Light Shines on Promise Lodge

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Monroe frowned. Not only was it rude to riffle through the Scriptures during another preacher’s sermon, but the insistent whispering of the Bible’s thin pages distracted folks in the congregation.

  “Even in our most difficult times, even when we have failed to keep God’s commandments or to follow His will for us,” Marlin summarized in a resonant voice, “He does not abandon us if we follow Him and seek Him out. Even in the darkest hour of the cross, when Jesus asked why His Father had forsaken Him, God displayed His sorrow by shrouding the world with darkness at noon. And then He kept His promise yet again by raising Christ from the dead to reign with Him in heaven forever. Thanks be to this mighty God who has conquered sin and death and who loves us in spite of the many ways we turn away from Him.”

  “Amen,” one of the men in the meeting room murmured as Marlin returned to the preachers’ bench. Monroe, Amos, and Eli nodded to Marlin as he sat down, but Bishop Clayton sat clutching the Bible to his chest, staring at a spot on the floor as though the answers to the world’s most pressing questions were written there.

  After the first sermon, folks knelt on the floor for prayer. Monroe sighed as he bowed his head, sensing the tension in the room.

  Lord, not my will but Thine. We could sure use Your help this morning as we take in whatever Your servant, Clayton King, might say to us.

  Dark clouds had hovered in the sky all morning, so Monroe wasn’t surprised when fat splats of rain began to hit the windows.

  As the members rose from their knees to sit on the pew benches again, Bishop Clayton stood up to begin the second, longer sermon. Rather than waiting for Marlin, as the deacon, to read the day’s scriptural passage, however, King held up the large, thick volume as though folks had never seen it before.

  “Sorry to say this, my friends,” he began in a voice that filled the room, “but this morning’s first sermon played fast and loose with the Scriptures, to the point that we’d be here the rest of the day if I corrected all the fine points of Old Testament history about who actually said what to whom.”

  King paused to look closely at the congregation. “But that brings me to the message I was going to deliver anyway—because fast and loose also describes how the Promise Lodge community adheres to the basic, bedrock teachings of the Old Order.”

  Monroe winced. Beside him, Marlin’s face was taking on color; his eyes widened when King’s remark about his sermon sank in.

  “I’ve been here long enough to see for myself how you folks do things,” King continued with a heavy sigh. “And unfortunately, I can confirm the suspicions of the Council of Bishops that sent me here. You’re headed down the path to spiritual destruction, following Satan’s own lead.”

  To Monroe, the communal intake of breath was the sound of everyone’s joy being sucked from the room. Clayton cut an imposing figure in his black suit, with his dark hair and beard trimmed shorter than most men at Promise Lodge wore them. He could’ve been a modern-day prophet as he continued. Even though King lowered his voice, the congregation resembled a roomful of school kids who’d shrunk down at their desks after the teacher had reprimanded them.

  “I really hoped I wouldn’t have to lay down the law,” King began apologetically. He gazed at the members as though he truly regretted the sermon he felt compelled to preach. “But we Amish uphold our ancient ways because they lead us ever closer to God’s salvation. However, when Mattie Schwartz, Christine Hershberger, and Rosetta Bender sold their farms and bought this campground property rather than reconciling with their bishop in Coldstream—defying him rather than following his leadership—they started a trickle of misbehavior that has swelled into a flood of negligence and disregard for the tenets of proper Amish life.”

  Monroe felt the pain on the faces of his wife and her sisters, as well as the scowl on Amos’s weathered face. He was surprised that none of them stood up to defend the purchase of this land, except that they respected whoever was preaching because God had chosen him as a leader of the church. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain became a steady downpour.

  “I find it especially unfortunate that Rosetta has led other Plain women astray by offering them apartments.” Clayton turned toward the women’s side, shaking his head. “You ladies seem so proud of your independent attitude, but to God it’s a slap in the face. Our Lord desires your humility, so He decreed that the men of your families were to provide for you.”

