Having an identity as a people is a real plus, but it’s not the only way to heaven.
—Amish leader
The authors of a study of individualism and community in American society worry that “individualism may have grown cancerous . . . that it may be threatening the survival of freedom itself.” Is there anything we can learn, they wonder, from the wisdom of more traditional societies?1 We have been tapping the wisdom of a traditional society as we explored the riddle of Amish culture. What have we learned about the Amish, ourselves, and contemporary culture? Moreover, why are we attracted to a people that eschew many of the virtues that we applaud—diversity, inclusiveness, individualism, and consumerism? This is perhaps the most curious puzzle of all.
Exploring the Amish riddle raises questions about our own journey in the modern world. What is the price of progress? Do modern social arrangements enhance or diminish human well-being and satisfaction? One social analyst argues that modernity has left us “homeless,” without a place in a coherent social order, as it dismantled the stable social structures that provided “homes” for people in preindustrial settings. Rapid social change, specialization, mobility, technology, and cultural pluralism have chipped away at our roots, at our identity, and at the very core of our lives, leaving our minds “homeless” as well.2 Thus, modern youth must search for a self and a social home.
The Amish remind us that the modern story is a mixed one—a tale of both delight and despair. Beyond its dazzling technological achievements, modern life has freed us from the bondage of provincial ties, restricted opportunities, oppressive systems, and geographical limits. But human liberation has also been expensive. Although modern life has brought major strides in human rights and unprecedented possibilities for prosperity, it has also brought the blight of alienation—an evaporation of meaning.3 The erosion of meaning and the loss of belonging have contributed to our “homelessness”—the bleaker side of modernity, which in so many other ways has liberated the human spirit.
The Amish have managed to preserve their social “home” despite the march of history. They have remained untouched by the blight of homelessness. Roots, meaning, and belonging remain intact in Amish life. Their Amish “home” looks nostalgically serene to us, but it remains entrenched in provincialism, sexism, and traditionalism. It is certainly not a modern home—or is it?
The riddle of Amish culture raises intriguing questions about the meaning of modernity. What exactly does it mean to be modern—or postmodern for that matter? Are the Amish modern? Our first response to that question is surely “no.” However, some scholars have argued that although the Amish do not appear modern at first glance, they act in modern ways. They have fashioned their lives in deliberate ways in the modern world as they have selectively picked the fruits of the industrial revolution. If the freedom to make choices is the trademark of modernity, then perhaps the Amish have indeed joined the modern world.4 By deciding not to be modern—by bucking the sway of progress—they have ironically exercised choice and have acted quite modern.
The Amish have made self-conscious collective decisions to reject computers and accept calculators, to build their own schools, and to argue their convictions before congressional committees. They have controlled the conditions of their work, organized the equivalent of a political lobby group, and rejected car ownership.5 In these and many other ways, they have taken charge of their destiny. They have made choices. In this sense they are modern and quite different from traditional peasants, who simply take whatever fate bestows. Some Amish decisions were guided by economic concerns; others were made to uphold religious values, bolster family solidarity, sharpen separation from the world, promote social equality, and preserve social capital.6 In any event, the Amish as a group have made choices. They have decided just how modern they want to be.
This is not the whole story, however. When we shift from the collective to the individual level, things are quite different. An Amish individual has fewer choices than a modern one. Choices regarding dress, education, and transportation are dictated by group standards. Marriage is limited to other members of the church. Occupational choice is nil compared to the astonishing array of jobs in an information society. Amish society, as experienced by the individual, is quite restrictive—quite traditional. The restriction of individual freedom among the Amish is little different, however, than the restraints placed on individuals by sports teams, monastic orders, or military organizations in the broader society.
