January 30, 2009

The Shepherd at Dusk: His Vision & Legacy

Category: News — admin @ 6:02 pm

NOTE: THIS POST CONSISTS OF CERTAIN FACTS, SIFTED FROM A WIDE VARIETY OF SOURCES, AND INTERPRETED FROM MY PERSPECTIVE. FROM CERTAIN EVENTS THAT UNFOLDED MORE THAN A DECADE AGO, EVENTS NOW SHROUDED BY THE FOG OF YEARS.

MY OPINIONS, OBSERVATIONS AND CONCLUSIONS ARE MY OWN, AND MAY DIFFER FROM THE READER’S.

WARNING: GIRD YOUR LOINS, FOR THIS IS BY FAR MY LONGEST POST.
__________________________________________________________________

photo-2-small.JPG

But how much I stand to lose is not the question.
The question is, and must remain, ‘Am I right?’

—Elmo Stoll
_________________________________________

The late afternoon heat shimmered from the pavement.

A man on a bicycle rode swiftly along the narrow shoulder of the highway. Gliding along through the Tennessee countryside, navigating the occasional small hill or looping curve.

The man bent forward on the seat. He was strangely dressed. Broadfall “barn door” denim pants. Galluses. Plain blue collarless shirt. No hat. His long gold-gray beard swept behind him in the wind as he pedaled furiously, obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. The bicycle picked up speed as he swept down a long slope on the empty road.

Suddenly he seemed to lift from the seat, plucked up by an invisible hand. Then settled back and slumped forward over the handle bars. His rotating legs slowed, then stopped. The bicycle hurtled on, then gradually slowed as the man struggled to apply the brakes. He guided it into the roadside ditch and wobbled to a halt. The man dismounted and staggered a few steps, then abruptly sat down on the grass, letting the bicycle fall beside him. Something was dreadfully wrong. He clutched at his chest. Gasped for breath. Then slowly reclined onto the grass in a prone position.

The man lay there stretched out in the grass and heat. For a minute. Then two. A pickup truck approached and slowed. Stopped. The “English” driver stepped out and scrambled to the motionless figure in the ditch. He recognized the man lying there and crouched down and felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there. The bicycle rider was still alive.

A few other young men now showed up. On bicycles, also plainly dressed. They crowded around. For a few minutes, in what seemed an eternity, the English man remained beside the fallen rider, whose breathing gradually subsided into shallow gasps. Then faded into silence. Frantically, the English man grasped the rider’s hand again and felt for a pulse.

There was none.

He crouched there in the pounding heat in shock and disbelief, still holding the limp hand. It couldn’t be true. The man on the ground before him was not expendable. To so many, whose world could not go on without him. He couldn’t be dead. Not with so much work to do, so much depending on his leadership.

The English man stirred into action. With the help of the young men, he quickly lifted the limp body into the pickup and sped toward town and the hospital. He pulled up outside the emergency room. Orderlies rushed out and transported the body onto a gurney and disappeared inside.

But the English man knew it was too late. What the verdict would be. Shock waves would reverberate across the country that night. And the next day.

The English man was right. It was too late.

At that instant, Elmo Stoll stood face to face with the God he served.

************************************

After their exodus from Aylmer, Elmo Stoll and his brave little band of eager followers arrived in Cookeville, TN on October 5, 1990. To the land they had purchased earlier that summer, all two hundred acres. But on that land stood only one small dilapidated barn. No house. Or any other structure. They would have to build.

Like the Pilgrims disembarking from the Mayflower, the forlorn little group stood for awhile, huddled in the elements, as if waiting for inspiration from above. Then the men roused themselves and unloaded all their earthly belongings from the tractor trailer. Stored what they could in the little barn. Parked machinery willy nilly, here and there. Tethered their horses to trees, the cattle held in temporary rope corrals.

They needed a place to sleep. For their immediate needs, they had rented two small houses on a nearby farm. Two families and several single people set up in the cramped space there. The men walked about the two hundred acre farm in a daze, like settlers in the barren wilderness, not sure what was up or which way to turn. I can’t imagine that they didn’t despair. But they were fully immersed in the magnitude of their endeavor, and filled with hope.

Immediate discord plagued the group, as they wrangled over the rules the Community would adopt. Some wanted true communal living, with all meals shared, and only private sleeping quarters. Others wanted private housing and meals, with communal purse only. Some wanted it this way and some wanted it that. Meetings were held, with much discussion. Somehow a policy was hammered from the discord. Each family would set up its own household.

The Community would not have any power tools, modern equipment like gasoline engines or even running water in the houses. The men scouted about for building sites, and with the help of several men from nearby Scottsville, set to digging the basements and foundations by hand. It was tough, discouraging work. On top of that, the first load of lumber that arrived from the local yard was so mixed up and of such poor quality that it was all sent back.

But they soldiered on. Bravely, day after day. Winter was coming. They needed houses before then. Slowly the first two houses took shape. Simple structures. Block foundation, wood board and batten siding cut from local timber, hardwood floors. Plain interiors, with no plumbing. Dry sinks, with shelving in the kitchens. An outhouse behind each house. Primitive indeed, but they could build as it suited them. In the remote hinterlands of Cookeville, there were no building codes.

Then the great day came when the first two houses were finished, and they moved in. Began construction on several others, for the families that would be arriving soon. They also began construction of a meeting house, in which services would be held.