  King cleared his throat before he continued. “Although it’s encouraging that you three sisters have married and obeyed God’s will to that extent, you continue to operate businesses as though your income is needed to keep your households afloat. From what I’ve observed, no one at Promise Lodge lacks for anything!” he added emphatically. “We’ll discuss that further after I list the points you need to address immediately—preferably on your knees, as you beg God’s forgiveness.”

  Monroe sensed that King’s pause was more for dramatic effect—to make folks even more nervous—than to allow him to catch his breath or gather his thoughts. As a speaker, he was polished and confident. Tucking the big Bible beneath his arm, he turned to catch Amos’s eye before he spoke again.

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t sketch your preacher, Amos Troyer, into this picture,” Bishop Clayton said as he again faced the congregation. “God chose him many years ago to be a leader of the church, yet he was instrumental in allowing the Bender sisters to carry through on their outrageous plan to purchase this property. And he’s gone along with their new rule, about Promise Lodge being a community where men are not allowed to chastise their wives—or to correct their faulty thinking about who God chose to be the head of Amish households.

  “Never mind about the humility and submission the Bible teaches!” King added dramatically. “So from there, with a preacher in the lead, this community was headed down the slippery slope before anyone else even took up residence here.”

  Amos was gripping his knees as the color rose up from under his white shirt collar. Monroe felt compelled to stop Bishop Clayton’s diatribe by standing up to defend the folks King had declared defiant and outside God’s intentions—except King turned to focus on him.

  Monroe’s mouth went dry. He should’ve known his perceived sins would be hung out alongside his friends’.

  “The most heinous infraction of Old Order ways I’ve witnessed, however, is the fact that your bishop, Monroe Burkholder, not only condoned the marriage of an Amish woman to a Mennonite man, but he conducted the wedding service!” Bishop Clayton announced above the next rumble of thunder. He came across as a father pointing out the faults of his favorite, beloved child, but even so, Monroe felt a slow burn in his chest.

  He swallowed his retort, however. Many Old Order bishops would chastise him for allowing an Amish woman and a Mennonite man to intermarry.

  “And on the subject of your bishop, I was astounded—and greatly saddened—by the huge, beautiful horses I’ve seen grazing his lush pastureland,” Bishop Clayton went on. “This brings me back to the subject of the prosperity I’ve seen at Promise Lodge. Those Clydesdales are the ultimate example of how you’ve misunderstood the rules of the Ordnung, because they’re raised and trained for wealthy clients who show them as an expensive hobby rather than for any practical purpose that pleases God. They are the antithesis of the humility and simplicity God wants His people to exhibit as they pursue their livelihoods.”

  Monroe fought the urge to refute King’s accusations . . . because he’d made a valid point: training expensive show horses wasn’t a typical Amish endeavor because it catered to a wealthy English clientele rather than providing Plain neighbors with dependable farm or buggy horses.

  When he’d taken over the Clydesdale business from the uncle who’d raised him, however, Monroe believed that God had gifted him with the skills and the physical strength he needed for a reason. He’d known from his boyhood that his uncle and God were equipping him for this elite livelihood, so although Monroe understood some folks’ objecti
ons to it, he never apologized for continuing his work—or for making really good money at it.

  It hurt Monroe to see the pained expressions on his congregation’s faces, however. A few of the men were silently pleading with him to stand up to the visiting bishop who’d trampled on all the principles and progress they held most dear.

  But Monroe kept his seat. Bishop Clayton wasn’t finished, and interrupting—or arguing with—a church leader chosen by God was unacceptable behavior for him, just as it was for any other bishop.

  “It’s no small issue that Promise Lodge is a wealthy community, apparently laying up its treasure here on earth rather than in heaven,” King put in ominously. “I admonish you all to remember the story in Matthew nineteen, where a rich young ruler asked Jesus how he could attain eternal life. That fellow left feeling quite disheartened when Christ told him to sell all he owned, give the money to the poor, and follow Him.”

