Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy (19 page)
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Authors: Donald B. Kraybill,Steven M. Nolt,David L. Weaver-Zercher
BOOK: Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy
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A day of fasting and prayer falls between Council Meeting and Communion Sunday. Again, forgiveness is an important theme in this final ritual before the bread and the wine are shared. Having been admonished at Council Meeting to let go of grudges they might be holding against fellow church members, many people pray on fasting days for God’s help in the work of forgiveness.
The Amish take very seriously the Apostle Paul’s warning against those who “eateth and drinketh unworthily” (1 Corinthians 11:29)—in other words, those who participate in communion without first mending relationships with fellow members. It is not unusual for church members, heeding Paul’s warning and the advice of Matthew 18, to seek out other members during communion season for the purpose of reconciliation. Both at Council Meeting and again on Communion Sunday, each member is asked to affirm that he or she is at peace with everyone and therefore ready to proceed with communion. On both days, the response needs to be unanimous, or nearly so, for the service to proceed.
The observance of communion begins at about 8:00 A.M. and continues until 4:00 P.M. without a formal break. During the lunch hour, people quietly rotate out of the main worship area in small clusters to eat in an adjoining room. The service, which includes songs, prayers, and several long sermons, comes to a climax when the minister retells the suffering of Christ and the congregation shares the bread and the wine. The bishop breaks a piece of bread from a loaf and offers it to each member as a symbol of Jesus’ body broken on the cross. The congregation then drinks wine from a single cup to commemorate the blood of Jesus Christ.
Throughout the service, the sacrifice and bitter suffering of Christ are emphasized and held up as models for members. When speaking of the bread and wine, the bishop stresses the importance of each member being crushed like a grain of wheat to produce a loaf of bread and pressed like a small berry to make a bottle of wine. One bishop explained, “If one grain remains unbroken and whole, it can have no part in the whole. . . . If one single berry remains whole, it has no share in the whole . . . and no fellowship with the rest.” These metaphors encourage individuals to yield their wills for the welfare of the larger body.
The service culminates in footwashing as the congregation sings a familiar hymn from the
Ausbund
. Segregated by gender and arranged in pairs, the members wash one another’s feet in basins of warm water as a symbol of service and humility.
Ausbund
. Segregated by gender and arranged in pairs, the members wash one another’s feet in basins of warm water as a symbol of service and humility.
Having again affirmed their right relationships with God and with their fellow members, the Amish are prepared for another six months of life together. The rituals of communion and footwashing, and the season of self-examination and reconciliation that precedes them, serve to remind the Amish of the importance of forgiving others and asking to be forgiven. These solemn practices do not make forgiveness easy or painless; they do, however, make forgiveness not simply an option but an enduring expectation.
Part Three
CHAPTER TEN
Forgiveness at Nickel Mines
The acid of hate destroys the container.
—AMISH FARMER
T
o err is human; to forgive, divine.” These well-known words from the English poet Alexander Pope strike many as the right way to think about forgiveness: as something good but almost impossible to do. For that reason, many people found the Amish almost saintly for their expressions of forgiveness at Nickel Mines. A local dentist, expressing Pope’s idea without the poetic refinement, put it like this: “ Those Amish people—they impress the bejeebers out of me!”
o err is human; to forgive, divine.” These well-known words from the English poet Alexander Pope strike many as the right way to think about forgiveness: as something good but almost impossible to do. For that reason, many people found the Amish almost saintly for their expressions of forgiveness at Nickel Mines. A local dentist, expressing Pope’s idea without the poetic refinement, put it like this: “ Those Amish people—they impress the bejeebers out of me!”
Although forgiveness earned the Amish high praise, it also brought them criticism. The act of forgiveness did not take the crime seriously enough, said some. It was offered too quickly, said others. It repressed natural and necessary emotions, claimed a third chorus of voices.
These complaints raise important questions: What exactly is forgiveness? How do we know if someone has really forgiven someone else? Do the words
I forgive you
mean that forgiveness has happened, or is more required? What are the conditions, if any, for granting forgiveness? Is it possible to forgive someone who does not apologize—like a gunman who shoots your children and then takes his own life?
I forgive you
mean that forgiveness has happened, or is more required? What are the conditions, if any, for granting forgiveness? Is it possible to forgive someone who does not apologize—like a gunman who shoots your children and then takes his own life?
Forgiveness is a concept that everyone understands—until they’re asked to define it. Many Christians say that people should forgive because God forgave them. The Amish say that people should forgive so that God will forgive them. But those statements point to
theological
motivations for offering forgiveness; they do not define what forgiveness is. Others argue that forgiveness brings emotional healing to the forgiving person, but this
psychological
motive for forgiveness also fails to define forgiveness.
theological
motivations for offering forgiveness; they do not define what forgiveness is. Others argue that forgiveness brings emotional healing to the forgiving person, but this
psychological
motive for forgiveness also fails to define forgiveness.
