1981 Leaving Scottdale (for a while)

1981  Leaving Scottdale (for a while). Memorizing classic texts, Andrew and Mattie’s fortieth anniversary, theology discussions, David and Rose Hostetler, Carl Keener, West Overton Museum fall heritage musicals; Laurence Martin; birthdays, Florida trip and vacation, leaving western Pennsylvania, Guatemala, Mennonite Publishing House.

Although weak at memorization (1952), I’ve been grateful for the few texts I know by memory.  So I made a project for our children to commit some classic texts to memory.  My January 4 journal notes that we will learn by memory the following texts: The Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1-12) in January, The Lord’s Prayer in Spanish in February and in German another month; Hamlet’s “To Be or Not to Be” soliloquy in March, and The Good Shepherd twenty third psalm in June. Others were added, and we would do this around the dinner table, and inevitably the children soon learned them better than I. When I look through my journal notes I see how much education is mentioned, which is understandable, I suppose given my work in Christian and congregational education. I was especially interested in the role of informal education by identity and community and also the formal education of conscious learning and schooling.  

We read books and listened to lectures of people such as Richard Fowler and Kenneth Stokes, the latter asking us to draw our childhood family table which I did with the note: “The childhood experience is explored in relation to the family table and its faith development. I see Paul and Mom being the two dominant people around this table and I colored myself green, brown, and orange because they probably influenced me the most. I suppose the main thing I recall is the degree to which all of life was colored by faith questions.”     

We explored the Christian and religious issues regarding life development and needs at various stages from childhood to retirement and end of life.  And there were the nineteenths century romantics such as Horace Bushnell: “A child shall grow up as a Christian and never know himself other than as a Christian.” This liberal view was not far from traditional Amish and Mennonite culture and church, but it needed to be in conversation with also making an adult Christian choice and believer’s baptism. I pondered these issues and tried to edit and publish accordingly at Mennonite Publishing House. I was humbled and yet honored when the Franconia Conference author and historian John L. Ruth sent me a letter, quoting the King James Version of Psalm 78 verse 72: “He fed them according to the integrity of his heart; and guided them by the skillfulness of his hands.”

Much of my learning approach, whether memorization or community learning went back to my own childhood which we recalled with our parents on March 14. My brothers Paul and David organized a fortieth anniversary dinner for Andrew and Mattie at Rhodie’s Banquet Room. There were poems and songs and tributes, and we sang my parents' favorite hymn: “All the Way My Savior Leads Me.” Our immediate family sang the Swiss yodeling “Blue Cheese” song with silly lyrics about giving the cheese to a mouse. Then there was a fortieth anniversary gift which the children built with a frolic; a large chicken coop for our parents’ Buff Orpingtons. John Roth, Jon Mast, and David’s son Kent had picked up the pre-cut walls and materials early in the morning and by noon it was up and roofed. Andrew was overjoyed and wrote us all about the new set-up with his rooster Butterball and his setting hens as well as those of other friends:  “one for Naomi Weaver, two for Paul and Carol, and one for David and Mary Groh with goose eggs! So it’s a zoo and a circus with Butterball performing to all visitors!” 

The whole family was moving closer during those days as Roy and Ruby and their son Andrew (Drew) moved to Millersburg in the fall of 1981. Roy and Paul had Dan Weaver build a new Miller Building at 105 North Clay Street along State Route 83, a two story brick building with first floor health and medical offices and on the second floor the law offices.    

At Scottdale, our theology discussion had moved to Christology and process theology. I remember the former Brazilian missionary David E. Hostetler had us reading several books on Christology, and he gave several sermons at the Kingview church on the historical Jesus. Hostetler was a good hearted neighbor and editor, and however controversial the topic or news story, he was a mediator and would look for common ground in any debate. It was not unusual after a conversation with David to get a phone call the next day asking forgiveness if he had offended you, or he tried to clarify some feeling or expression to make it more palatable. Besides being news editor of the denominational weekly Gospel Herald, David also edited a small weekly inspirational pamphlet called Purpose. One of the most charming author letters I had ever seen was one from a rejected writer, complementing editor Hostetler. The rejected author said Hostetler had written her the best and most gracious rejection letter she had ever received; she was even contemplating sending him another article, with the assurance that his response would be pleasing-- even in another rejection. 

David and Rosanna Hostetler were neighbors, and as good a neighbors as one might have desired. Devout Christians and internationalists, we enjoyed visiting with them on many topics, not least our Ohio roots (David) and Latin American experiences. When we went away, they looked after our place and animals, and when they went away we checked in with their place, especially their cat Chenille. Their youngest daughter Monica would provide child care for our children, and if we or they had extra overnight visitors, we would share guest rooms in our houses. Rose was also the manager of the Scottdale Provident Bookstore, and genuinely enjoyed reading and books. Gloria worked for her on weekends. David regularly and Rose sometimes helped lead TourMagination groups over the years, and I had the impression that their good-natured mediation instincts served them well when the owners Jan Gleysteen and Arnold Cressman were in conflict.

