Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy by Donald B. Kraybill, Steven M. Nolt, David L. Weaver-Zercher
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determination to distinguish themselves from the surrounding society, which they considered to be corrupt.
Within a generation, both Mennonites and Amish began immigrating to North America, where many settled in the same communities and recognized one another as fellow Anabaptists, even while cultivating distinct traditions. With some exceptions, Mennonites engaged the wider society more readily than did their Amish counterparts. By the twenty-first century, many Mennonites were seeking to harmonize Anabaptism with higher education, professional pursuits, and urban and suburban living, while Amish people embodied their Anabaptist convictions in rural areas and in traditional customs that they called an “Old Order” way of life.
Anabaptist habits that undergird Old Order Amish culture include their responses to violence, crime, and undeserved suffering. These are not the only situations in which Amish people practice forgiveness, but they are circumstances of stress, pain, and grief in which the Amish repertoire of values creates particular patterns of practice. These values incorporate a willingness to place tragedy in God’s hands without demanding divine explanation for injustice. They also include a desire to imitate Jesus, who loved those who harmed him and who refused to defend himself. Wider society’s police and judicial powers merit respect, and even appreciation, the Amish say, but as institutions of “the world” they are fundamentally alien to the Amish, who do not use them to seek revenge.
We examine these and other Anabaptist habits in more depth in Chapters Seven, Eight, and Nine, where we explore the roots, spirituality, and practice of Amish forgiveness. For now, we turn to a sampling of stories that illustrate Amish habits in the face of crime—stories that are part of the larger repertoire of faith that stood behind the Amish response to the violence of Nickel Mines. These stories, filled with both pain and grace, tell us that the Amish reaction to the shooting, remarkable as it was, was neither exceptional nor rare.
Forgiveness as First Response
Forgiveness seemed to come quickly for an Amish mother in northern Lancaster County when her five-year-old son was hit by a car in 1992. The boy was riding his scooter, crossing the road that separated their house and barn, and his injuries were so severe he didn’t survive to see the next day. Still, as the investigating officer placed the driver of the car in the police cruiser to take him for an alcohol test, the mother of the injured child approached the squad car to speak with the officer. With her young daughter tugging at her dress, the mother said, “Please take care of the boy.” Assuming she meant her critically injured son, the officer replied, “The ambulance people and doctor will do the best they can. The rest is up to God.” The mother pointed to the suspect in the back of the police car. “I mean the driver. We forgive him.”
In this case, an expression of forgiveness came swiftly, at the accident scene, before the driver’s breath alcohol test and before the victim’s death. Still, three years later, the mother again asserted her forgiveness of the driver in the pages of a short book she wrote titled Good Night, My Son . Forgiveness did not take away the pain that still tore at the parents’ hearts, nor was their acceptance of their son’s death without struggle. Yet upon reflection several years later, the mother did not retract the forgiveness she had offered at the scene of the accident.
Another story that highlights the speed with which an Amish family extended forgiveness in the aftermath of tragedy came to us from the recipient of that gift of grace. In late October 1991, Aaron and Sarah Stoltzfus had enjoyed a happy day together. Married in an all-day wedding at her home the previous Tuesday, the couple had set out on their honeymoon. Unlike English couples, who might fly to a Caribbean
Within a generation, both Mennonites and Amish began immigrating to North America, where many settled in the same communities and recognized one another as fellow Anabaptists, even while cultivating distinct traditions. With some exceptions, Mennonites engaged the wider society more readily than did their Amish counterparts. By the twenty-first century, many Mennonites were seeking to harmonize Anabaptism with higher education, professional pursuits, and urban and suburban living, while Amish people embodied their Anabaptist convictions in rural areas and in traditional customs that they called an “Old Order” way of life.
Anabaptist habits that undergird Old Order Amish culture include their responses to violence, crime, and undeserved suffering. These are not the only situations in which Amish people practice forgiveness, but they are circumstances of stress, pain, and grief in which the Amish repertoire of values creates particular patterns of practice. These values incorporate a willingness to place tragedy in God’s hands without demanding divine explanation for injustice. They also include a desire to imitate Jesus, who loved those who harmed him and who refused to defend himself. Wider society’s police and judicial powers merit respect, and even appreciation, the Amish say, but as institutions of “the world” they are fundamentally alien to the Amish, who do not use them to seek revenge.
We examine these and other Anabaptist habits in more depth in Chapters Seven, Eight, and Nine, where we explore the roots, spirituality, and practice of Amish forgiveness. For now, we turn to a sampling of stories that illustrate Amish habits in the face of crime—stories that are part of the larger repertoire of faith that stood behind the Amish response to the violence of Nickel Mines. These stories, filled with both pain and grace, tell us that the Amish reaction to the shooting, remarkable as it was, was neither exceptional nor rare.
Forgiveness as First Response
Forgiveness seemed to come quickly for an Amish mother in northern Lancaster County when her five-year-old son was hit by a car in 1992. The boy was riding his scooter, crossing the road that separated their house and barn, and his injuries were so severe he didn’t survive to see the next day. Still, as the investigating officer placed the driver of the car in the police cruiser to take him for an alcohol test, the mother of the injured child approached the squad car to speak with the officer. With her young daughter tugging at her dress, the mother said, “Please take care of the boy.” Assuming she meant her critically injured son, the officer replied, “The ambulance people and doctor will do the best they can. The rest is up to God.” The mother pointed to the suspect in the back of the police car. “I mean the driver. We forgive him.”
In this case, an expression of forgiveness came swiftly, at the accident scene, before the driver’s breath alcohol test and before the victim’s death. Still, three years later, the mother again asserted her forgiveness of the driver in the pages of a short book she wrote titled Good Night, My Son . Forgiveness did not take away the pain that still tore at the parents’ hearts, nor was their acceptance of their son’s death without struggle. Yet upon reflection several years later, the mother did not retract the forgiveness she had offered at the scene of the accident.
Another story that highlights the speed with which an Amish family extended forgiveness in the aftermath of tragedy came to us from the recipient of that gift of grace. In late October 1991, Aaron and Sarah Stoltzfus had enjoyed a happy day together. Married in an all-day wedding at her home the previous Tuesday, the couple had set out on their honeymoon. Unlike English couples, who might fly to a Caribbean
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