In recent years, psychologists such as Robert D. Enright and Everett L. Worthington Jr. have helped to define forgiveness and examine its effects. As a result of their clinical research, both Enright and Worthington have come to believe that forgiveness is good for the person who offers it, reducing “anger, depression, anxiety, and fear” and affording “cardiovascular and immune system benefits.” To make that claim, however, they’ve needed to clarify what forgiveness is—and what it is not.
Enright, in his book
Forgiveness Is a Choice,
uses philosopher Joanna North’s definition of forgiveness: “When unjustly hurt by another, we forgive when we overcome the resentment toward the offender, not by denying our right to the resentment, but instead by trying to offer the wrongdoer compassion, benevolence, and love.” In Enright’s view, this definition highlights three essential aspects of forgiveness: that the offense is taken seriously (“the offense was unfair and will always continue to be unfair”), that victims have “a moral right to anger,” and that for forgiveness to take place, victims must “give up” their right to anger and resentment. In sum, forgiveness is “a gift to our offender,” who may not necessarily deserve it.
Forgiveness Is a Choice,
uses philosopher Joanna North’s definition of forgiveness: “When unjustly hurt by another, we forgive when we overcome the resentment toward the offender, not by denying our right to the resentment, but instead by trying to offer the wrongdoer compassion, benevolence, and love.” In Enright’s view, this definition highlights three essential aspects of forgiveness: that the offense is taken seriously (“the offense was unfair and will always continue to be unfair”), that victims have “a moral right to anger,” and that for forgiveness to take place, victims must “give up” their right to anger and resentment. In sum, forgiveness is “a gift to our offender,” who may not necessarily deserve it.
Forgiveness, then, is both psychological and social: psychological because the forgiver is personally changed by the release of resentment, and social because forgiveness involves another person. That other person, the wrongdoer, may or may not change as a result of the forgiveness. In fact, Enright and many other scholars argue that forgiveness does not and should not depend on the remorse or apology of the offender. Rather, forgiveness is
unconditional,
an unmerited gift that replaces negative feelings toward the wrongdoer with love and generosity. “In spite of everything that the offender has done,” writes Enright, forgiveness means treating the offender “as a member of the human community.”
unconditional,
an unmerited gift that replaces negative feelings toward the wrongdoer with love and generosity. “In spite of everything that the offender has done,” writes Enright, forgiveness means treating the offender “as a member of the human community.”
There are certain things, however, that forgiveness does not mean. Partly in response to their critics, forgiveness advocates have developed a long list of things that forgiveness is not: it is not pretending that a wrong did not occur, it is not forgetting that it happened, and it is not condoning or excusing it. To the contrary, “forgiveness means admitting that what was done was wrong and should not be repeated.” Similarly, forgiveness is not the same thing as
pardon.
In other words, granting forgiveness does not mean that the wrongdoer is now free from suffering the disciplinary consequences of his or her actions (for example, legal or other forms of discipline).
pardon.
In other words, granting forgiveness does not mean that the wrongdoer is now free from suffering the disciplinary consequences of his or her actions (for example, legal or other forms of discipline).
Finally, forgiveness should not be confused with
reconciliation
—the restoring of a relationship. That’s because “reconciliation requires a renewal of trust, and sometimes that is not possible.” Forgiveness may open the door to reconciliation, and in some ways is a prerequisite for reconciliation, but a victim may forgive an offender without reconciliation taking place. For instance, a victim of domestic abuse may forgive her abuser but at the same time seek legal means to keep him at a distance. Forgiveness advocates such as Enright even argue that forgiving a dead person is both possible and appropriate, even though reconciliation cannot take place in such cases.
reconciliation
—the restoring of a relationship. That’s because “reconciliation requires a renewal of trust, and sometimes that is not possible.” Forgiveness may open the door to reconciliation, and in some ways is a prerequisite for reconciliation, but a victim may forgive an offender without reconciliation taking place. For instance, a victim of domestic abuse may forgive her abuser but at the same time seek legal means to keep him at a distance. Forgiveness advocates such as Enright even argue that forgiving a dead person is both possible and appropriate, even though reconciliation cannot take place in such cases.
These ideas suggest that some of the reactions to Amish forgiveness at Nickel Mines resulted from mistaken, or at least questionable, assumptions about forgiveness. For instance, when one columnist asked, “Why Do the Amish Ignore Reality?” she assumed something that all forgiveness advocates would challenge: that forgiveness means pretending an evil did not occur. Anglican Bishop N. T. Wright likewise challenges the notion that forgiveness implies indifference. “Forgiveness doesn’t mean ‘I didn’t really mind’ or ‘It didn’t really matter,’” says Wright. “I did mind and it did matter; otherwise there wouldn’t be anything to forgive at all.”