And so the grand experiment was launched. The Christian Community. Communal living. Perfect harmony. With each other and the land. And before God. The littered trail of historical failures ignored. It had never been done right before. It would be done right this time. This they purposed in their hearts. This they believed.

Of those heady early optimistic days I have no real comprehension. Or of life in the Community in Cookeville, then or later. I wasn’t there. And it’s hard sometimes to capture the true essence of how things really were, without personal exposure. But I was on the sidelines, the peripheral of things. I knew many of the characters involved. And knew enough of the type of personality attracted to such a venture to get a feel of how it was and how it all went down.

The first few families were soon joined by others, some from Aylmer, and the little Community grew. Houses sprouted here and there about the farm. If a family arrived and there was no house, it stayed with another family who had already built theirs. Spring came and each family planted truck crops, tomatoes and such, to sell on the open market.

The discord that had plagued the small group that first arrived remained in the Community in one form or another all through its existence. Elmo Stoll, the leader, worked tirelessly to mold divergent viewpoints into a manageable system. The buck had to stop somewhere. And it stopped with him.

They dressed distinctively and deliberately non-Amish. Very plainly. But different. The men sported long untrimmed beards and mustaches. Hats were optional, but strongly discouraged. Too Amish. Besides, how could a man pray when working in the fields while wearing a hat? His head should be uncovered. But they did wear galluses. And collarless shirts. The women wore plain dresses and capes and a distinctive veiling that flowed back over the shoulder. Bicycles were allowed for transportation. There was no official set of rules, or “Ordnung,” like the Amish have. Or so it was claimed. But groups who disdain Ordnungs usually end up with more onerous restrictions than those who have them. The rules end up stricter. Also more flexible, shifting with the whims of the leaders.

During the early 1990s, Elmo Stoll and I corresponded sporadically via mail. And so it happened that in August, 1991, on my way down to Bob Jones University in South Carolina, I stopped for the night at the Christian Community. By invitation from Elmo. I drove south in my old tan T-Bird and arrived in Cookeville. There, I stopped at a gas station and asked where the plain community was located. They instantly knew what I was asking and gave me detailed directions.

I drove out and turned off the highway onto the long dirt drive. Approached what looked to be a cluster of houses, outbuildings and groves of trees. I parked, got out and approached a plainly dressed, hairy bearded man. I didn’t know him, and he looked at me suspiciously. “I’m Elmo’s cousin and here to see him,” I said. He directed me to the spot where Elmo was working with his sons.

Elmo greeted me warmly. He looked about the same as I’d remembered him. Tanned and fit from all the hard manual labor. Only minus the hat. In Aylmer, he wore the broadest brimmed hat available. Here he stood, bare-headed in the sun. He was genuinely glad to see me. “Get your bag, and I’ll take you to the house,” he said.

I grabbed my overnight bag and followed him. Along a narrow little trail that wound through woods and bushes. As we walked, he whispered conspiratorially. “This is how I’ve imagined our Anabaptist forefathers sneaked through the woods to their secret services. On secret pathways.” I chuckled, but was mildly shocked. What man in his right mind would desire to live in times of physical persecution? But to each his own.

He led me to their house, a plain unpainted two story building with vertical board and batten siding. Lisbet greeted me kindly. I would stay for supper and the night. His sons also greeted me with firm handshakes. Everyone was open, genuinely friendly.

We walked back outside and joined a knot of men working under an open pavilion type building. To one side lay the foundations of a horse powered unit, a contraption of wheels and pulleys and belts. A horse would be hitched to it to provide power for molasses pressing and other work. It wasn’t finished, so I got no demonstration.

The men were soon deeply immersed in discussion. They had a problem. Seems one of them had to catch a bus in Cookeville at 2 AM the next morning. The bearded one who had looked at me so suspiciously when I arrived. Traveling back north to see family, or some such thing. They discussed the logistics of getting the bearded one to the bus station in the dead of night. By wagon, or buggy. Did they have sufficient lights? Who would take him? Although it was the last thing I wanted to do at 2 AM, I bravely piped up and offered my car as a taxi. With me as the driver. Fortunately, my suggestion was received with bemused condescension. And a polite, curt refusal. What was the sense of having a Community separated from the world, if they’d have to depend on a car to get someone to the bus station? In a weird way, their reasoning made perfect sense. But still, a car would be parked overnight on the grounds. The driver available. It would be a lot safer than traipsing through the Tennessee hills at 2 AM with some horse drawn contraption that had no lights. Ah well. Secretly, I was relieved. And slightly embarrassed.

Elmo gave me a quick tour of the Community, probably half a dozen houses at that time. A few outbuildings. As evening approached, I accompanied him to his house, where Lisbet and her daughter had prepared a tasty but simple supper. Soup and bread and some side dishes. After supper, Elmo and his sons and I sat around and visited.

I had hoped for some private time with just him alone, to discuss the issues on his heart and mine. But he seemed to have no qualms discussing the most sensitive subjects in the presence of his sons. Even the younger ones. I was a bit taken aback, and mildly irked, but accepted his conditions. He seemed to have a very good relationship with his sons. We talked about his vision for the Community and discussed my own relationship with my father.

He was intrigued by my pursuit of a college education. Asked many details of my first two years of classes at Vincennes University in Indiana. Queried me about Bob Jones. As we wound down for the evening, he invited me to come and stay in the Community and study the Ante-Nicene Fathers. The early church writings. He was big into that. He had the complete set of their published works, some of which are pretty kooky.