  Bishop Clayton paused to meet several members’ eyes. “Will your prosperity damn you in the end?” he demanded. “‘It’s easier for a camel to walk through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven.’”

  The meeting room got very quiet. Guilt prickled like a burr that had lodged between Monroe’s shirt and his skin, and the faces around him reflected similar discomfort. No one at Promise Lodge had set out to acquire wealth, and not a soul among them could be classified as greedy, but every family in the room was doing well financially. And thanks to Floyd and Lester Lehman, they all lived in new homes with aluminum siding and windows.

  Was it the outward appearance—the newness of their buildings—that gave King the impression of their prosperity? Surely he hadn’t researched the residents’ incomes, or their bank account balances....

  “Now that I’ve made my points to you folks, I’ll report my findings to the council,” Bishop Clayton continued. “Those men will consider these matters, and in due time recommend remedies to restore your community to rightness with God. Are there any questions?”

  Monroe’s mouth dropped open. Had King just invited folks to air their grievances—to engage with him during the sermon? It was unheard of to turn the church service into a congregational meeting! The time for such a discussion would be during a members’ meeting following the final hymn. Yet Truman Wickey stood up.

  “With all due respect, Bishop Clayton,” he began stridently, “do you think we didn’t pray about these matters before we proceeded with them? Do you believe we would’ve founded Promise Lodge the way we did without first asking God’s guidance—and then following what He told us to do?”

  “Jah, you’ve got us all wrong!” Mattie Troyer muttered. “We believe we’re carrying out God’s will just as fervently as you’re telling us we’ve started down the path to perdition.”

  “Things are different here in Missouri,” Preacher Eli pointed out. “And historically, Amish folks have often broken away from a church district that no longer served their needs. That’s a gut thing! It allows for geographical expansion, and for young men to relocate so they can afford their own land—and for differences of opinion—while keeping us all under the Old Order umbrella.”

  Another clap of thunder punctuated Eli’s remark. Everyone looked toward the windows when the rain beat more loudly against them. King stood with his hands clasped behind him, as though he’d expected such an outpouring from Promise Lodge residents. He seemed unmoved by what he’d heard, though.

  Bishop Clayton smiled slowly, aware of his power to hold his audience captive as he leaned toward Truman. “And your name would be—?”

  “I’m Truman Wickey,” he replied, “and the decision to allow my marriage to Rosetta came only after a great deal of prayer and—”

  “Of course you’d say that,” King interrupted smoothly. “You got what you wanted, so it’s easy to believe that you and your friends have been doing God’s will. The bishops in the council see it differently, however.”

  Monroe blinked. Although King had invited their input, he didn’t intend to change his mind no matter what any of them said. His condescending tone silenced the congregation’s whispering, and it compelled Monroe to stand and speak up.

  “What do you propose we do about these issues you’ve raised, Bishop Clayton?” he asked loudly. “What do you think the council will expect us to change?”

  King pivoted to face Monroe. “That’s not for me to say. When the council responds to my report, I’ll let you know.”

  Monroe struggled to keep a scowl off his face. He’d had all he could handle of King’s attitude, his prophecy of doom. “So be it,” he muttered. “Let’s bring this service of worship to a proper close, shall we?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “What do you suppose that bunch of bishops back east is going to say about us?” Gloria asked softly. She and Laura had taken seats at the end of a table across from Cyrus and Jonathan, but their conversation felt stifled. The dining room was unusually quiet during the common meal.

  Cyrus shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll find out,” he replied as he picked up his ham sandwich.

  “And what’re folks supposed to say to Bishop Clayton while we wait for his answers?” Laura murmured with a shake of her head. “He might be here awhile—”

  “Jah, he doesn’t seem any too eager to leave,” Jonathan remarked. He glanced around to be sure Bishop Clayton wasn’t within earshot. “But then, why would he? He’s got a free place to stay with Lester, his meals are being provided, and the ladies are doing his laundry. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to stick around,” Cyrus said with the hint of a grin. “How about if we eat fast and get out of here—take our dessert with us? It’s a shame to spend our afternoon surrounded by gloom and doom when we could go find some fun.”