The Amish practice of adult baptism, in which individuals voluntarily decide to join the church, is indeed a rather modern idea. However, it is a choice that entails the decision to set aside personal rights and submit to the collective order of the church. It is not an entirely free choice because, as we have seen, Amish socialization funnels youth toward church membership. But the Amish have acted in modern ways by making self-conscious decisions to preserve their identity as a people—decisions that often restrict individual choice. To use the bargaining metaphor, Amish negotiators were unwilling to give up their collective identity in exchange for greater individual freedom.
Are there other ways to think about modernity? If to be modern means using the latest electronic technology, if it means ultraconvenience, if it means the embrace of scientific research, if it means the unfettered pursuit of individualism, if it means that joy comes in consumerism, and if it means that reality is found in glitzy entertainment, then the Amish have surely not joined the modern world.
If, however, being modern means controlling the conditions of one’s work, if it means a delight in artisanship, if it means protecting the individual from the burden of choice, if it means taming the detrimental effects of technology, if it means safeguarding community identity, if it means caring for the unfortunate and the elderly, if it means guaranteeing the individual a secure identity, and if it means bestowing meaning to all of life, then perhaps the Amish have not only joined the modern world but are leading it.
Nevertheless, we are bothered by some nagging questions. By what right do Amish parents limit the education of their children, restrict occupational choice, cap opportunities for personal achievement, stifle artistic expression, and prescribe rigid gender roles? Such controls squander human potential. Are not such restrictions downright oppressive and sexist by modern standards? Consider all the potential pilots, nurses, lawyers, artists, and social workers who are hauling manure and canning vegetables on Amish farms. Denying Amish youth educational opportunity makes a mockery of justice and human rights. Would it not be only fair, Moderns wonder, if Amish children were required to attend at least several years of public high school to taste the fruits of progress? Then they would be truly free to pursue professional careers or to return to Amish life. Such exposure would at least allow them to explore artistic and scientific careers as well as their own human potential.
The Amish are amused by such thinking, for they can flip the questions upside down. By what right, they ask, do modern parents push their children so rapidly through the turnstiles of modernity to face incessant choices and carry heavy emotional loads that they must shoulder all alone? By what right do Moderns deprive their youth of the psychological security and personal identity that come from membership in a lasting and durable group? The Amish would remind us that those who leave their Amish fold fare quite well in the modern world, for they have been taught the values of hard work, integrity, and frugality—values that serve them well in a variety of careers. Thus, the Amish contend that they are hardly depriving their youth—at least not any more than modern parents do. In fact, the Amish wonder, should not modern youth be required to live several years in a traditional community to experience the values of communal life firsthand? Then they could join the cultural system of their choice.
The provincialism of Amish culture irritates the modern penchant for diversity, inclusiveness, and pluralism. The cosmopolitan, well-rounded, welltraveled person is the charm of contemporary culture. The intolerance and rigidity of Amish life stifle the human spirit and nurture a myopic worldview. By what right, Moderns ask, can the Amish, in the name of Christianity, oppose the liberation of the human spirit and mind?
The Amish would likely agree that their culture is indeed local, parochial, and sectarian. But, they might ask, are Moderns as liberated as they proclaim to be? Blind adherence to some modern ideas results in its own form of bondage. An obsession with individualism precludes understanding and appreciating the benefits of collective endeavor. Addiction to consumerism leads to a hollow and shallow materialism. Rigid insistence on diversity can thwart the building of stable, disciplined communities. Intolerance for socialism, patriarchy, traditional authority, and religious views not only belittles the very notion of tolerance but also betrays a provincial mentality enslaved to modern values. The Amish might argue that they at least understand the modern world as well as or better than Moderns understand the Amish world, and hence they are less provincial. How many modern youth, the Amish might ask, are bilingual by the end of eighth grade? The Amish would contend that in the final analysis one must choose among ultimate values. Tolerance, diversity, and pluralism may have to yield if they threaten to spoil the greater values of a stable community and a secure personal identity.
