked him. Do you get many outsiders joining up? People that come from the English?

“A few,” he claimed. I bet there’s not many, I said. “No, because they have too much to clean up in their lives,” he said. And it was my turn to gape. And I grasped at last that the man was “witnessing” to me. He was telling me all the rules you needed to follow for salvation. I can’t remember that he ever even mentioned the name of Jesus at all. Just the things you had to do, to get to heaven. And how messy it was out there, in the world. “Take divorce,” he said, starting down another little trail. And I interrupted without even thinking. That’s where I am. I’m divorced. I figured I wouldn’t mention anything about going to bars and such, because that would just be too much. So I didn’t. He smiled at me benevolently and a little pityingly. I can’t remember his point about it all. But he kept going back to how it’s so much easier when people have their works all lined up, when they come to join his church. “That way, they have far fewer problems with the rules, because they’re already used to it. And there aren’t many from the outside who can ever get their lives in order,” he explained.

I smiled at him. There was nothing hostile in the air that I felt, not from him. He was just talking. I certainly wasn’t hostile at him. He was a nice, friendly man who was just telling me what he believed. He got a little loud, but that was OK. I was the one who made the conversation happen, because I wanted to visit. I did keep nudging him along, though, into ever more horrifying places for him, I suspect. I asked him. OK. Suppose you look at a woman and lust after her. That’s a sin, the Bible says. What if you do that, and then get killed right that instant? Are you lost forever? He leaned in instantly across the counter, and he actually shook his finger at me. And he spoke strongly, unhesitatingly, adamantly. “If you don’t repent, yes. You must repent from that sin.” We all do it, I shot back. You know we do. He didn’t deny that. And he went off again, into all his formulas about works. It all starts with that instrumental music, back there. He just couldn’t keep from going back to that foundational point about that evil music. “Read your Bible,” he told me. And again. “Read your Bible. You have to repent from every sin, or you are lost.”

And right there you have it. Talking to Christians, here. You can be saved and lost and saved and lost a hundred times in a single day, depending on how much you’re sinning and “repenting” in your heart. And in your mind. It’s whiplash. And there are all kinds of formulas out there, to minimize the impact of such beliefs. But it still always boils down to a whole lot of guilt. And a whole lot of fretting about losing your salvation, and trying to hang on to it by your works. It’s whiplash, to have to always be on mental alert like that. It’s torture, is what it is. That’s the same box I broke free from, except I think this guy’s box was even worse. There has to be some better way. Otherwise, all of life is drudgery, not worth living with any joy, but always with forced words and forced smiles. And lots of rules and lots of loud talking. There can be no joy in such teaching, in such beliefs, in such “faith.” There can be none. Not real joy.

And I had never planned to say such a thing, but it just popped right out. It’s like I couldn’t help myself. That’s bondage, right there, I said. And no, my voice wasn’t near as loud as his. I think it even shook a little. But I said it. You are in bondage. It’s impossible to walk in such righteousness, that we keep track of every sin, and make sure we repent. And all those rules won’t do a thing to make your heart one bit purer before God, either. It’s bondage, to believe that. You’re in bondage. Not exact words, there. But that’s what I hope he heard me saying, one way or the other.

I don’t think anyone had ever even suggested something like that to him before. And here stood an English guy, who came from the Amish, saying that. A guy who listened to all that detestable instrumental music, and had a TV. And worse still, a guy who was divorced. It was almost more than he could take. And he struggled. Still, he kept it polite all the way through. As did I. And he rattled off his long complicated formula one more time. You work, to clean up your life. Only then can the church accept you. I told him again. It’s bondage, what you’re saying. “I have to get going,” he said then. We’ve been talking for an hour. I enjoyed it, I said. And I meant that. Let me know if you want that building. “I will,” he answered. Then he walked out.

But not far. I returned to my desk behind my counter. And the door bells jingled again. The man stuck his head inside, and spoke in a pretty loud voice. I don’t think he was hollering, just talking loud so I could hear him from clear across the room. “Read your Bible.” And then he was gone.