“Come,” he said. “And join us. You can take all the time you want, all day, every day, reading and studying. I think that would be much more beneficial than attending a worldly college.” He continued earnestly, looking right through me with those piercing eyes. “I see you as a seeker. Otherwise, I wouldn’t invite you to come and study. You are a seeker, and the answers may well be right here in the Community.”

I was flattered that he considered me genuine seeker material. But even in those long ago years, I instinctively knew that one day I would write. But not apologetics for plain communal living. I thanked him and declined.

At bedtime, I was ushered to a small corner bedroom, displacing one of the boys. A bed, some plain furniture and a tiny desk with a small manual typewriter. I retired and slept soundly. No dogs barked. It was peaceful.

The next morning, I got up and ate breakfast with the family. Seems the bearded one had been successfully transported to the bus station in Cookeville, with no loss of life. As I gathered my bag, Elmo again admonished me, kindly enough, to keep my priorities in order. To consider carefully the path I was on, the worldly pursuit of knowledge that lured me. I thanked him and Lisbet for their kind hospitality and took my leave.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

But he still had much work to do. Having laid his hand to the plow, he cast no glances behind him, but marched forward, tilling the fertile fields of his vast new vision. The Cookeville community soon filled with seekers, many if not most from non-plain backgrounds. Through the underground network that connects such people, the word of Elmo’s new community spread like wild fire. Along with the word that seekers would be welcomed with open arms. They needed no further invitation, but descended upon the poor little community in droves.

From every imaginable cultural background, each with his own kookish ideas of how things should be done, how scripture should be interpreted, how plainly one should live. And not at all shy of expressing themselves. Again, I wasn’t there, but from my contacts I gathered that Elmo was almost driven to distraction, dealing with many of these people. And no wonder. Crackpots, vagrants, kooks, tramps. Penniless, most of them. Many with families in tow. Of course, some were relatively sound and level headed. I consider my contacts among these.

After Cookeville bulged to the brim with seekers, there was only one option left. Expand. Create a network of Christian Communities across the USA and even Canada. And so they did. Decatur was founded in 1993. New Brunswick, Canada in 1994, as a haven for those who attempted to join in America, but were turned back at the border, or forced to return after a period. Holland, KY in 1996. Finally, Smyrna, Maine rounded out the circle of Communities. With such explosive growth, they would rival the Amish in a generation or so. For sure if they could keep picking off disgruntled Amish members from across the nation.

These must have been heady times, and extremely stressful and busy days for Elmo Stoll. He was the unquestioned leader of the Christian Community. Others were ordained as ministers to assist him. The Community ordained ministers by voice of the congregation, and also a few times by lot. A mishmash of methods.

Their services were held in a Community meeting house. Not in homes like the Amish. I don’t know exactly how the services went down, but I do know they sang and preached in English. So the seekers could understand.

As an aside, I would have heard Elmo preach there, given the chance. But somehow, in retrospect, I’m glad I never got that chance. Hearing him preach in English would have tainted those vivid childhood memories of his mellow lilting tones in PA Dutch, our native tongue.

Economically, the Community developed a rough form of capitalism. A mixture of Amish capitalism and the one-purse practice of the Hutterites. Each family was expected to raise the cash it needed for the year. Which wasn’t much; one family’s annual income the first year was about $3000.00. Others did better. Truck crops were the main source of income. Labor intensive. Early tomatoes and such. Squash, crook necked and straight. Okra. Nut breads and cookies were baked and sold at the Community market. All baked goods had to be at least fifty percent whole wheat. That was the rule, even though they didn’t have an Ordnung.

There were also craftsmen in the Communities. Wood working. Furniture. Both Cookeville and Decatur developed huge sorghum operations. Each family could plant a plot of land with sorghum and receive a share of the profits after the syrup was sold.

They worked with their hands, whether doing household chores, shop labor or toiling in the fields. Intensive labor was part of the plan. And there were joys, I’m sure, in that. The children too, were expected to contribute. And they did. Without exception, those who have contacted me who were children in the Community describe those years as among the best of their lives.

cookeville-maiden-small.JPG
A comely Cookeville maiden toiling in the fields.

The Christian Community published a little bimonthly pamphlet, the “Update.” I’m not sure how they produced it. Probably with a hand-cranked duplicator. Elmo edited the little rag, and somehow found the time to craft some decent writings. Others also contributed, but not just anyone. Politics existed in the Community, as it does every-where people congregate. And you had to be “somebody” to be published. Every article was signed at the end by the writer’s initials only. So as not to be tempted by pride, to see one’s full name in print. A bit of overkill and silliness there. Excessive modesty almost invariably obscures a foundation of pride. Deep down, somewhere.

There were dark things there too, in the Communities. As there are in almost every congregation of every stripe. And in every society. Religious or secular. Plain or worldly. The Communities harbored perverts who committed the most shocking forms of child abuse. Including the worst imaginable. Elmo and the other leaders tried to deal with such problems as a disciplinary matter. No civil authorities were ever involved.