Other critiques of the Amish response were more formidable than the suggestion that they “ignored reality.” The problem wasn’t that the Amish offered forgiveness, some remarked; it was that they offered it too quickly. Others suggested that the speed with which forgiveness was offered stifled healthy emotions. For instance, one observer reduced the Amish reaction to one sentence: “They have responded to the massacre of their innocents by repeating that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away”—charging the Amish with substituting trite theological mantras for heartfelt grief. In reality, however, the Amish emotional response was much more complex than this one-sentence summary. Similarly, their gift of forgiveness was not as quick or as easy as some commentators thought.
It hardly makes sense to talk about forgiveness unless anger or other negative emotions arise from an offense. Did the Amish feel anger toward Charles Roberts? Did they feel anger toward his family and friends? Some commentaries implied that they did not. “I would not want to be like them, reacting to terrible crimes with dispassion,” wrote Jeff Jacoby of the
Boston Globe.
“How many of us would really want to live in a society in which no one gets angry when children are slaughtered?”
Boston Globe.
“How many of us would really want to live in a society in which no one gets angry when children are slaughtered?”
Jacoby’s critique was more spirited than most, but it was not unique. Moreover, he did not make up this notion of a mild Amish response. On Wednesday morning, two days after the shooting, a Mennonite nurse-midwife close to some of the grieving families told NBC’s
Today Show
that one of the slain girls’ mothers had already forgiven Roberts. “She holds no ill will toward the shooter,” reported Rita Rhoads. “Even last night [Tuesday night] there was no anger toward the shooter.” An Amish woman living in Georgetown said, “I just shiver when I think what would have happened if we had been angry at the firehouse, the funerals, or the burials. It was not a choice we made at the time to
not
be angry. The emotions of deep hurt and sadness along with the tears of grief snuffed out the feelings of anger. Love was something I felt a lot more than anger.”
Today Show
that one of the slain girls’ mothers had already forgiven Roberts. “She holds no ill will toward the shooter,” reported Rita Rhoads. “Even last night [Tuesday night] there was no anger toward the shooter.” An Amish woman living in Georgetown said, “I just shiver when I think what would have happened if we had been angry at the firehouse, the funerals, or the burials. It was not a choice we made at the time to
not
be angry. The emotions of deep hurt and sadness along with the tears of grief snuffed out the feelings of anger. Love was something I felt a lot more than anger.”
Is it possible that some of the families most affected by the shooting felt absolutely no anger? Some of our interviews suggest that this may have been the case. “There was never a time that I felt angry,” the father of one slain girl told us. “It’s been a very hard experience, but I don’t hold any hard feelings against anyone, not against the killer or anybody in his family.” Citing a newspaper article he read about a non-Amish family that “spouted hateful things” for years after a family member’s murder, this grieving parent concluded that “anger helps no one and simply makes the bearer of the anger feel worse.”
In other interviews we did hear Amish people admit to angry feelings at the time of the shooting and in the months that followed. Typically, however, the killer was not identified as the target of the rage. Sylvia, for instance, spoke of the anger she felt when she attended the viewing for Naomi Rose, the youngest victim. “She was just so beautiful. It really made me angry. I wasn’t angry at Charles; I was mad that she was dead, just mad at the evil.” Her husband concurred: “I am angry at the evil and at how much suffering the evil caused because of sin.” The couple went on to tell of a time, several months after the shooting, when the father got mad at his son for failing to clean up some tools in the shop. “You were really angry,” said his wife, “and I think it was because of October 2nd.” In fact, she said, “I think sometimes you get more angry now because of all the emotion related to the shooting.”
These comments illustrate what psychologists call displacement: the redirection of one’s feelings to an alternate target. It’s a coping mechanism that is hardly unique to the Amish. As these comments show, some anger was part of the Amish experience, but it was often deflected or otherwise constrained. In some cases, Amish persons we interviewed did connect the offense and the person who committed it. Still, compared with the way many Americans express their rage, Amish anger was always carefully controlled. And it was expressed in a uniquely Amish manner, as in one elder’s refusal to use the term
evil
to describe the gunman. “It would be better to say he was overcome by evil,” he told us, speaking softly and with no visible hint of anger. “He was overcome by Satan, by evil, but he was not an evil man.”
evil
to describe the gunman. “It would be better to say he was overcome by evil,” he told us, speaking softly and with no visible hint of anger. “He was overcome by Satan, by evil, but he was not an evil man.”
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