Meanwhile In April our theology group invited Carl Keener to come to Scottdale to talk to us about process theology whose main tenants as near as I could tell were, well, process, evolution and on-going growth. Other elements were a high view of human freedom and relativity. Keener’s contributions were interesting to me, perhaps as much from a biographical viewpoint, as they are from his philosophical views. Keener, a Penn State University biologist, was trying to put his religious and scientific world together, and one could only wish him well in the process (the very word). However, the degree to which he has simply copied the answers out of process theology books by John B. Cobb, Charles Hartshorne, and Alfred North Whitehead was not convincing. It seemed to me that for any ideological stream to gain traction among the Mennonites, it must also deal with two other fields --- the one is biblical theology and the other is Anabaptist history, and Keener had limited understanding or interest in either, hence could add little to Mennonite thought. 

Over the years, I came to appreciate Keener’s project considerably more when he would come to Laurelville and met with adoptive family youth, telling them his story of finding his biological father and birth brother. Also for many years, his inquisitive mind made him an enjoyable debating and conversation friend in a Lancaster book discussion group to which we both belonged.   

August was especially busy because our family went to the Mennonite’s General Assembly at Bowling Green, Ohio, August 11-16. I was in overload: an Allegheny Conference delegate, leading a youth writing workshop, and writing a major article on the event. But the big local part of August was our practicing for the presentations of The Heritage Singers and the Fall West Overton Museum heritage pageant. The leading spirit behind these annual productions was Laurence Martin who aside from his church and publication leadership at Mennonite Publishing House was a musician and natural organizer. I think he had a feeling for the small-town and regional pageant from back in his Ontario school days, and he hit full stride with annual Scottdale heritage plays from 1978 to the mid-nineties when he left town.

In the spring Martin would come around to our offices and mention what he was thinking for a theme; it might have been the beginning of airlines, the National Road, Stephen Foster, the Overholts, the Civil War, or music schools. Laurence wrote most of the copy himself, but he also co-opted others to help such as Martha Oliver, a playwright herself, and fellow-Mennonites such as Karen Moshier-Shenk, Steve Shenk, Lorne Peachey, and even the young poet Julie Spicher (later Kasdorf). Then Laurence would find music to fit the story, and there were some expected roles to fill. If there was a grand character, let’s say a George Washington or Susan B. Anthony, we expected our local dentist Edward Thorneblade or horticulturalist Martha Oliver on stage. And regularly Mark Twain with stentorian tones showed up; that would be Georg Banks. We knew Rob Allison and Rhonda Sturtz would sing to each other from opposite sides of the stage, eventually moving together, and the song would end with a big kiss. They were all young, theatrical, handsome and pretty, so no less enjoyable for being predictable.  

I wrote a scene in 1980 on the Mitchell Day parade in Masontown so named for John Mitchell (1870–1919), one-time president of the United Mine Workers when they won the eight-hour day and a minimum wage. So this year Gloria and I (with Elizabeth) decided to go down and see the actual event, parade and all. It was not the first time I described something before actually seeing it and discovering that my imagination had it about right—although I think I had also read about the parade in Cloud by Day by Muriel Earley Sheppard.

In 1981, I wrote an episode on Jonathan Chapman (Johnny Appleseed) and then played the main character. The crowd pleaser was Johnny Appleseed crawling out a hollow log in the morning, only to have a black bear coming out at the other end and making a quick exit. Our son Jacob was in the bear costume, and I wrote a part in for a Native American played by Mike Cressman in 1981. I did Johnny Appleseed again in 1987, this time with Jacob as the native American and our girls singing in a children’s group. Martha Oliver who worked with Laurence on many of these shows also organized a clogging dance unit for this show, and I remember Marty and Reuben Savanick who had recently moved back into the area being a part of it. One could name many, many other people Laurence drew into the event, such as Nevin Stiltenpole (banjo player), Jack Scott (acting coach), Linda Banks (singing and make-up) or Mervin Miller (producer).   

My birthday came about the same time as the Heritage Festival, and my artist friend Ivan Moon sent me a pink publishing memo on my birthday September 15, 1981, with the subject “BE CAREFUL. DON’T BREAK A LEG.” There was a warning about using the elevator rather than the stairs, and concluded “Actually, I love you as a brother in Christ. May your spiritual cup overflow. May you run and not be weary. May you walk and not faint.” I think Ivan had in mind the stage cliché, but I remember this greeting because it was probably the only one I got from him and, was on pink Mennonite Publishing House memo paper, the kind of sincere, original and half-baked greeting I might sent myself. But I didn’t which I regret.