Yet the conformity of Amish life nags us. Dutiful adherence to tradition—dressing alike, driving duplicate carriages, meekly following rules—cultivates a bland, even boring conformity. The recipe for success in Amish culture not only cultivates a herd mentality but also ridicules human dignity by promoting, even applauding, thoughtless ritualism. To modern ways of thinking, the Amish are puppets of their culture, controlled by the strings of their religious traditions.
The Amish would likely agree. Conformity does guide much of their conduct. They would simply remind Moderns that puppets abound outside Amish culture as well, that even in modern life individuals are puppets of their culture. Fashions of dress, consumer fads, leisure trends, housing and decorating styles—all driven by advertising—are thriving outside the Amish world. The preponderance of such conformity suggests that even modern individualists are controlled by the strings of social opinion. Moreover, the Amish might ask, which is more mindless, conformity to a religious tradition or conformity to mass advertising and popular fads? Under the pretense of free choice, Moderns bow to the Ordnung of contemporary fashion. From software packages to social etiquette, from music to dress, our preferences are also shaped by social standards and custom. The Amish would remind us that their choice of an alternative lifestyle is not so much a matter of conforming to tradition—for that is inherent in the human experience—but a matter of deciding which traditions are most worthy of embrace.
Tourists are enchanted by the Amish. Social analysts hold them up as models for development, and energy experts herald their efficiency.7 Others point to the humane character of the Amish social system. Despite these accolades from academics, few have chosen to join them. Few outsiders have chosen to toss aside technological convenience and the delights of individualism and submit themselves to the collective order of Amish life. There is a price to being Amish—a price that few outsiders have been willing to pay. It means giving up self-assertive individualism—submitting to the Ordnung, to religious tradition, to the voice of elders, and to communal wisdom. It means forgoing individual preference in many areas—dress, marriage, transportation, and education. It means limited mobility, little occupational choice, and few possibilities for self-enhancement. It means forgoing many conveniences, restricting friendships, avoiding commercial leisure, unplugging electronic media, and disconnecting from the World Wide Web. It means, in short, inhabiting a different social world, where the group, not the individual, reigns supreme.
It is a world of restricted ideas, where scientific thinking is unacceptable and where the agenda of ideas is controlled. It is a world that in many ways is provincial, narrow, and restrictive—where free choice and individualism are curbed. It means accepting a religious worldview—indeed, a literalist religious worldview with a hot hell and a happy heaven. To give up, to submit, to obey, to respect limits, and to believe are the price of being Amish. For outsiders, it is a high price—a sacrifice few are willing to make. For those on the inside, the price is lower, of course, for it is the bestowed way of life. But in either case, it is costly.
There are benefits that come in return. The Amish offer genuine social security—not an impersonal system that sends computerized monthly checks. Their social security springs into action in the case of fire, death, sickness, senility, or handicap. There is also the benefit of belonging, of being part of a people, of an extended family; of having a niche and knowing it will always be there. There is the security of family with dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings surrounding one’s play, work, and worship. There is the reward of identity—personal and collective—of knowing who one is and where one fits, regardless of personal or occupational achievement.
There is also the security of tradition, of knowing that things are in order, that things are the way they are supposed to be as handed down from generations before. There is the reward of meaning, of knowing one’s life is acceptable to God if one has faithfully followed the teachings of the church. There is the reward of having a permanent place—acreage, trees, a stream—a place where ancestors farmed and fished and where one’s offspring will do the same. There is the security of ritual, of predictable routines that tie one into the community via worship, play, family, and work. There is, in short, a stable social “home.” The costs of being Amish are high, but the benefits—identity, meaning, and belonging—are precious commodities in the midst of a homeless world.
