The Riddle of Amish Culture

by Donald B. Kraybill

  By the turn of the twenty-first century, the Amish National Steering Committee had become an important mediator between Amish interests and government concerns.8 An informal network of directors from Amish-populated states gathers for an annual national meeting, and various states have their own statewide meeting of local representatives as well. An informal lobbying effort of sorts, the Steering Committee has grappled with many issues over the years—conscription, child labor, slow-moving vehicles, Social Security, IRA accounts, 401(k) plans, hard hat regulations, Worker’s Compensation, and earned income credits, to name a few. The presence of the Steering Committee is also helpful to government officials at local, state, and national levels to ascertain Amish opinions on pending issues and legislation. The Steering Committee has become an important venue for negotiating traditionalist Amish convictions with the realities of the bureaucratic state. Because the chairman of the National Steering Committee has resided in Lancaster County since 1966, the Lancaster settlement has played a prominent role in coordinating discussions with government officials.

  SOCIAL SECURITY

  Although the Amish pay local, state, and federal taxes, they refuse to pay into Social Security or tap its benefits, which they view as an insurance program rather than a tax.9 Indeed, when the federal program began in 1935, it was called Old Age and Survivors Insurance. The Amish have objected to public insurance programs for several reasons. First, they believe that the church should care for the welfare of its own members. The Amish record on this score is commendable. Widows, orphans, and the disabled are cared for by extended families and by the church. In cases of extreme difficulty, the needy are assisted by an alms fund. The elderly retire at home under the care of their children. Families often take turns caring for senile members and others requiring special support. Rather than institutionalizing dependent people, the Amish care for the needy through extended family networks. To turn these responsibilities over to the state would, in their mind, abdicate a fundamental religious duty—the care of one’s brothers and sisters in the faith.

  Second, insurance programs—especially life insurance plans—are viewed as gambling ventures that seek to plan and protect one’s fortunes rather than yield them to the will of God. For example, the Amish usually will not buy annuities because they carry life insurance benefits. Insurance programs defy the stance of Gelassenheit—of waiting and submitting to divine destiny—because they guarantee a favorable financial outcome. Participation in such programs also entails economic involvement with, and reliance on, the world—a violation of the biblical injunction of separation. Finally, Amish involvement in public insurance programs would destroy dependency on the church and erode its centrality in the lives of members. Moreover, the mutual aid programs provided by the community—the networks of social capital—would be severely diminished.

  The Amish plea for exemption from Social Security was voiced by an Amish spokesman in hearings before the Ways and Means Committee of the U.S. House of Representatives in 1983: “The Amish are only human and not as perfect as our non-Amish neighbors would take us to be, and not as near perfect as we would like to be, and we would not wish to be a burden to our government or men in authority or to be a hindrance to anyone. We desire no financial assistance from our state or federal government in any way. But again, we would humbly plea that we be allowed to take care of our own, in our own way, through alms and brotherly love as has always been our custom and has been sufficient to this day.”10

  When the Social Security program began, it created little problem for the Amish because the self-employed were exempt. The loophole closed in 1955 when the self-employed, including farmers, were required to participate.11 The government, in the Amish view, had overstepped its bounds by forcing them to pay into, and receive benefits from, a federal insurance program. By May 1955, Amish representatives from across the nation, led by a Lancaster bishop, presented a petition asking for exemption to federal officials and members of Congress. The petition, signed by nearly fourteen thousand Old Order members, baffled Washington bureaucrats. This was the first time in the twenty-year history of Social Security that citizens were begging not to receive benefits. The Amish argued that if they began paying into the program it would be hard to keep their sons and daughters from collecting benefits, and in a generation or so they would be hooked on the system.

  For the next several years, the Amish argued their case before congressional committees, but the legislators were hesitant to open the door for special exemptions, fearing it might dismantle the entire system. Finally, in 1958, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) began filing liens on farm animals and other Amish assets in Ohio.12 IRS enforcement varied by state and region. Frightened by the crackdown, some Amish farmers began making payments, but others still refused. In 1958 IRS agents in the Midwest began confiscating and selling Amish-owned horses. Such seizures continued intermittently. In 1961 agents seized three horses from an Amishman in western Pennsylvania while he was working in the field. By the time legislative relief arrived in 1965, there were an estimated 1,500 delinquent Amish accounts and 3,000 liens on Amish properties.13 National publicity and public outcry on behalf of the Amish brought the issue to a stalemate.14

  More than a dozen bills seeking to exempt the Amish from Social Security were sponsored by legislators from heavily populated Amish states in the early 1960s. A Social Security exemption was passed by Congress and signed into law by President Lyndon B. Johnson on 30 July 1965 as an appendage to the bill that established the national Medicare program. According to an Amish negotiator, Lancaster Bishop David Fisher told House Ways and Means Chairman Wilbur Mills that “we take care of our own people and if we start paying in, the next generation will collect and we don’t want no government handouts.” Mills replied, “There’s nothing wrong with that.” And, according to an observer, “Mills just hung an exemption rider on the Medicare bill and it sailed right through the Congress.”