While still in Aylmer, Elmo Stoll had outlined his positions in his booklet, “Let us Reason Together.” The booklet was distributed to anyone who requested one. After moving to Cookeville, he sent me a copy, signed and dated (since misplaced, but among my stored belongings somewhere). One of his positions emphasized the importance of Sola Scriptura. Getting one’s bearings from the Bible alone, not from tradition. “A visible church, a called-out body of believers, men and women who believed and were baptized into the unity of the body of Christ” (Let us Reason Together, page 26) He envisioned this body as a Commune type lifestyle, where goods and talents were shared, with some private ownership.

In the first years after leaving, Elmo was mostly open to the ideas of others, ideas from those who had not emerged from the Amish. Gentle by nature, quick to laugh, good natured, he was open and ready to consider viewpoints on community living that didn’t really jell with his own. After serious consideration and discussion among the brothers, a policy was usually hammered out with minimal fallout.

But holding a steady line, as the Amish are wont to do, became increasingly difficult, as more and more seekers congregated among the Communities. Tradition having been officially tossed out as a negative thing, there was little ground to shore up their own. And thus they meandered aimlessly, changing this position to suit some, changing that position to suit others. They never developed a logical system on which to base decisions. Only a hybrid mixture of communal living and private ownership. The tweaking never stopped.

Meanwhile, the Aylmer Amish community, stung by the defection of its most prominent son, sulked about and plotted bitter revenge. In the upheaval that followed Elmo’s departure, five bishops from other communities were called in for counsel on how to deal with Elmo’s group. Among these bishops were Amzie Troyer of Ludington, MI and Roy Miller of Shipshewana, IN. Both were famed, known far and wide as trouble shooters for thorny problems in other settlements.

Some in Aylmer called for the ultimate discipline, for Elmo’s excommunication. To treat Elmo harshly, as he had treated so many over the years. But the leaders, his own brothers among them, were hesitant. Showed some favoritism. The five bishops waded into this maelstrom and tried to restore some order.

They decreed that Elmo and his group should not be excommunicated, but should not be embraced as brothers either. No concrete rules were made as to whether Aylmerites could visit the Community, but it was strongly discouraged. And so things stood, uneasily for the first year or so.

But not for long. While traveling, Ervin Miller, a close friend of Elmo’s and a deacon in Aylmer, stopped in at the Cookeville Community one Saturday night, arriving late. Elmo, answering the knock on the door at the late hour and seeing his old friend, exclaimed delightedly, “I’m not believing this.” Ervin was welcomed with open arms and even participated in the service the next morning, reading the scripture aloud for the congregation. In English.

It was not a wise decision. Ervin, of course, was promptly confronted with his actions the second he returned to Aylmer. And disciplined. It caused quite an uproar. In the aftermath, it was concretely decreed that no one in Aylmer could go visit Cookeville for any reason. Under threat of severe discipline, including excommunication.

Elmo now was forced to taste the bitter fruit, bear the heavy burdens he had pressed on others for so many years. On the receiving end of unreasonable, irrational policies. It was a bitter pill for him. And he stated as much, expressing remorse for the harsh discipline he himself had inflicted on others in the past.

He was particularly grieved by one development. And that was the fact that his elderly mother was not allowed to visit him at his home. Although I cannot state unequivocally that she expressed her desire to visit Elmo, the natural human yearning of a mother to see her son cannot be extinguished by decree. But the Aylmer church, ruled by Elmo’s brothers and nephews, sternly forbade it.

I’ve taken some gratuitous whacks at Aylmer upon occasion in my writings. As few ever have before. Because I was there and because I could. Because I know the dark secrets and where the skeletons are buried (figuratively speaking, of course). And because I am credible. I’ve probably been a bit overly harsh a time or two. But toward this inexcusable policy, one cannot be too repulsed. It was shameful, heartless, mean, spiteful, shallow, vindictive and un-Christian.

But it was what it was. Elmo was powerless against his former allies. The ruthless Aylmer machine. He had no choice but to accept the tyrannical dictates of those who wished him ill. And plunged the dagger to the hilt into his heart. Just because they could.

He deeply mourned the loss of his family relationships. He longed to be accepted as before. But it could not be. At one point, he wondered aloud to Lisbet whether his siblings would attend his funeral if he died.

Toward the end, in reaction to Aylmer’s threats to “work further” with him, Elmo reverted to a form of his old harsher self. The pressures of leadership and the fear of excommunication from Aylmer took a heavy toll. Wore him down. Wearied him. No longer so willing or open to freely discussing opinions and ideas with seekers. He became more dictatorial, and many seekers became disillusioned by his Jekyll and Hyde personality. No longer did he earnestly pursue Sola Scriptura, but proclaimed that faith and works were equally important. Some of the seeker families left, others were planning to leave at the time he died.

In private correspondence, shortly before his death, he excoriated home schoolers, Protestantism in general, and the feel-good, easy religions of the day. Where each man does what is right in his own eyes. Where each man emphasized his personal relationship to God above his relationship to the church. He was solidly relocating to the “works” camp. Salvation was a combination of faith, works, and submission to the true church, in about equal parts. The true church was a tiny sliver of a remnant. About the size of the Christian Communities. With a few Amish thrown in. And possibly a few scattered nonaffiliated seekers.

His vision could have been so much greater. So much deeper. So much more.

And so things stood on September 2, 1998. That afternoon, Elmo Stoll mounted his bicycle and set off in pursuit of a mentally deranged Amishman who had run away from the Community earlier that day.