How does Amish society fare when we consider quality-of-life indicators? Here we have a social system without poverty. Widows, orphans, and the destitute are cared for by the church. The Amish are rarely imprisoned. Here is a society virtually free of crime and violence. Some youth are occasionally arrested for drunken driving, and children are occasionally paddled, but incidents of violent crime and murder are conspicuously absent. Amish suicide and mental illness rates are substantially lower than those in the larger society.8 Alcohol abuse, present among some youth, is practically nil among adults. Divorce is unheard of. Individuals are not warehoused in bureaucratic institutions—large schools, massive factories, retirement homes, or psychiatric hospitals—but are cared for within the family.9
Moreover, the generous resources of social capital in Amish society lower the transaction costs—the need for insurance, formal agreements, litigation, legal costs, and third party brokers. Many of the routine exchanges in Amish society are lubricated with trust and integrity, which reduces the economic cost of transactions. Recycling goods, frugal management, a thrifty lifestyle, and a rejection of consumerism produce scant waste. Energy consumption per capita is remarkably low. Beyond exhaust fumes from diesel power plants and water contamination by manure runoff, the Amish add little to environmental pollution. Personal alienation, loneliness, and meaninglessness are for the most part absent. There are, of course, some unhappy marriages, lonely people, obstinate bishops, cantankerous personalities, and family feuds. But all things considered, the quality-of-life indicators for Amish society as a whole are remarkably robust. The Amish have, indeed, created a humane social system that attends to individual need and generates strong levels of satisfaction.
Despite these accolades, Moderns might argue, this is a lopsided view of the Amish story. Moderns might contend that the Amish are social parasites who feed off the larger social system. They are only able to thrive because they have, fortunately, found themselves in a political system that has been remarkably tolerant of their religious views. The tolerance of the larger culture protects their intolerance. As conscientious objectors, they have avoided the military programs that have protected the very religious freedoms that allow them to be different. Although they expect tolerance from the state for their dissident views, they show little tolerance toward dissidents within their own ranks. Indeed, Moderns might ask if the Amish are using the outside world as a human trash heap when they excommunicate troublemakers and cast them off on the rest of society. Their agricultural achievements and business profits rest firmly on the shoulders of modern science—a science that is off limits for their youth. They have tapped the benefits of science but have contributed little to its development.10
Their environmental pollution rate may be commendable, but the diesel trucks that transport products to and from Amish shops add their own fumes to the environment. Besides, what sort of justice allows their horses to chop up roadways without paying gasoline taxes for repairs? It is commendable that they care for their own, but the Amish boycott of Social Security short-changes the welfare of the destitute in the larger society. In these and other ways, Moderns might argue that the Amish are freeloaders who have directly benefited from the resources of the larger society without contributing their fair share. Indeed, without the benefits of science, higher education, and electronic communication—all of which the Amish eschew—the quality of their life would be dismal in many ways.
The Amish would obviously concede that much of this is true—they certainly are dependent on the larger world. Yet this is a rather cockeyed view. Freeloaders? Hardly, they would retort. By what standard are they social parasites when they pay millions in taxes for public schools they will never use? How can they be charged with being free riders when each Amish person annually attracts as much as $30,000 in tourist revenues? Moreover, they pay millions of dollars in federal and state income taxes and use few federal services—even rejecting many forms of subsidies and government “handouts.” In many ways the Amish are subsidizing state and federal programs because they are paying into government coffers at the same rate as everyone else while using relatively few public services. They are not tapping Medicare, Medicaid, unemployment insurance, food stamps, or other forms of government aid. Nor are they collecting welfare checks, sitting in penitentiaries, borrowing federal funds for college, using Medicare for expensive surgery, benefiting from farm subsidies, or receiving Social Security checks.
True, they have not contributed directly to scientific achievements, but their tax dollars have supported scientific and medical research as well as the defense budget. Moreover, they have readily cooperated with scientists who have used their tight-knit community to study the genetic transmission of disease. Although the Amish have not provided scientists, hundreds of Amish volunteers have participated in medical studies. Furthermore, their unique presence has fueled a huge tourist industry and a robust regional economy that generates profits for non-Amish entrepreneurs.
Freeloaders? Who is kidding whom? According to Amish calculations, the bottom line shows that they contribute more than they take; they are philanthropists, not parasites, in the larger social system.
