Every year, approximately four million people visit Ohio’s Amish Country, hoping for a respite from their busy lives. They come to enjoy the scenic beauty and the slower lifestyle of the Amish and Mennonites. I grew up as part of that community, insulated from the outside world.

But the quiet, rural community I knew as a child was transformed by the wealth tourists brought to town. Tourist dollars became a vital source of income for area residents, and restaurants, shops, furniture stores, inns, flea markets, and cheese factories soon dotted the landscape.

Most of these shops are closed on Sundays. Consequently, most of the tourist crowd leaves by Saturday night and is deprived of witnessing our number one industry: religion.

Unlike most communities that appear to have a mix of bars and churches, the community of my childhood had only churches. That was fine, since no one had a thirst for alcohol (or so I thought). Churches sprouted up everywhere. In my community, spreading the gospel sometimes meant moving down the road a few miles and building a new church. Often this migration was prompted by disagreements within a congregation on superficial things like dress, color of vehicles, and other vital issues that determine eternal destiny.

In this mix of churchology, I formed early beliefs and learned lessons about life and leadership. It was very clear that my outward appearance mattered more than my inward condition. Sure, we were taught “salvation,” but salvation was contingent on obedience to a strict regimen of rules. The straight and narrow path that was intended to deliver me to life everlasting seemed as narrow and precarious as a balance beam.

Shortly after I was born into an Amish family, my parents decided to leave that church and, as the saying goes, “jump the fence.” The fence we jumped was quite low, and we landed in a conservative Mennonite church that was not far removed from our previous Amish beliefs.

Now we could travel by car instead of horse and buggy, and we were soon the proud owners of a Studebaker. To this day, the Studebaker is on my short list of the ugliest vehicles ever made, but that first car did expand my horizons, since now we could travel farther and visit other churches. Visits to other congregations were pretty much the extent of our exploration of the wider world.

As time passed, riding in the old Studebaker became dangerous. Sometimes the right rear door popped open if a passenger was forgetful enough to lean against it. After my sister fell out of the car one day on our way to church, Dad realized the old car had to go.

At the car dealer’s lot, a 1956 Pontiac captivated my dad. A thing of beauty, it gleamed with shining chrome; Chief Pontiac himself perched on the front hood. There was a problem, though. Our church strictly forbade two colors on our cars. This shiny Pontiac would be labeled a sinmobile. After discussing this dilemma with the car salesman, Dad agreed to a compromise; the price was adjusted so that we could afford to repaint the car.

We drove home in bliss, swathed in yellow and chrome, with the magic sounds of the radio drifting from the dashboard. Of course, the church would not permit a radio, so we would have to remove the antenna with a hacksaw. Somehow I convinced my dad to delay that amputation for a few days, and I would sneak into the garage to enjoy stolen moments of the wonder of radio. This was just one of the enticements to adventure that would beset me as I lived out years of convoluted attempts to stay on the straight and narrow way. Dad soon discovered my malfeasance, and I watched with sadness as the hacksaw removed my connection to the outside world.

We waited for the body shop to schedule the paint job, and I took great joy in the delay. I rode up front whenever I could, hoping all my friends would see me in this beautiful vehicle. But my dad parked it behind the church on Sundays, attempting to hide it from judgmental eyes. On the day the yellow chariot was painted, it left our house a thing of beauty but returned in the evening a dark blue version of its former glorious self.

Maybe the church was right. That two-toned car did have me feeling mighty proud—and wasn’t pride a sin?

One day I made an exhilarating discovery. It was Saturday, our routine car-washing day. I brought out the green hose and laid it on the ground, waiting for the sunshine to make the vinyl pliable enough to unroll. Then I climbed into the car and fiddled with the radio controls. Of course there was only static; even so, I still enjoyed pressing the buttons and moving back and forth across the dial. Later, as I washed the front fender, I heard a voice coming from inside the car. I had inadvertently rested my hand on the sad little nub that was all that remained of the radio antenna. When I pulled my hand away, the sound of the radio died. I touched the nub again, and the voice came from the dashboard. I was a human antenna. Never has there been an inventor more thrilled with his discovery.

———

After several hours of forbidden entertainment, I smugly joined my family at lunch with no intention of revealing my discovery. But it wasn’t long afterward that Dad came into the house, bewildered. The car wouldn’t start. Dead battery, he thought. Oops. I knew the cause, but I would not be confessing. Instead, I noted that if my secret entertainment was to continue, I would have to start the engine occasionally to keep that battery charged.

Of course, it’s impossible to keep secrets of this magnitude for very long. I couldn’t resist passing on my knowledge to friends at church, and they also became human antennae and were thus exposed to evil worldly influences like Cleveland Indians baseball, sports shows, mind-corroding country music, and seductive beer jingles.

Unfortunately, one of us Mennonite Marconis was eventually busted, and the preachers discovered our secret. A new edict came forth: whenever a car was purchased, the entire radio must be removed. Cars in the church parking lot now sported gaping holes in the dash.

The new policy came too late—we had been exposed to the influences of the world. There was no return to our pre-radio innocence. I was further modernized when a cousin in great emotional distress offered to sell me his eight-transistor AM/FM radio. Evidently the preaching had convinced him of his sinfulness, and under deep conviction he offered me the offending device for six dollars.