  Gloria’s eyes widened with the sense of adventure behind Cyrus’s suggestion. “There’s a pan of Ruby’s cinnamon bars in the pantry—”

  “And what if we went to the ice-cream parlor in Forest Grove to eat them?” Laura chimed in softly. “It’s open on Sunday afternoons—and it could be a double date!”

  “I’m outta here!” Cyrus slapped his hand against the table. “Jonathan and I will go hitch up the buggy, and we’ll meet you girls at the back door in five minutes.”

  “You’re on!” Gloria said in a giddy whisper. She understood why the adults around them were feeling somber, but the opportunity to head into town with Cyrus and Jonathan was too good to pass up. Folks might gossip about where the four of them were going, but why should they care? Wasn’t it only natural for young people to pair up and get away from the older folks on a Sunday afternoon?

  A few moments later Cyrus headed for the lodge’s front door with Jonathan close behind him. Gloria flashed Laura a conspiratorial smile as she got up and exited through the kitchen. By the time she’d taken the foil-covered pan of cinnamon bars from the pantry, Laura was joining her. They waited until they got outside to burst out laughing.

  “What’ll Ruby say when she sees her bars are gone?” Laura asked. “She and Beulah and Irene will be home from Cloverdale pretty soon, and they’ll probably want some with their dinner.”

  “We’ll tell them later that these bars went toward a gut cause,” Gloria replied. “And they’ll probably be glad they went to their Mennonite service today instead of hanging around here to hear the bad news.”

  “Jah, to them, I don’t guess it matters much what Bishop Clayton says—unless he tells Rosetta she can’t rent apartments to them any longer,” Laura remarked. “Do you think that’ll happen?”

  Gloria sighed. “I sure hope not, because I’ll lose my job. But here come the guys,” she said, pointing toward the approaching horse-drawn buggy. “No sense in worrying about what Bishop King or that council will do, when we can be out enjoying happier company this afternoon.”

  “Jah, the common meal was more like a funeral lunch. I feel bad for Bishop Monroe,” Laura murmured. “He’s a gut man and I can’t believe he—
or the rest of us here—have done anything so terribly wrong that God’s going to condemn us forever.”

  When Cyrus pulled the black buggy up alongside the corner of the lodge, Jonathan hopped out of the front seat and opened the back door so Laura could scramble in ahead of him. Gloria quickly took her place beside Cyrus in the front.

  “Here we go!” Cyrus said, urging the horse forward. “Making our escape!”

  “Jah, let’s make it a gut one, considering we’re all set to join the Old Order in two weeks,” Jonathan remarked. “There won’t be any escaping that day, because everyone will be congratulating us—praising God that we’ve seen the light and joined the church.”

  Gloria’s heart danced as she set the pan of bars on the floor. The windshield wipers swished rhythmically and the gravel crunched beneath their wheels. When she glanced toward the backseat, she was surprised to see that Jonathan had his arm around Laura’s shoulders as though they were already a cozy couple.

  How have they been seeing each other without my knowing?

  Gloria forgot about the pair in the back, however, when Cyrus wrapped his large, warm hand around hers. She felt like a queen. It was a treat to see the Helmuth brothers dressed in their black Sunday trousers, vests, and straw hats with their crisp white shirts, because they usually came to the lodge for their meals in the worn broadfall pants and faded shirts they wore while working at the nursery. Both young men were handsome—but Cyrus was cuter.

  He squeezed her hand. “Maybe we could sample those cinnamon bars on the way to town,” he suggested. “We should probably bring Ruby something back with us, since we made off with her dessert.”

  “That would be generous of us, jah,” Jonathan agreed. “She and her sister feed us well three times a day, and they never run short where the goodies are concerned.”