Philadelphia Life: Despite population increase, some Amish choose to leave
Features, Special Reports — By Chelsia Marcius on December 15, 2010 at 12:03 am
Jemima King, 28, of Lancaster County, Pa., stands in front of her family's Amish produce stand at Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia. Despite a recent increase in the worldwide Amish population, some like King choose to leave the religious community. Photo by Jessica Bell
PHILADELPHIA — Bagging crisp, white rice cakes and churning honey roasted nuts into a buttery spread, Jemima King has worked alongside her father at Reading Terminal Market for 17 years, selling everything from produce and preserves to jams and jellies.
She said the business partnership has strengthened their bond both personally and professionally. But today, King is not welcome at his home for Thanksgiving dinner. Nor is she invited to celebrate with him on Christmas day. That all changed the moment she stopped being Amish.
For 25 years, King, 28, belonged to an Amish church in southern Lancaster County, Penn., a tight-knit Christian community that rejects many modern day conveniences and adheres to a strict code of social conduct.
But after years of following church rule, King said she had enough. In 2007, she packed her things and parted ways with her family, her husband and the Amish way of life.
“I respect where I came from,” King said. “I respect the conservative, simple way. But I thought that there has to be something more, and I came to the understanding that there’s more to life than being Amish.”
Despite a significant increase in their numbers this year, the Lancaster Amish — who live just one hour outside Philadelphia and bring much business to the city — must still fight to keep members.
According to 2010 reports from The Young Center for Anabaptist and Pietist Studies at Elizabethtown College, the number of Amish, now 250,000 worldwide, grew 10 percent since 2009. Lancaster County boasts more than 29,000 — the oldest and one of the largest Amish settlements in North America.
Stephen Scott, a research associate at the Young Center, said Lancaster is one of the more successful groups, with a retention rate of 90 percent. Yet he said increased land costs have forced many to take up non-agricultural work in urban areas, where they inevitably interact with “the outside world.”
“This is a relatively recent development that could very well have a strong influence on people leaving, especially young girls who are away from home long hours with a lot of outside contact,” Scott said.
David Weaver-Zercher, professor of American Religious History at Messiah College and author of “The Amish Way,” added that settlements close to big cities are more likely to struggle for members.
“Going to market has been looked down upon; it provides young people socialization,” he said. “Families that mix with the larger world, that instead of farming or have businesses in town go to market in a city, will see a lower retention rate.”
Jemima King sells jam, peanut butter and other goods at her family's Amish produce stand. Photo by Jessica Bell
From helping her father stack jam jars to selling goods at the bargain store Bent and Dent, King interacted with non-Amish folk since before age of 11, but never thought of leaving the community. And even after completing Rumspringa — a period of self-exploration when Amish adolescents decide to either join or leave the church — King never questioned the rules of her religious upbringing.
It was not until after three of her six sisters left southern Lancaster that King began to consider other options.
After she moved out, her parents never asked her to visit the five-bedroom house of her childhood; they disapproved of her choice to leave and separate from her husband, who has since left the Amish to join King and their 4-year-old daughter.
“When my first sister left, she wasn’t allowed to come over; they had to mourn,” she said. “Now they’ve learned to accept us at where we are. We’re not a part of their Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners — the ones that left are not invited. But we’ve just learned to accept it. I’m very grateful and thankful that my parents are still talking to me.”
According to Zercher, “Some parents are angry and believe the best thing to do is make that process as painful as possible, which can be difficult and alienating.”
But he added that, like King, many who choose to leave for religious reasons do not abandon their Christian faith.
“It wasn’t materialism that I left the Amish for,” she said. “I don’t have to be Amish to go to Heaven. I was living under a lot a of bondage being Amish.”
Raised in the private, patriarchal and “more plain” part of Lancaster, King –- who now wears rhinestone studs and black leggings rather than white bonnets and calf-length dresses — said fellow churchgoers faced retribution for everything from having a “fancy bathroom” to taking phone calls on the Sabbath.
“The Bishop would go over all the rules of the church, all of the dos and don’ts, down to the nitty-gritty,” she said. “Through all my growing up years, I knew about this God, but the dos and don’ts did not make sense. That stuff really gets me going. It’s what led me to search, to find out what is right and what is wrong.”
Brad Igou, president of the Amish Experience tours and publisher of Amish Country News in Lancaster County, said flexible or rigid church rule has a significant impact on the rate of retention.
“The Amish and the English here are neighbors,” he said of some parts of Lancaster, adding that Amish call all non-Amish people “English.” “As young people grow up, they’re pretty familiar with the outside world that they’re not as enticed by English living. Those communities that are more strict have the most problems, where some members want to rebel.”
But Zercher said children from more separatist groups also have a “bigger jump” to make from being Amish to “English.”
“Even if a girl grows up with an old order, if she’s having a lot of contact with the outside world, she’s gaining the skills to do well if she leaves Amish life,” he said of women like King.
Among the assortment of photos covering her refrigerator door hung a picture her daughter in a blue dress and braided pigtails. The little girl sat smiling atop the knee of her “doddy” — the Amish word for grandfather — who wore a collared shirt and stiff straw hat.
King said she also had a good childhood. She remembered walking one mile to a one-room schoolhouse for class, selling produce at a roadside stand and running through strawberry patches to pick fresh fruit “before the sun got hot.”