September 3, 1998. I sat at my desk in the law office that morning, dressed in suit and tie, deeply absorbed in some thorny legal matter. The phone beeped. It was the secretary. My brother Steve was on the line. A pause, then Steve’s voice.

Elmo Stoll had died the night before from a massive heart attack. No, I said, it can’t be. Can’t be true. Steve insisted it was. The Stolls had heart problems, we knew. Elmo’s father, Peter, had died in Honduras at a fairly young age, from a heart attack. We talked for a few minutes and decided we probably would not attend the funeral, which was scheduled for the next day.

But throughout the day, I had second thoughts. Called Steve a few times. Was he sure we shouldn’t go? He wasn’t. By mid afternoon, our plans were made. I would go home, pack, and drive to his place. He would have his van ready. We would take off for the funeral.

I arrived at Steve’s place at 5:30. His large van was gassed up and cleaned. The back seats removed, and replaced with a mattress. Steve and his wife Wilma and I headed out around 6 o’clock. Hit 81 South and drove. All night, taking turns at the wheel.

We pulled into the town of Cookeville, TN at dawn. Found a nice little motel, and even though it was an odd time to check in, convinced the clerk to book our rooms for that night. We cleaned up and changed into “church” clothes. Headed out to the Community.

A huge crowd milled about when we arrived. We parked in the pasture among the numerous buses and vans and set out in search of our siblings. Most were there, including my brother Titus from Bloomfield. We grouped together and got in line for the viewing. I pushed Titus in his wheelchair.

The place was swarming with people who looked like they came right out of the hills and may have been moonshiners and rum runners. Broad brimmed hats. No hats. Long untrimmed beards. Mustaches. Barefoot. Their women dressed in a vast array of plain costumes.

The Aylmer people too, were present by the busload. Dozens and dozens of them. Including most, if not all, of Elmo’s siblings. Now they came, after he died, for the funeral. While he was living, it would have been a sin. But not now.

The Christian Community people were easy to spot. They walked around in visible shock, like sheep bereft of a shepherd. Many wept, some uncontrollably. They instinctively knew, I think, that the great vision in which they had participated had died with their leader. Or at least that it could not long survive him.

The line snaked slowly toward the house. In the oppressive heat. We shook hands and chatted with many old acquaintances we had not seen in years. Most of the greasy, bearish types acknowledged me curtly and swooped in on Titus. Which was fine by me. At last we entered the room where the body lay.

He had not been embalmed, which was one reason the funeral was held a day and a half after he died. He lay in state in a plain wooden coffin, his face mildly puffed up. But recognizable. His mother sat huddled on a bench across the room, expressionless, bent in sorrow. Surrounded by her daughter and her sons, his widow Lisbet sat there calm but teary-eyed, accepting graciously the condolences of those who had come to mourn her loss.

Lisbet smiled in welcome as she recognized the group of Waglers before her. She seemed genuinely surprised to see so many of us. My sister Rachel was the first to greet her.

“Oh,” Lisbet smiled. “I’m so glad you all came.” Her face softened into a look bordering on sorrow and apology. Her next words shocked Rachel.

“You all must have a lot of bad memories of Elmo,” she said somberly. Rachel, bless her heart, spoke the only words that could have been fitting in that moment.

“We have a lot of good memories of him, too,” she said. And Lisbet smiled again. Greeted the rest of us warmly. She recognized each of us and spoke our names.

I can’t remember the exact details of how the funeral service went down. I remember the stifling heat, and how we all traipsed down a long dusty lane to a grove of trees where the grave had been dug. How we all assembled around. Twelve hundred people from around the country had dropped what they were doing on the spot when they heard the news and left, some of them driving many hundreds of miles, to attend this funeral.

Two long, rather incoherent devotional sermons were delivered there at the grave site, one in German, one in English. Three Amish women, dressed in black, keeled over and dropped like flies from the heat. Finally the coffin was lowered. Elmo’s sons stepped up with shovels and returned their father to the earth. The grave was filled and tamped, and dirt piled up on top.

elmo-grave.JPG

Afterward, we all assembled under a vast open pavilion and a service was held. Bryce Geiser, an ex German Baptist who had joined the Community, delivered the sermon. In English. I can’t remember much he said, but do recall that he was a decent speaker. He may have been the leader of the New Brunswick Community.

I noticed some strange looking bearded men lurking about just outside the pavilion, listening. Real hillbilly types. They wouldn’t come inside or be seated, but shifted around in small circles, their ears glued to the preacher’s words. Later I was told they were from Lobelville, a nearby settlement similar to Cookeville but different enough so they didn’t worship together. Lobelville members were forbidden to sit under the same roof and listen to sermons other than from their own preachers. So they lurked outside and listened. Strange and weird cannot even begin to describe them or their beliefs.

Afterward, some thin watery soup and flat clammy sandwiches were served for a meal. That night, most members of my family stayed at the same motel. We sat around and discussed the day’s events. And what they might bode for the future of the Christian Communities.

And thus Elmo Stoll passed on and was laid to rest. Well before his allotted fourscore years on earth. With so much left undone. He was the greatest Amish leader and preacher of his generation. Maybe the greatest ever. Before he turned his back and forsook it all, stunning the Amish world. He was a charismatic, spellbinding speaker. A natural leader, who took up and carried the heavy mantle of his calling without lament or hesitation.

Deeply flawed. As are all great leaders. Right or wrong, whatever his hands found to do, he did with all his might. And all his heart.