At a little church house behind the clock tower in Gap, PA, Pastor Mark Potter keeps right on preaching, keeps right on insisting that the church is a hospital, not a country club. And it’s not a walled fortress, either, to keep the wounded out. It’s a place for broken people with messy lives. And I will say this. From what I’ve seen of country clubs and walled fortresses and such, I have found the hospital far more welcoming. And far more healing. But that’s just me, talking from where I am.
******************************************************

And that brings me to the season again. Christmas. Getting repetitious, here. It was different this year, but real good. On Christmas eve, it all went like I thought it would. Well, almost. Paul and Rhoda and Cody and Adrianna welcomed me into their home. Moments before, the electricity had inexplicably gone off. And their house was lit with candles and lamps. Some stupid drunk had probably hit a telephone pole somewhere close, Paul and I figured. It was a special evening, anyway. We’ll always remember that night. We ate, made merry, and exchanged gifts. And it was just simply a joy to be joyful with that family at such a time as this.

I wasn’t sure how the actual day would go, though. And that’s what was most different, this year. I wasn’t invited anywhere. My brother Steve and his family had other plans, which was fine. It just meant they weren’t serving food in their house that day. So I didn’t have anywhere to go. And no, I didn’t make it known, much. Only mentioned it to a few close friends I could trust not to give me a “sympathy invite.” I don’t want to get invited to Christmas dinner unless you think of it on your own. And besides, I’d probably turn down even such an invitation, anyway, if it’s a large gathering. I’m pretty shy around any large family that’s not my own.

But then something did turn up, something good. I got a message from my friend Allen Beiler. Our good friend from Missouri, Dave Beiler, had returned to see family. And he had some time to get together on Christmas Day, late afternoon into evening. Would I like to come? Of course I’d like to, and I’ll be there, I told him. Yours is the first invitation to anywhere I have that day. And the whole day was calm and joyful. I putzed around at home, fried up some real good natural organic meat I had just picked up the week before. And made a little party by myself. And around six o’clock, I went and hung out with Allen and Dave and a group of other friends. Allen even had some Glenlivet in stock just for me. It was a very merry Christmas.

A quick glance back over the past year. It simply was one of the most exciting and joyful years of my life. I saw so much. And I learned so much. About what it looks like, in other worlds than mine. This country boy ventured out, not only to the big cities, but to the big cities in Germany and Switzerland. I look back and remember all the people I met along that road. People I now treasure as good friends. I remember how they all stepped out and made me welcome. Took the time to show me around. And seemed honored that I was there. It was all pretty astonishing.

I remember, too, what it was to go see my Dad and tell him all about it. What it was to be invited home. What it was to sit and eat with him. That trip was probably the one that stands out above all the rest.

And the angel emerged, too, this past summer. That little event was a huge deal, looking back now. Things haven’t been quite the same since. It seems strange, how such a thing can be. But it’s true. I can measure a lot of things inside my heart in a different way, ever since that happened. I am grateful that it did.

Mom’s still with us, still clinging to life in the dark fog of a world we cannot ever know, unless we enter it. At which point we won’t be able to tell about it. And our prayer remains the same as it was last year at this time. Lord, call her home in the coming year. She is loved and cared for here, and she will always be, for as long as she remains. But You can love and care for her so much better than any of us ever can here. We accept what comes or doesn’t. But please call her home to You.

And this is where I am, in my own heart. Whatever 2014 brings, I think I’ll be fine. Even guardedly happy. I don’t think I’ve ever conceded to just being happy in my daily slog through life. And it’s not like I’ll ever quit grumbling about the small annoying things. I’ll keep doing that. Always have. And if the vile slime that is ObamaCare slithers in and cancels my health insurance, I’ll be more than grumpy, trust me. I’ll be livid. But way down deep, I can tell you that I’m good to go, whatever comes. And I’m looking forward to whatever it is that life may bring.

Happy New Year to all my readers.