Their conscience has not allowed them to participate in military programs, but, they might ask, is it not valuable in the midst of a violent world to create a society where harmony, gentleness, and quiet discipline are the norm rather than hostility? The embodiment of a peaceful social order may be as significant as military threats in nudging the international community toward global harmony. What is so wrong, the Amish ask, with creating a social security system with a human face, where the destitute and helpless are cared for in the context of family, neighborhood, and church? Would the world not be a better place if other groups did likewise?
Besides, the Amish point out, they are quick to help when disasters—fire, storm, and flood—strike their non-Amish neighbors. Moreover, is it not helpful to have a human model, a society that allows us to observe the social impact on people when technology is harnessed, social change is slowed, and the rush of progress is tamed? “What good are the Amish?” asks Marc Olshan. He suggests their most valuable contribution is to teach the rest of us the importance of setting limits.11
Such a hypothetical debate between the Amish and their neighbors raises profound questions about the nature of human freedom, the meaning of progress, the role of the individual in the modern world, and the ties between individuals and social systems. The social benefits of Amish society appear nostalgically pleasant, indeed enviable. They come, however, with a high price—the loss of personal freedom. Individual rights, privileges, and freedoms, so fundamental to modern culture, are curtailed in the Amish experience. The right to unlimited self-achievement, to unbridled artistic expression, to free occupational choice, to political participation, to the defense of one’s legal rights, to consumerism, to personal expression in dress—in short, the right to be or to do whatever one wants—is limited in Amish life. The communal benefits come at the expense of individual freedom—the cardinal value of modern life.
There is another side to freedom.12 Although the Amish are not free to do some things, they are free from many others. They are not free to buy the latest electrical appliances, but they are free from enormous consumer debt. They are not free to buy the latest car, but they are free from the frustrations of commuter traffic. They are not free to buy the latest convenience, but they are free to enjoy the convenience of walking across the driveway to their work. They are not free to travel on airplanes, but they are free to have lunch at home with their families. They are not free to pursue higher education, but they are free to control the curriculum and organization of their own schools. They are not free to buy the latest fashions, but they are free from the anxiety of what to wear and from endless shopping trips. The Amish are not free to watch television, but they are free from endless commercials. The Amish are not free to pursue many occupations, but they are free from the constraints of boring jobs and administrative policies.
Although the Amish are not free to make up their faces in the latest styles, they are free from the pressure to present a “perfect” face. They are not free to dress as they please, but they are free from agonizing about what they will wear. They are not free to accept Social Security checks, but they are free from worry about who will care for them in old age. They are not free to pick the college of their choice, but they are free from agonizing decisions about college selection and occupational choice. They are not free to discard the traditional ritual of Amish funerals, but they are free from worrying about who will support them in time of grief.
Although the cultural norms of Amish life circumscribe personal freedom, they also lift the burden of choice from the back of the individual. They liberate the individual from the incessant need to decide. In Amish culture, the burden for success and failure leans on the community; in the modern world, the weight of success and failure rests on the individual, who may lack the support of a durable group. The Amish are not as free to make up their own minds, shape their own destinies, and follow wherever their hearts may lead, but they are freer from endless trips to the therapist, freer from the emotional burden of making it on their own—of shouldering the consequences alone.
What does all this mean for happiness? Which culture—modern or Amish—optimizes the conditions for human fulfillment and best satisfies the yearning for meaning, belonging, and identity? Two recent books have addressed a major riddle of modern life: Why are people so unhappy in an age of plenty?13 Why have consumerism, entertainment, and technology failed to make us happy? Happiness, of course, is relative. It hinges on cultural expectations, on social values, on the gap between expectations and achievements, and on comparisons with one’s social peers.
It would be wrong to assume that the Amish are unhappy because their personal freedom is constrained. Indeed, in an hour-long television special on happiness, ABC interviewed some Amish off camera who reported higher levels of satisfaction with their life than other respondents.14 What is most troubling, however, is that without all the conveniences of modern life, the Amish might be as happy, if not happier, than the rest of us. That is the fear that torments the modern soul.