He sensed, I think, that his life would be cut short. Under a doctor’s care the year before he died, he adopted a vegetarian diet and took four ounces of red wine daily for his heart. He also instructed his wife and children to return to Aylmer for five years, should he pass on. They did.

There are those who claim, my father among them, that Elmo was on a journey to return to the fold of the Amish church when he died. That he would be there today had he lived. This is a credible claim, and may well have happened. It seems the Aylmer leaders were preparing for his return. Since there was no opening for another bishop in Aylmer, they founded a new community in Lindsay, Ontario, several hours north of Aylmer. Similar to, but a bit plainer, more conservative than Aylmer. Which would have suited Elmo’s natural preferences. Some claim this community, which has been plagued by dissension since its inception, was specifically founded as a place to which Elmo could return. With some dignity. The truth is probably a bit more murky, but the claim makes sense.

The Christian Community system, I believe, was doomed from the start. It could not work. It cannot work. Religious dissension eventually overwhelms all other factors. Too many harebrained ideas from too many crackpots. Each convinced that his own brand of lunacy is the right one. On top of that, socialism in any form will always fail. Always. Because, among the sincere seekers, it also naturally attracts the dregs of society who have no intention of pulling their own weight. That’s human nature. And if a productive man cannot keep the fruits of his own labor, he will cease to labor. That’s human nature too.

Within months of Elmo’s death, the Communities plunged into the process of natural disintegration. His powerful charismatic personality was the glue that held it all together. Absent his leadership, the system would have collapsed much sooner. After his death, it was only a matter of time. A very short time.

His legacy will always be tainted by the failure of his great vision. Of the perfect brotherhood of believers, living the simple communal life. Given more time, he might well have regrouped and reestablished himself to his former status in the Amish church. In both leadership and influence.

But no one can question his tireless, unceasing labor in the vineyards of the Lord. Although vastly misguided upon occasion, I believe he reached many who would otherwise have wandered aimlessly, lost. He placed his hand to the plow and pursued his vision with little thought to the personal costs or consequences. Or the possibility of failure. Whether you supported or opposed him, you have to respect that.

From the second Elmo blog, I’ve fielded some criticism. To the effect that I’d ignored several very important factors that influenced Elmo’s decision to leave. And at least one important character. The “important character” was deliberately omitted. These blogs are about Elmo, not the hangers on who may have influenced him, whoever they may have been. I am a chronicler, not a historian. There is a difference. That said, the criticism was valid enough, I suppose. All such attempted biographical works are subjective. To the writer’s perspectives. And subject to improvement. And I can’t throw my hat into the ring and expect accolades without criticism.

It is impossible to portray the true depth and measure of Elmo Stoll’s life and his accomplishments in three short posts on an obscure blog. So much had to be sifted through and left out. I apologize for all important omissions. All factual errors are inadvertent, and my responsibility alone. To do justice to the record of his life will take a book. I hope some day someone will write it.

I also apologize for the length of this particular post. I had no intentions of droning on so long, but once immersed in the details, it just flowed out. I could have divided it into two posts, but was determined that this would be my final Elmo writing. Each one has extracted a fairly hefty toll in physical and mental stress. Not to mention countless hours.

I tried to be honest in my portrayal of who he was. To avoid the old Amish trap of saying only positive things. That gets boring fast. And it’s dishonest. Despite his flaws, I always respected him deeply. His death was an almost unfathomable loss. To his family, his flock and to those of us who knew him all our lives.

I harbor no animosity toward his wife, his daughter, or his sons. I wish them well.

And so we reach the end. Of the long road that began before my time and meandered through the days of my childhood and ended abruptly eleven years ago in sorrow and tears on a lonely stretch of Tennessee highway. With all its twists and turns and dark deep valleys and soaring mountains. We look back now on that road and reflect on the life and times of the fascinating and sometimes maddening character, the charismatic leader, the spellbinding speaker, the giant with feet of clay who strode restlessly to and fro upon the earth, on a relentless quest to please God.

We remember the man who was Elmo Stoll.

elmo-gravestone.JPG
____________________________________________

Post Note: Anyone may print hard copies of this post, or any post, as always, and pass them around. But the three Elmo blogs (The Shepherd at Dawn and The Shepherd at Noon) may NOT be combined and reproduced in BOOKLET FORM without my EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION.

Finally, my deepest appreciation and heartfelt thanks to those who so graciously and freely shared their memories and experiences with me. By letter, phone and email. Those who lived in the Christian Community. And those who didn’t. You know who you are. Without your patience, your invaluable assistance, corrections and suggestions, these last two “Elmo blogs” could not have been written.

—Ira Wagler
January 30, 2009

Share
January 23, 2009

More Tenant Tales (Again)

Category: News — admin @ 6:59 pm

photo-2-small.JPG

“Lord, it’s the same old tune, fiddle and guitar.
Where do we take it from here?”

Waylon, lyrics: Are you sure Hank done it this way?
__________________________________________

I can’t help it. I don’t plan this stuff. It just happens. The adventures continue. I look on in disbelief, and absorb them the best I can.

As my regular readers know, two new tenants, single girls, moved into my upstairs apartment last summer, after the previous tenant ripped me off and vacated only after a court order was taped to the door. After the major unfortunate incident with the new tenants, things calmed down. Got quiet. Life went on. I got used to it. Became a bit complacent.