This was even better than secret sin in the Pontiac. Best of all, I was now mobile. In the woods, behind the barn, even climbing trees—I was never without my connection to the outside world. Yes, I confess: I listened to every Indians game and knew all the country music tunes. On Friday and Saturday nights, I would hide downstairs in the fruit cellar to listen to the Grand Ole Opry from Nashville.

But the constant sermonizing against the wiles of the devil eventually prodded me into compliance, and I decided it was time to end my disobedience. My rehabilitated conscience contrived a plan to destroy the evil thing.

My father, now a bona fide Pontiac man, had traded the ’56 for a newer, bigger ’59. I was allowed to drive the car on our property. I decided to crush the tempting radio by backing over it with the Pontiac. After one farewell twirl through the dial, I laid the offensive thing in the gravel behind the rear wheel and proceeded to back over it. For good measure, I drove forward and then backed over the defenseless little radio again. The poor thing was now completely smashed. I picked it up, and the 9-volt battery dangled by two wires connecting it to the transistor board. The white plastic body was completely destroyed, but the guts of the radio still clung together, tenaciously grasping at survival. On a whim, I flipped the on button, and to my surprise the radio came to life. “It’s a miracle!” I yelped. “God must not hate this radio after all.”

That was the sign I needed. The radio had survived the crushing weight of a monster ’59 Pontiac, and thus it must not be wrong for me to keep it. So I did. I carried the wounded thing in a little box to keep all the parts together.

Besides worldly cars and poison-spewing radios, there were many other insidious evils out to destroy us. We heard constant warnings from the pulpit. Television, for example, was moving into more liberal Mennonite churches but was strictly forbidden in our congregation. Our minister heard of a Mennonite family that actually had a TV in their basement. He predicted it would just be a matter of time until that television climbed those basement steps and settled into the living room. “Sin is creeping in,” was his constant lament. He was right, of course, and by some mysterious power that TV did eventually climb those stairs. Those preachers were right just often enough that I wondered if maybe they actually did have a special spiritual insight.

Another pulpit prophecy concerned head coverings and women’s hairstyles. Our church taught that outward appearance was to set us apart from the world, but I observed that the ladies carried the burden of this nonconformity requirement. The men were hardly discernible from their worldly neighbors, but the women were obedient from head to toe, to the point of wrapping themselves like mummies. The ladies may have looked happy, but I always thought their hair was combed and bobby-pinned so tightly that their smiles were stretched into place. And over this tightly bound coiffure, every woman was required to wear a head covering.

Once again, the liberal Mennonites in the community proved the prophetic foresight of my preacher. He predicted that when women were allowed to wear their hair down, in no time the hair would be cut and head coverings would get smaller and smaller. What he failed to see was that coverings would disappear altogether in many Mennonite churches. Today when you visit Amish Country, you’ll witness an amalgamation of religious headgear of all shapes and sizes.

———

As I matured, I began questioning the teachings of the church. For example, the preacher talked often about inviting Jesus into our hearts. I was a literal thinker and just could not grasp such a concept. Would He bring a moving van and set up residence in my physical heart? I recalled a young man in our church who went to the altar to receive Jesus into his heart almost every time an altar call was made. What had happened to Jesus? Was it so easy to lose Jesus that you had to ask Him repeatedly to return to His heart-home?

And I was troubled by a new fear. Preachers talked about the second coming of Jesus. Even when I thought I finally understood the concept of Christianity, I was not quite ready to accept it and live it. Now I was hearing that Jesus could return the second time before I had even accepted Him the first time.

One night when I was sixteen, I drove alone to church. (Dad was generous with the car, as long as my destination was church.) A visiting minister from Nebraska was holding a series of revival meetings, and he was a real pulpit-pounder. That memorable night, my body was in the pew, but my mind managed to escape and went roaming around the outside world. A sharp rapping on the podium brought mind back to body at once. That preacher had knuckles of steel. I have never heard such a riveting sound as those knuckles rapping on the wooden podium. Then, grasping both sides of the podium, he leaned forward and nearly shouted, “Jesus is coming soon! Get ready! He may come back tonight!”

That preacher and his rapping knuckles managed to scare several of my friends into the kingdom, but I held out. As I drove home later, gripping the wheel with both hands, I looked nervously up into the night sky, expecting Jesus to burst through at any moment. I was scared. I begged Him not to come back just yet. I still wanted to experience a number of things, and I doubted that Jesus would want to be anywhere near my heart while I was testing life.

That first rainy, sleepless night on the AT, I reflected on the restrictions I still felt on my path to everlasting life. I had left my parents’ church and married a “liberal” Mennonite girl, who did indeed cut her hair and phase out her head covering. I owned a television and bought any kind of car I could afford. I went to Cleveland Indians games and even movies. I embraced Christianity in a form different from the conservative church’s. Yet still I felt precarious, on that balance beam, fearful of any misstep.

I had a vague expectation that the Appalachian Trail might lead me through experiences that would push out the tight boundaries of my life. In the early hours of the morning, I made my resolution. On this trek, I would submerge myself in the traditions and life of the trail, and openly meet new thoughts and ideas.

And I would leave behind my lifelong traveling companion, Guilt.