Chapter Sixteen
As Gabe sat on the pew bench on the Sunday of Red’s confession, the tension in the Slabaugh sisters’ farmhouse hung like storm clouds. Because Esther and Naomi set up for church in their basement, the gray concrete walls and floors added to the bleak, claustrophobic atmosphere as they sang a slow hymn about the wages of sin being death—which made Gabe even more antsy. All the chatter the past week had been about Red’s amazing sales—and about her decision to keep the business open until her formal confession, despite the church leaders’ warnings.
Her future seemed even drearier than the morning’s first sermon. Preacher Ammon was lecturing about those who heard the call of Christ yet ignored it.
“We are to spend our time honoring God,” he exhorted the congregation. “When we pursue worldly pastimes that set us apart—that lead us into the temptations of individualism and independence—we can only diminish the unity the Old Order way of life promotes. These pastimes can force us to hide behind secrets and to weave webs of deception so dense we can lose our souls and not even know it.”
As Ammon continued his stern warnings to those who would stray, Gabe peered between the heads of the older men who sat in front of him, to see how Red was holding up. The preacher hadn’t mentioned her by name, but as he spoke further about the evils of pride, fame, and ill-gotten profits that come from engaging in art for art’s sake, everyone knew he was talking about her.
Poor Red. Her complexion was washed out and her eyes were rimmed in a sorrowful shade of pink that stabbed at Gabe’s heart. As the sermon continued, she slumped lower, holding her head in her hand.
Gabe longed to tell Slabaugh to move on, to speak of encouragement and forgiveness, but he kept his mouth shut. At least he’d stopped his father from firing Red this past Monday. Dat had been ready to hand Red her pink slip, after Saul and Ammon had convinced him that he was enabling her to keep painting her pictures at her house rather than to trust in God for her survival.
This reasoning made no sense to Gabe. Why did the deacon, the preacher, and Dat feel Red needed to live at the Miller place, totally dependent upon Clarence’s charity? Why couldn’t they trust her to put away her art now that she’d been called out for it and was ready to confess?
What penance would they prescribe if they found out about your worldly pastime?
The thought made Gabe even more agitated. Only a financial argument had kept Dat from firing Red, because their orders from The Marketplace were putting them behind schedule—and they would fall further behind because one of their men was off work for a while with a painful case of shingles.
When Bishop Jeremiah delivered the main sermon, the tension eased a bit. Rather than inciting anxiety and guilt, the bishop’s words focused on Jesus’ teachings about judgment and forgiveness.
“Let’s not forget that our Lord was a peacemaker—a man who countered the religious leaders of his day by telling them not to judge, or they would be judged,” he reminded those seated on both sides of him. “Jesus told his disciples to remove the log in their own eyes before they remarked on the mote in their brothers’ eyes. Hypocrites, he called them, as he warned them to first relinquish their own sins so they could see clearly to help those around them who floundered.”
Gabe felt the focus in the room shift away from Red—if only for a moment. Folks were looking at their laps, wondering if Bishop Jeremiah knew of secret habits they hadn’t told anyone about.
“I’ve heard voices raised in outrage and accusation this week, concerning one of our members,” Bishop Jeremiah continued softly. “Let us not forget that we all fall short of the glory God would have us attain. We all disappoint Him on a regular basis—even if our particular shortcomings might not be known to the folks around us.
“As we approach today’s Members Meeting, let us put the words of the prophet Micah into everyday language and write them across our hearts,” their dark-haired leader continued as he gazed at his congregation. “What does the Lord require of us but to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God? For when we raise ourselves in self-righteousness above another, we become prideful and blind to our own human failings.”
Gabe’s heart thudded in gratitude. They were truly blessed to have such a compassionate man as Jeremiah Shetler for their bishop.
Even so, as the Members Meeting began, Gabe felt twitchy. Without any prompting, Red went to her knees in front of the bishop as the two preachers remained seated alongside Saul on their bench.