The girl who created the uproar left the week following the police incident. With her Manchu-bearded tattooed boyfriend. Good riddance, both of them. Now only one, Mary (not her real name), remained upstairs. Which was fine.

Mary was quiet, relatively. Paid the rent on time, mostly. And the heating bills. Didn’t complain incessantly about the apartment. This might work, I figured. She’d signed a year long lease. After that, we’ll see.

Alas, it could not last. The good vibes. Mary, bless her soft heart, had one major flaw. From the dregs of her murky social circles, she dragged home numerous misfits and allowed them to stay in the apartment because she felt sorry for them.

I was first alerted to her alarming little habit late one afternoon as I was fetching the mail. A strange looking young tough approached me on my own back porch. Smiling, he extended his hand. His name was Jorge, he said merrily. He and his fiancé were staying upstairs with Mary for awhile.

I gaped at Jorge, but chatted briefly with him. Seemed friendly enough. Looked a little rough, though. Tattoos and all. I decided if Mary kept them under control, I wouldn’t make a fuss about them being there, even though it violated the terms of the lease.

A few days later, official looking envelopes began mysteriously appearing in my mailbox. From the state of PA. Addressed to Jorge. Summons to court. And letters from the local Parole Office. Apparently Jorge was a thug. A real one, not a wannabe. I stuck the envelopes in Mary’s door. After that, I always made sure my own doors were securely locked.

Jorge and his girlfriend lasted about a month. Soon moved on. Had some sort of fallout with Mary. Not surprising. After they left, I approached Mary and firmly told her “no more tenants, without my OK.” She cast me wounded looks, but agreed.

But she never kept her word. Now and again, someone else would show up, stay for a few days or weeks, then move on. I ignored such activities, as long as the “guests” were quiet. And the rent was paid.

And so it went, up until this month. Mary had family visiting from out of state over Christmas. They stayed upstairs in the apartment and were a bit noisy, but I didn’t fuss. Family and Christmas make for some celebration. And noise.

Things began to unravel one night about three weeks ago. Or I should say, one morning about 3 AM. I was sound asleep, in deep sleep mode. In my dreams, I kept hearing an incessant wailing chopping sound. Roused from slumber, I awoke befuddled and eventually grasped the incredible fact that a baby was bawling its head off in the bedroom directly above me.

Mary has no children. As far as I knew, she hadn’t adopted any baby recently. That could mean only one thing. Some mother with baby had moved in upstairs and the baby, like babies do, was screaming in the middle of the night. I tossed about. Seething. Covered my head with a pillow. It was no use. The baby bawled on. And on and on. At about five o’clock, two hours later, I dozed off for a few minutes before the alarm clamored at 5:45.

I was furious. Later that day I called Mary. Why was a baby bawling loudly above my room at 3 AM?

Mary was evasive. “She had nowhere else to go,” she said. “The mother. So I let her move in, just for a few days.”

“Get that baby out of my house,” I retorted. “In the next few days. In the meantime, have them sleep in the other bedroom, so I won’t hear them.” Mary kept insisting they have nowhere else to go. I remained firm. “I can’t save the world. I’ve got to have my sleep. I pay taxes for shelters. Take her to one.” She finally agreed.

I heard nothing for a few nights, and figured the mother and baby had moved on. Of course, they hadn’t. Three nights later, at 10:15, I went to bed. Settled in, ready for sleep. And just then someone in the apartment above began screaming. An adult. Screaming in loud piercing bursts. The mother had freaked out. Snapped. Unhinged. Totally out of control.

I waited about five minutes. The screaming and stomping escalated. Loud shouts. Murmuring voices, trying to calm her down. Vastly irritated now, I got up, dressed and stomped out to the porch and pounded on Mary’s door. She clumped down the stairs and opened it.

“Get these people the bleep out of my house,” I yelled. Only I didn’t say “bleep.” Used the real word. A bad one. “Now. Or I’m calling the cops.” Which was not exactly true. But I was mad. Furious. I wouldn’t call the cops unless my home was being invaded. Which, in a sense, it was.

Mary assured me they would leave the next day. “Then shut her up,” I raged. ‘What does she think this is? A flop hotel?”

I steamed, frustrated. This was simply maddening. Another night ruined. The voices subsided upstairs, but continued. Half an hour later, I knocked again. Calmer now. Mary answered.

She told me the mother had taken her baby and left in a huff, walking down Rt. 23 toward Leola. It was frigid, about fifteen degrees, with a cutting northwest wind. Her boyfriend, also upstairs (unbeknownst to me), ran after her and took away the baby and brought her back to the apartment. The mother kept walking on into the cold night. Down the highway.

I was horrified. Such senseless drama. How can people exist like that? Mary assured me they would be out tomorrow. Again.

“For every night they stay upstairs after tonight, I will deduct $100 from your security deposit,” I told her sternly. “I’m sick of this. Get these people out of my house.”

I thought she’d followed through this time. I heard nothing for a few days. Until one night after returning from the gym, I heard that cry again. The baby. They were still up there.

I knocked and went up. They stood there. The boyfriend, a wizened little man. The pock-faced mother. Probably a druggy. Holding an infant baby girl, who will never have a chance at a decent life. The place was blue with smoke. Everyone sucked on cigarettes. Except the baby, who will soon enough, I suppose. Just give her a few years.

I confronted them. “Who are you and why are you in my house?” I asked, not unkindly.