Actually, birthdays, were always a mixed happy and guilty pleasure for me because I grew up in a family where birthdays were minor celebrations (almost an afterthought) and married into a family where they were important and remembered; the same was true of office mates. When I look at my files and see the many cards I got from Gloria’s family and office mates every year, and think how little I responded to other people’s birthdays, I realize how little reciprocity, I honored. I appreciated these annual proprieties but seemed never able to absorb the obligations myself. 

But birthdays were a good time for reflection and I wrote:

“The family celebrated 37 years with me last night. There’s certain casualness about the awareness of these increasing years. How one’s life changes and we respond is always a mystery. Especially in the Fall, am I aware of how death and barrenness are the beginnings of new life. I think in a spiritual way it is what Jesus meant when he said that unless a grain of seed is buried and dies, there can be no new life. In many ways, this giving of ourselves to our families, our work, those in need and the church is the source of our inspiration. We may at times suffer, but we learn to celebrate in knowing that in it joy will emerge.”

That September instead of the a Jersey shore vacation, we headed for Sarasota, Florida where we combined a visit to the Mennonite churches (Bayshore and I believe Bahia Vista, introducing the Foundation Series curriculum) with visits to Disney World and the Ringling Circus Museum. But the trip was memorable for its journey as well as the destination. The five of us flew on small Piedmont Airlines planes called hop-scotch flights with stops at Charlotte and Greensboro. Airlines were still serving food during those years, so we were well-fed and alas well-stopped, both going and returning; the kids actually seemed to enjoy it.

Another unplanned memory of this trip was that the Sarasota shore condos were selling time share units, even combing the beaches for buyers, offering ten to twenty-five silver dollars if prospective buyers came for an hour visit. So one afternoon Gloria and I (with Elizabeth) took the real estate visit, and when we returned Jacob and Hannah were contentedly, or so we thought, visiting with two police officers. But the officers took me aside and earnestly said I should never again leave our children un-attended on the beach; there were too many thieves and perverts (their term) around. They emphasized the innocence and intelligence of our children with the evil predators. Even though the rest of the sun bathers looked like a pretty tame crowd with the many elderly, along with Amish and Mennonite strollers, and even a few topless at one section, the police were right.  We were embarrassed; I was careless, and I tried to remember their counsel.

Dear reader, I know you are wondering why all the negative comments; how about becoming more upbeat about two weeks of Florida sunshine and eating a little alligator? Were not the shore walks enjoyable, the Ringling Museum freaks fascinating, the Pinecraft plain folks reassuring, and the Disney “Small World After All” enchanting? Yes, all true, but maybe you are forgetting that we’ve now lived in western Pennsylvania for over a decade, and I’ve acclimated somewhat. Even though I regularly reminded our children that we will not go native, it does seep in. Western Pennsylvanians know that for every proverbial silver lining there is cloud. It helps us to deal with disappointment; we knew life would be difficult; steel mills might close and, by the way, even that Disney “Small World After All“ tune did get irritating. 

Finally, I was reading populist critic Christopher Lasch about this time: his book The Culture of Narcissism (1979), and later The True and Only Heaven: Progress and its Critics (1991). Lasch's hopeful pessimism helped to save my soul and mind during the eighties and the nineties.

Anyway, I wanted to leave western Pennsylvania. The biggest family issue toward the end of 1981 was where we would go in 1982. I had checked the China Educational Exchange program earlier that year, but nothing materialized, and Gloria and I were especially looking for an overseas mission and service assignment in Latin America where we knew the language.  Maybe I felt a little like the young father from Grantsville, Maryland, who told me he felt he was wasting his bilingual and cultural talent on his dairy farm; hence he and his family left to milk cows in Panama, presumably in Spanish. I suppose it was in part the satisfaction of earlier living and service assignments in Cali, St. Louis and Botijas, which led us to pursuing it. I also had come to some sense of the Millers as a medieval family in which all should serve God as a miller, a cook, a merchant, a squire or a physician, but one of the family members should serve the church. And the latter-- even if by divine accident-- was my lot. Gloria and I felt that as a family, now may be a good time for our children to move; it would be harder to leave after the children were older and entering high school.

We sent a note of our interest in Christian mission and service and credentials to Mennonite Central Committee (MCC), and by December Rich and Martha Sider of MCC Guatemala offered us an assignment for two years, teaching at the Mennonite Bible Institute in Guatemala City and being advisors on service projects which the Guatemalan church was developing. This assignment struck us with considerable interest that we might make a contribution. The letter concluded with a final paragraph on the political situation, “as we have said before no one should come to Guatemala unless they feel a sense of calling which goes beyond just wanting to do a few years of service.” The Siders wrote of their own children about the age of ours and dealing with the reality of violence and very conscious of guns, police and soldiers, along with the contradictions of normal family life with schooling, swimming, picnicking, and amusement parks. A few sentences here cannot do justice to the complexity and love with which they described their living, the country, and service situation.