  The exemption approved in 1965 applied only to the self-employed. A special IRS form (4029) was developed for religious groups that had convictions against Social Security. Today, within six months of their baptism, young Amish complete the exemption form, which is then signed by their bishop. After filing the exemption, they receive an “exemption number”—in essence, a Social Security number. Signers of the form agree to “waive all rights to any Social Security payment or benefit.” Thus, the Amish receive no Social Security checks for welfare, retirement, disability, Medicaid, or Medicare.15 Changes in the federal tax code in 1987 required wage earners to obtain a Social Security number for each dependent child over five years of age. The Amish objected to this and negotiated an agreement with the IRS to waive the requirement.

  BOYCOTTING GOVERNMENT “HANDOUTS”

  The Social Security exemption approved for the Amish in 1965 functioned smoothly for self-employed farmers and carpenters. However, it created complications as the Amish began moving into business. A variety of arrangements developed as the Amish coped with the self-employment restriction: (1) Amish who work for non-Amish employers have Social Security taxes deducted from their paychecks even though they will never receive Social Security payments. (2) Amish employers must pay the Social Security tax for their non-Amish employees. (3) Until 1988 Amish businesses paid Social Security premiums for their Amish employees even though they would never benefit from the program. “It’s like paying for a dead horse,” said a businessman. A retired Amish shop owner said: “I paid thousands of dollars for Social Security taxes for myself and my employees and won’t get a penny of it back.” (4) Some businesses organized themselves as legal partnerships so the employees—owners or partners in this case—were considered self-employed and exempt from Social Security payments, Worker’s Compensation, and unemployment insurance. (5) In other cases, several Amishmen worked together as a carpentry crew but kept individual records and collected their pay separately to qualify for the self-employment exemption.

  With business arrangements
pressing the legal definition of self-employment and with more Amish moving into business, several legislators from heavily populated Amish areas sponsored bills in the United States Congress aimed at removing the self-employment restriction.16 Finally, in 1988 the self-employment exemption was expanded by Congress to include Amish employees working for Amish employers, thus exempting both. However, non-Amish employers must continue to deduct Social Security taxes if they hire Amish employees.

  Two other insurance related programs, Worker’s Compensation and unemployment insurance, have also created problems for Amish employers. The Amish view these, like Social Security, as government insurance programs. Self-employed workers are exempt from Worker’s Compensation and unemployment insurance. As employees of Amish school boards, Amish teachers were caught in a dilemma with these programs. In 1978 Pennsylvania legislators unanimously passed a bill exempting Amish teachers from Worker’s Compensation. The IRS considers Amish teachers self-employed because they teach without direct supervision, thus freeing them from paying unemployment insurance. Several states—Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Wisconsin—eventually exempted all Amish from Worker’s Compensation because of their religious objections.

  Over the years, numerous federal programs designed to stabilize the prices of agricultural products have regulated supply and demand. The Amish have typically avoided agricultural subsidy programs. For example, they refused to sell their cows in a federal buyout program in the 1990s and to accept payment to let farmland sit idle. They have historically opposed government “handouts,” from Social Security to agricultural subsidies. This repudiation has baffled government bureaucrats.

  Increasingly, a few Amish have participated in some programs underwritten with government subsidies—conservation programs, land preservation efforts, and Federal Home Administration (FHA) loans for farms. One minister accepted $17,000 to build a manure pit as part of a government effort to clean up the Chesapeake Bay. In the adjoining church district a lay member refused to accept a subsidy for his manure pit as a “matter of conscience.” In 2000, several Amish families were conscientiously struggling with whether to accept $2,100 an acre in government funds to preserve their farmland.

  The Amish boycott of Social Security and other government subsidies reflects two cherished ideals: community self-reliance and the religious conviction that church members are responsible for the economic welfare of their brothers and sisters.

  THE WITNESS CONTROVERSY

  In the spring of 1984, the Amish found themselves in a peculiar public relations quandary. They learned, to their astonishment, that Amish life would be depicted in a major Hollywood film, Witness, which Paramount Pictures planned to shoot in Lancaster County. The Pennsylvania Bureau of Motion Picture and TV Development, eager for national publicity and tourist revenues, had solicited Paramount for an Amish picture.17

  The story featured a Philadelphia detective (played by Harrison Ford), who finds refuge with an Amish family. Endangered by a criminal investigation, Ford lives with the Amish family and falls in love with an Amish widow (played by Kelly McGillis). The drama ends with a violent shoot-out on an Amish farm. The violence of a cop thriller, set in an idyllic Amish countryside, created a dramatic clash of images.