The wizened little man opened the bedroom door. Showed me their bed, baby bed, dresser, loads of clothing. All their earthly belongings. “Mary rented us this room. We paid her for it,” he said simply. He wasn’t lying.

And suddenly I felt sorry for them. Trying to survive. Out there. With nothing. Except a baby. And no place to go.

“Look, it’s not your fault,” I said. “Mary had no business renting this room to you, without checking with me first. I had no idea you’re living up here.” Mary, standing by, looked grieved. I glared at her. Don’t even start with your excuses.

I continued. Firmly. “You will NOT sleep in this house one more night. Not one more. If you need a motel room, I’ll get you one. And pay for it. Tomorrow this stuff gets moved out. Period.”

He allowed they had friends who could help him move it out. I told them to pack what they needed and let me know when they were ready. Half an hour later, they knocked. He had a car. They were ready.

They followed me to the Hollander Motel in downtown New Holland and I purchased them a room for two nights. Sixty bucks a night. The wizened little man was grateful. Thanked me and shook my hand. The mother sat huddled in the car and clutched the baby and wouldn’t look at me or speak to me. Can’t blame her, I guess.

And so I left them.

He was true to his word, at least. The next day, they moved all their stuff out. I haven’t seen them since.

But that wasn’t the end. Mary suddenly decided she wanted to return to her family in a large Midwestern city. Asked me if she could move out before the lease was up. I told her she could, as long as the apartment was cleaned out. No return of security until it was.

Her close friend, a guy I’ve known for years, agreed to pay the rent through February and get the place cleaned. So out she went. One night last week. She’s gone. The locks have been changed, in case any of Mary’s thugs still hold a key.

So on March 1st, I will once again have an apartment for rent. In biblical times, Elijah the prophet despaired that there was not one true prophet left in all of Israel. Today, I despair that there is not one sane normal tenant in all of Lancaster County. Not one.

If you know of any, send them my way. Maybe I’m wrong, as Elijah was. Perhaps they’re out there. I just haven’t run into them.

Two bedroom upstairs apartment. Private drive and entrance. No kids. No pets. No loud music after 10 PM. And no thugs, or vagrants with babies. Otherwise, whatever you do is your business.
____________________________________________________

Last week I headed out for the Horse World Expo in Baltimore, in a little rented mini van. To set up shop and rub shoulders with horse people for four days. It’s fun to get out of the office for a few days and do something different, although as usual, by the time the show was over, I was sick to death of anything that remotely smacked of horses.

It was different this year. Not as busy as usual. People were wary, skittish. I fielded about a dozen quotes for buildings, instead of the usual three dozen. So I talked components a lot, new roofing, siding, stalls, anything we sell. Gotta’ go where the market is. I spent time loafing and hanging out with my vendor neighbors, most of whom I see once a year, at this show. Someone even went out and got one of those nerf basketballs, and we spent many pleasurable moments shooting hoops during slow times.

show-pic-small.JPG

By late Sunday afternoon, the place was dead. Everyone was heading home to watch the upcoming Ravens/Steelers game. I broke down my display and snuck out an hour early, at five instead of the scheduled six o’clock. I got in my van and headed for the gate, listening to the early game. And right about then, the Eagles scored the first of their three third-quarter touchdowns.

They showed a lot of heart and almost pulled off one of the greatest comebacks in League Championship history. That much is true. More than once, I almost suffered a stroke and/or drove off the road. But thankfully, the Cards showed some heart of their own, and plowed methodically down the field for the winning touchdown. By the time I approached my home, the game was securely in the bag. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, mostly at not having to listen to gloating Eagles fans at work (and on this site). I unpacked and vegged and watched the second game, which was utterly boring compared to the first.

A few thoughts on the upcoming Super Bowl. The Steelers and Arizona. I’m going with Arizona, simply because they’ve been underestimated by everyone so far, including me. I think they’ve got a real shot at winning this. With one caveat. The officiating. The Steelers always seem to reap the benefit of some truly awful calls. It happened against Baltimore last Sunday. A terrible roughing the kicker call. The guy wasn’t touched. The Steelers-Seattle Super Bowl game a few years back was won for the Steelers by the officials. I know you Steelers fans will howl, but that was the worst-officiated game I’ve ever seen anywhere. At any level. And I had no dog in that fight. Was actually rooting for the blue collar Steelers against the yuppie Left Coast Seahawks. Not this time. Go Cardinals. Go Warner.

We now have a new President. I watched none of it, but listened to his speech on the internet. Lots of soaring platitudes, not much substance. So far the country seems about like it was before he took office. Stock market’s plunging, it’s still cold, and the seas haven’t parted. We hear a lot of inane simpering about how we should all back Obama and pull for him. Funny, I can’t remember anyone making such statements back when Bush was first inaugurated. I do recall a lot of seething hatred for Bush that has only increased in intensity to sheer lunacy. If Obama introduces sound free market policies, I will support him in a heartbeat. But if he pursues a big-government agenda and the gorging of Leviathan at the inevitable cost of personal freedoms, I will oppose him implacably from day one. So far he’s managed to appoint a cabinet of pretty scary retreads from the Clinton years.

Finally, the muse has struck once again. Lord willing, and the creeks don’t rise, the final Elmo Stoll blog should be ready by next week. Or maybe the following one. Providing I don’t get interrupted or the muse forsakes me.

Share