“There’s been times I miss just driving down the road in a buggy,” she said. “I miss the little grocery shops and I still look at my daughter’s Amish baby dresses — they’re so cute.”
Still, King said she does not regret her decision.
“It’s drilled into our heads to stay with the church,” she said. “Some people think it’s a heaven or hell issue if you leave. Not all, but some. And they’d definitely take you back — as long as they can see you’re making an effort. They so strongly believe to stay in what you were taught. But I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and once I made up my mind, there was no going back.”
The Border Project: Catholics divided on migrants
Features, Special Reports — By Chelsia Marcius on October 19, 2010 at 11:22 pm
The Catholic image Our Lady of Guadalupe, a Mexican depiction of the Virgin Mary, is painted on many glass candles at the religious shrine of El Tiradito in downtown Tucson. Both English and Spanish-speaking visitors come here to pray, despite heightened tensions within the Catholic community regarding illegal immigrants. Photo by Chelsia Marcius
TUCSON, Ariz. — As Father Bill Remmel addressed parishioners recently at St. Frances Cabrini, Kris folded his arms and stared squarely at the priest behind the podium.
He leaned back, eyes fixed straight ahead, as Remmel described the landless migrants of the Old Testament, and he gave a slight nod of approval when the priest said Christians ought to show hospitality toward strangers. Yet when Remmel said God now calls upon Americans to open their borders and embrace migrants, Kris began to rub his temples as if to alleviate a nagging headache.
“But what happens if the sojourner lives in a country and does not follow its laws?” he called out, referring to the Biblical term for strangers. “What happens to the sojourner if they don’t live up to that responsibility?”
Kris, a Tucson resident who declined to give his full name for fear of losing his job, is a Catholic. He married a Mexican woman, learned Spanish and has not missed a Sunday mass in four years. And like many parishioners, he disagrees with the church on one major issue: illegal immigration.
Tensions heightened within the Catholic community after July 28, when federal Judge Susan Bolton blocked Arizona’s controversial immigration law, SB 1070. And while the Roman Catholic Church publically supports migrants, it now grapples with uniting parishioners with differing beliefs.
“The scripture does not carry a blueprint for our actions,” Remmel said. “It’s not going to tell us how to deal with the gangs, how do deal with people who are smuggling drugs across our borders. What it will help us do is form our own attitudes as we struggle to find the answers.”
According to Joanne Welter, director of the Office of Human Life and Dignity in the Diocese of Tucson, the church has a long history of working to bridge the gap between Catholics on both sides of the border.
Yet it wasn’t until 1996 when Mexican and American bishops wrote “Strangers No Longer,” a call for immigration reform, that the church took a firm and public stance on the issue.
“It was the first time we really began to focus on the plight of the migrant,” Welter said. “It was to say the church doesn’t stop at the border, that we stand in solidarity.”
Casa San Juan of St. John the Evangelist in Tucson offers a number of services to migrants, including English classes, some medical care and boxes of non-perishable foodstuffs such as canned beans, bowls of cereal and bags of white rice.
These services, which fall under the umbrella of humanitarian aid, are not illegal said Beth Ann Johnson, who works at Casa San Juan. She said the money comes from private donations and grants, not from public dollars.
But Johnson said this does not stop some parishioners from misunderstanding the purpose of Casa San Juan or her own efforts to help fellow Christians.
“People have told me, ‘You’re not a real Catholic,’ and, ‘What part of illegal don’t you understand?’” she said. “People don’t really understand what social justice means.”
Kris said that while he does not support illegal immigration or free borders, he’s not against helping people.
“I equate it to finding a stranger at your door looking for a meal,” he said. “You give him breakfast, and everything’s fine. But a few days later, his wife and kids and his cousin Bob are there and you say that’s fine, too. But then he puts a T-valve on your water spigot and he needs meds for his sick kid and then he’s on your couch, watching your TV, using your shower, eating your food. There’s this slower and slower intrusion, and even when you say enough is enough, he just does not leave.”
Franciscan nun Sister Elizabeth Ohmann said some have accused her of “inviting illegals to come north” because of her work with Humane Borders, a faith-based organization providing humanitarian aid to migrants crossing the Arizona desert.
To Ohmann, such comments show that while the church has made some progress, it still has a long way to go before all American Catholics embrace migrants.
“We’ve introduced Spanish-speaking masses and sing as many Spanish songs as we do English ones, which is one way to start,” she said, referring to the 7 a.m. mass she attends each Sunday at St. Cyril of Alexandria in Tuscon. “But some won’t come around if they know it’s a bilingual mass. And I still hear Catholics saying, ‘Why don’t they know our language or our customs?’ But the real question is how are we going to bring the Catholics who’ve lived here their whole lives together with the ones coming now. I don’t know what the next step will be.”
After leaving the order, Catholic “married priests” continue to minister
Features — By Chelsia Marcius on May 2, 2011 at 5:51 am
Thomas McCormick holds two photos of himself, one taken during the early years of his priesthood, the other taken more than 20 years later on his wedding day. McCormick is one of 200 priests of Celibacy is the Issue Ministries who continue to minister even after leaving the Roman Catholic Church to marry. Photo by Chelsia Rose Marcius.