  As the film was being shot in the early summer of 1984, the Amish began to protest for several reasons. First, they had always opposed television, movies, and photography. They resented being portrayed in a medium they abhorred. Second, they have typically shunned publicity, and a commercial film would project Amish images on screens around the world. Third, perhaps more than any other word, Hollywood symbolized worldliness in the Amish mind—a “den of iniquity” that distributes sin, sex, and violence to viewers around the world. Thus to have Hollywood, the symbol of moral vice, make a film about the Amish and catapult them into international fame was a triple insult. Finally, the Amish knew that they were being exploited commercially by the tourist industry. Writing in protest of the film to Pennsylvania’s governor, an Amishwoman said: “We Amish feel we are serving as a tool to lure tourists to Lancaster County.”

  As the filming got under way, Amish bishops warned members not to cooperate with the Paramount production crews. “We can’t stop them,” said one Amishman, “but we don’t have to help them. We don’t want it. It doesn’t belong here.” In a conciliatory overture, director Peter Weir promised not to use Amish persons in the cast. However, the Amish soon discovered that Kelly McGillis had spent several days in disguise in an Amish home. Upon identification, she was asked to leave. This breach of trust added insult to injury. An irritated Amish grandmother said: “Now, that was an intrusion. I thought that was pretty bad. We wouldn’t do that to them [the public] and they wouldn’t want us to either. They’d hike us out the door faster than we ever came in.” Although the Amish stayed aloof from the filming, they felt betrayed by some local officials who assisted Paramount Pictures. And as the Amish suspected, the monetary rewards were great. The filming alone pumped several million dollars into the local economy.

  Unable to ignore the insult, three bishops and a lay leader took their protest to Lieutenant Governor William W. Scranton in Harrisburg. The delegation argued that the Amish had been mistreated because actors had been dressed as Amish and were engaged in physical fights and shown making nasty remarks. Said one leader: “If our principles were to fight, I feel we could go to court and get an injunction on the basis of misrepresenting the Amish, but this is not our way.” Using the ultimate bargaining chip, one bishop remarked that the Amish “might have to move if they were not left alone.”

  Harrison Ford defends the Amish with fists during on-site filming of Witness in the Village of Intercourse. The Amish objected to this scene because Ford, dressed in ethnic garb, was fighting.

  After hearing their pleas, Lieutenant Governor Scranton promised to intervene. He arranged several meetings that produced an agreement with the secretary of commerce and the director of the Pennsylvania Bureau of Motion Picture and TV Development.18 In brief, it stipulated that the state:

  Will not promote Pennsylvania Amish as subjects for feature films or television productions.

  Will not promote any script that uses the Amish and/or its culture as subject matter.

  Will refuse to deal with film companies that attempt to film the Amish without their consent.

  Will inform potential producers of the community’s strong opposition to photographs and having its culture represented in any theatrical production.19

  By the time the agreement was finalized, Witness was well on its way to the screen. The arrangement placated both parties. The state was pleased because no restrictions were placed on Witness, which would soon stir the curiosity of millions around the world. And though the state promised not to solicit film producers, the secretary of commerce admitted that “really, nothing would change if Witness were coming in tomorrow as a new production . . . other than making it clear that the Amish community does not wish to be intruded upon.” The state commerce department, he noted, would again offer the same sort of support that it gives to other films.

  “We were quite happy with the agreement,” an Amish leader said. “We felt it was as far as the secretary of commerce could possibly go, legally.” A bishop concluded: “We think we got what we asked for.” Negotiating the agreement gave the Amish an opportunity to vent their frustration with the whole ordeal and to inform state officials that there were limits to Gelassenheit—they would not merely pray while being trampled upon by Hollywood greed. And while the state did not want to prohibit future Amish films, it surely did not want to provoke an Amish migration.

  The local Pennsylvania Dutch Convention and Visitors’ Bureau maintained a discreet distance from Witness. Although the bureau supported the agreement reached with the Amish, its representatives did not attend a highly publicized premiere of Witness in Lancaster City. After release of the film, however, bureau brochures began inviting tourists to Lancaster County, “as seen in the critically
acclaimed movie Witness.”20 Meanwhile, Witness was doing well. It grossed $33.7 million at the box office in its first six weeks and even knocked another Paramount film, Beverly Hills Cop, out of the top slot. Things were also going well for tourism in Lancaster County. By the end of the first six-week run of Witness, tourism had climbed 13 percent, even before the summer rush.

  PUPPY MILLS AND CHILD LABOR

  Two issues that complicated Amish relations with the larger society at the turn of the twenty-first century were the so-called puppy mills and child labor laws. In fact, some observers felt these flashpoints were tarnishing public relations for the Amish community. Both issues, charged with emotion and stereotypical images, illustrate a clash of cultural values.

  The “puppy mill” controversy began in 1993 when the New York Times published a story implicating some Amish farmers for violating health standards in the dog kennels where they raised puppies for pet shops.21 The article pitted three Amish farmers, “who treated dogs like any other animals,” against Humane Society officials who wanted better care. One Amishman charged that “the animal rights people are more concerned about dogs than their own children.” By the turn of the twenty-first century, Lancaster County had about 230 licensed dog kennels for breeding purposes, many of which were Amish owned.22 Amish farmers typically had twenty-five to fifty breeding dogs in licensed kennels that were inspected by the state department of agriculture.