“Regina, you confessed to me two weeks ago that you painted the wildlife scenes you were selling at The Marketplace and that you’d made up a name to cover your identity,” Bishop Jeremiah said. “Is this correct?”
“Jah, it is,” Red replied softly. “I should’ve put away my painting when I joined the church, but I didn’t. I’m sorry for the lies I’ve told, and for the way I’ve hidden my artwork these past several years, and for opening the shop at The Marketplace under a fake name and false pretenses. I’m willing to accept whatever discipline and penance the congregation feels is appropriate.”
As folks shifted on the hard wooden benches, Preacher Ammon rose to stand beside the bishop. The expression on his bearded face was stern.
“That’s all well and gut,” he said, “but when Deacon Saul and I saw that you were still open for business on Saturday after you’d confessed to the bishop, we felt you were being less than sincere about giving up your artwork.”
“And you said you were selling those paintings to support yourself, in the event you lost your job at the furniture factory,” Deacon Saul put in from the bench. “Have you thought any more about what we said, about depending upon the Lord to provide for your future?”
“Matter of fact,” Bishop Jeremiah said in quick defense, “before the service this morning, Regina handed me all the money she took in that Saturday—not just the commission for the schoolhouse fund. It was a voluntary act, an act of faith on her part.”
“Probably trying to buy her way out of the bann,” one of the women muttered.
Gabe peered across the room to see who’d made that remark. Bishop Jeremiah looked up as well, appearing none too pleased.
“That was inappropriate,” the bishop stated. “This is precisely the attitude I’ve become concerned about. Malicious opinions are so unlike this congregation—and they undermine the Old Order’s emphasis upon unity and peace as well.”
After a few moments of heavy silence, Bishop Jeremiah continued with Red’s confession. “Let’s recall the vows you took when you were baptized, Regina,” he suggested gently. “You promised to renounce the devil and even your own flesh and blood. You agreed to commit yourself to Christ and His church. And you said you would be obedient and submissive to the word of the Lord and to the Ordnung.”
Red nodded, swiping at tears. “I’ve failed miserably, ain’t so?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “But I’ll do better now. I hope folks will help me along—will forgive me for being so wrapped up in my painting, and for all the ways I’ve deceived them.”
As she headed outside to await the congregation’s verdict, Gabe felt fiercely proud of Red for giving all that money to the church. Considering the buying frenzy on that Saturday, it must’ve been thousands of dollars.
It would’ve paid her bills for months, even if Dat fired her. Would’ve kept her from becoming her uncle’s charity case.
Yet to show her faith, Red had given away a large chunk of her financial security. In her place, Gabe wasn’t sure he could’ve done that.
Maybe you should show your faith—come clean and live like an honest man.
Gabe blinked. Such thoughts had occurred to him all week, but he didn’t think he’d be helping Red’s case if he—
This isn’t about her. She’s already confessed, but you have not.
Gabe refocused, listening to the usual procedure during which the bishop called for questions and any further details from the congregation. He groaned inwardly when Preacher Ammon insisted that, despite Red’s show of remorse, the congregation should vote for the full six-week shunning. After Bishop Jeremiah suggested that four weeks was probably enough, considering Red’s voluntary confession and donation, Preacher Clarence shook his head.
“We’re talking about years of Regina’s defying the Old Order to keep painting,” her uncle pointed out. “She stayed in her parents’ house—and has remained a maidel—because she couldn’t give up her art. What’s six weeks, when you consider how long she’s indulged in such wayward, dishonest behavior? I also insist that she sell that house and move in with us, where she’ll be less likely to fall into temptation’s trap again!”
The bishop smiled. “Matter of fact, Regina put her house up for sale yesterday,” he said. “She didn’t want to mention it before she’d told you and Cora, but there it is. Another sign of her sincerity, as I see it.”
Gabe almost laughed when Preacher Clarence’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, as though he’d assumed Regina would never initiate such a drastic step. Once again Gabe was impressed with all Red had done to renounce her former independence. He already felt sorry that she’d have to endure Clarence’s humorless personality as she toed his line and became a flawless example of Amish womanhood for her younger cousins.