One likely reason for their success is the ability of their society to fulfill the basic human needs of identity, belonging, and meaning. The Amish who test the boundaries of their culture may feel the tug of both worlds, but most members do not experience midlife or career crises so typical of modern life. Among Americans the toll of individualism is high, as evinced by the high number of therapists, stress management seminars, wellness centers, lawsuits, and the standard barometers of malaise: divorce, crime, drug abuse, fraud, suicide, and violence. Yet despite the psychic toll, Moderns cherish the exhilaration of individualism. Few would be willing to trade in its thrills for the tranquility, order, and meaning of Amish culture. The Amish provide a social model whereby individual needs are fulfilled, not through the delights of individualism, but in sacrifice and submission to a greater collective good. There are no promises of freewheeling self-fulfillment in Amish life, but the individual is cared for and cherished by a supportive social system—a humane and durable promise.
For “weaker” people, often discarded by the modern system, the Amish setting provides a caring environment where no one slips through the bureaucratic cracks. In the eyes of “stronger” people, the Amish system may feel oppressively tight compared to the pliable fabric of modern culture. Tilted toward the rugged individualist, modern culture easily tramples on the weak. By contrast, Amish culture, tilted toward the community, easily suffocates the strong.
The wisdom distilled in Amish culture suggests that some limits on individualism may, in the long run, serve the deeper needs of the individual better than an unbridled pursuit of self-gratification. In other words, the Amish contend that individuals may not always understand or pursue the things that lead to happiness. Indeed, happiness may be shaped as much by social structures as by individual choice.
Some riddles remain. How is it that those who have not been educated beyond the eighth grade have been able to devise such a humane social system? Without consultants or strategic planners, the Amish, in simple and down-to-earth ways, have crafted a social system that not only attracts the attention of tourists and scholars but also raises profound questions about the underpinnings of happiness, freedom, and meaning. Moreover, how is it that, despite the best efforts of the most learned planners and strategists, our modern world is strewn with fragmentation, alienation, and despair? Moderns plan incessantly yet often seem out of control. The Amish, who do little if any strategic planning, seem rather firmly in charge of things.
Side by side, Amish and modern culture tilt in opposite directions—one toward the community and the other toward the individual. Their comparison evokes a common riddle that engulfs the larger human community, both Amish and modern alike. Would it be possible to construct a social “home” where the need for individual expression and the need for community are suspended in a healthy and creative tension? Can we envision a culture where individuals discover their true selves only when they plant their roots in the communal soil of a larger body, where self-fulfillment is achieved in the context of a social mission that transcends selfish interests, where personal identity is firmly grounded in the identity of a larger body, and where the pursuit of profit and pleasure yields to the collective welfare—the common good?
Is it possible to pursue such lofty goals without stifling initiative, without suppressing creativity, and without restricting individual freedom? Can we only have meaningful community at the expense of individual freedom, and must such freedom result in a cancerous debilitation of community? Or is it possible to forge a culture—a social habitat—where the individual and the community are not pitted against each other as adversaries, but where they supplement, complement, and enrich each other? That is the common riddle that begs all of us—Amish and Moderns alike—for a solution.
Such a delicate mix would not only champion the charms of community but would also empower and enable individuals to achieve their highest creative aspirations. Such a “home” would welcome the gifts of mind and body and embrace them—not for selfish ends in themselves but for embellishment of the larger community, not for self-acclaim but for collective celebration, not for personal gain but for corporate enhancement. Can we find a middle ground, a social order that anchors the individual in a larger body and at the same time applauds choice and creative expression? The solution to our common riddle promises to arrest the cancerous growth of individualism as well as to relax the stifling restrictions of traditional life. Hidden within our common riddle is the hope of a new social order, a “home” that taps both the achievements of modernity and the wisdom of Amish life.