 

Guatemala was in a civil war during much of the seventies with Marxist oriented guerillas on the one side and military juntas often leading the government. There were some disappearances and death squads and news of the low-intensity war was coming north, especially with Anastacio Somoza having been toppled in Nicaragua, and Fidel Castro firmly in control in Cuba. Central American countries such as Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras became proxy battle sites for the global cold war with many civilians and often poor peasants caught in the middle. In this conflict Mennonite Central Committee personnel were trying to work along with the Guatemalan church in peace, justice and service ministries, as the Siders said, “living with the contradictions and frustrations which it implies.” 

In December we were mulling this decision, but then my father Andrew became involved which added another dimension. I began to get copies of Guatemala death squad news stories from family members, and when David Groh, the Millersburg pastor, visited my father’s music shop one morning, it became a prolonged listening session to my father’s anxieties for his grandchildren—should we go to Guatemala. When we attended the Miller family Christmas gathering, my father made frequent references to the dangers of Guatemala, and in the evening when we were leaving, Andrew prayed publically with the children asking for their protection and their parents’ wisdom in making a decision. That evening when we drove home National Public Radio (NPR) had a report on Guatemala, and the children listened to it after having heard their grandfather. I remember it well; we were driving across the West Virginia panhandle between Ohio and Pennsylvania. No one said anything for a while, but Jacob especially began expressing his fears.  

Gloria and I decided we would look at other options, and we soon discovered that Eastern Mennonite Board of Missions in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, also had personnel in Central and South America, and specifically needed a representative in Venezuela. 

But back to leaving Scottdale. I suppose another element in leaving was Mennonite Publishing House (MPH) and its sameness and decline. After seven years (hence fulfilling my graduate school indebtedness) I was ready for a change of scene. We were publishing more Herald Press trade books and had built a new warehouse onto the old 1920s tile building at a cost about one million, but the money was not fully raised from the conferences; the net effect was that MPH indebtedness increased. There were constant economic pressures, and sometimes we went through cycles of austerity; one time we signed onto a packaged program called BAD, as in saving a Buck A Day; I still have a cup with a little Mafioso figure and script: “I’m a M.P.H. BAD guy.” I cannot write about Scottdale’s Mennonite publishing without knowing the end of the story several decades later, and you, dear reader, may know the same. Since the exodus of Mennonite institutions in the seventies (1972), I lived through four decades of Mennonite publishing, financial, institutional and cultural decline, even though I did not recognize it at the time.  

We thought we were innovative and creative, leaders of the denomination, and we were. But, in retrospect, I've also had the feeling that we were quite mismanaged, superficially arrogant, and bound to our past, the denominational equivalent of the western Pennsylvania’s steel industry. A constant lament was the lack of denominational loyalty among our congregations. But this theme may have blinded us to the reciprocity of covenant; how loyal were we perceived to be by our congregations?  

But most of this institutional decline was merely a vague intuition, certainly hidden from my view at the time, and ultimately it had little to do with my leaving. We enjoyed western Pennsylvania, and even planned to keep our property and lots on Arthur Avenue, so we could move back after two years. I think it was mainly that I felt that some personal and professional renewal would happen better in an international setting. If we had an opportunity to work and serve, we would take it. I was learning that in small institutions with lean finances, one might take a leave of absence or even change jobs for renewal, a practice I honored the rest of my life. 

I asked for a two-year leave, and as it turned out, our director Laurence Martin, soon found John Rodgers to replace me at Builder magazine. Rogers did very well as an editor, and as an African American additionally provided a degree of multiculturalism to the staff composition.If Scottdale was sameness, confining and depressing, it was mainly in the same sense that all of Denmark had become a prison for Hamlet; thinking had made it so.

The drawing entitled “The Miller Table” and quote appears in my journal entitled “1981 February” under an entry dated April 11, 1981. The John L. Ruth letter about my work was of March 23, 1981. Most of the rest of this comes from my journal and personal files. John Roth reported on the Andrew and Mattie chicken coop frolic in a letter of letter of April 20, 1981. Andrew wrote two letters on the frolic, and the one I quoted regarding setting eggs is of April 9, 1981. My 37^th birthday reflections I wrote to my brother Paul in a letter of September 17, 1981. The quotation and description of MCC’s Guatemala assignment comes from two letters by Rich and Martha Sider (December 4, 1981 and  January 6, 1982).