“Well! Will wonders never cease?” Preacher Clarence blustered as he shot his wife a startled look. “But I don’t see how this changes Regina’s need for the customary six weeks under the bann.”
Bishop Jeremiah appeared sadder and older as he gauged the feelings of those present. “We’ll vote on the six-week option,” he said with a sigh. “If, however, the vote is not unanimous, we’ll consider the lesser penance of four weeks. Shall we proceed?”
Gabe wasn’t surprised that the ayes bounced like a rubber ball along the rows on the men’s side—until it came to his turn. “No,” he stated.
Folks murmured, wondering if his defense of Red implied a relationship, but Gabe suddenly didn’t care what they thought. As the vote continued along the women’s side, he noticed his father looking at him with a speculative expression.
“No,” said Jo Fussner emphatically, and Gabe wasn’t surprised when the Helfing twins and Lydianne echoed her negative vote.
When the last vote had been voiced, the bishop said, “Five folks believe a six-week bann is too long. Do any of you five wish to give us your reasons for—”
“Puh! Those maidels and Gabe—her close friends—want to let her off easy!” one of the women muttered.
Once again Bishop Jeremiah scowled as he tried to figure out who’d made the remark. “And who among us doesn’t pray that our friends will stand with us in times of trial?” he asked softly. “That settles it. Because some of you are unable to release your negativity—and because Regina has voluntarily turned over more than four thousand dollars and put her home on the market—her bann will be reduced to four weeks. Lydianne, will you bring Regina back to the meeting, please?”
“While it’s admirable of Regina to hand over the money she made her last day in business,” Deacon Saul put in from the preachers’ bench, “wouldn’t it be a stronger show of faith if she forfeited all the profits she’s earned on her paintings? The Old Order doesn’t condone any of her artwork, after all.”
Something inside Gabe snapped. Ordinarily when a member was shunned, the proceedings were orderly and low-key, without the nit-picking he’d witnessed this morning—and without the stories that had flown around town since he’d accidentally guessed that Red had painted those beautiful wildlife pictures.
“Something’s been bothering me for the past couple weeks,” Gabe said as he rose from his seat. “I need some clarification about artwork. Why is it perfectly acceptable for us at Flaud Furniture to create beautiful, outrageously expensive furniture, yet it’s not all right for Regina to paint her pictures? Isn’t fine furniture a form of art?”
Gabe’s heart thudded hard as he spoke. He was vaguely aware that Red was slipping back onto the bench beside her friends, but the stunned expressions on everyone else’s faces convinced him to continue. “And let’s not forget that the bedroom and dining room sets we produce are custom-made and usually sold to English customers for thousands more than the average Amish family could afford. Red has to paint dozens of pictures to earn what one piece of our furniture costs.”
A movement caught Gabe’s eye. His dat was glaring, motioning for him to sit down—but his father’s disapproval only goaded him to go on.
“Along that same line, why is it acceptable for Saul to create elaborate fairy-tale buggies in his carriage factory, which he sells to theme parks for thousands of dollars?” he demanded earnestly. “Regina’s being shunned for painting scenes from God’s own wondrous creation—and she’s not painting human faces, so she’s not creating those graven images the Old Order objects to. And she’s sold her work to generate money for the new schoolhouse,” he added ardently. “Had The Marketplace not opened, no one would be the wiser about her paintings, and we’d be funding the building another way.”
Hissing whispers filled the concrete room as Deacon Saul glared at Gabe even more vehemently than his father.
“Sit down,” Dat ordered tersely. “This is not the time or the place for such harebrained opinions about what puts food on your table!”
Red’s wide-eyed gaze from across the room stilled Gabe’s heart, and he knew he wasn’t nearly finished with what he needed to say. “We at Flaud Furniture and the folks at Hartzler Carriage Company—create items of beauty partly because it brings us joy, and because God has given us the talent to do what we do,” he pointed out fervently. “So why do we Old Order Amish consider Red’s God-given talent with a paintbrush a sin?”