Look Who's Talking (continued)

While all orders now allow diesel engines in the barn to blow silage, their use is still resisted in the fields - the bishops don't want increased efficiency to interfere with the practice of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, working together with horse-drawn machinery and handheld implements. Notably, some Old Order Amish allow some diesel-powered equipment in the fields - if it's hauled by animals. "Does it bring us together, or draw us apart?" is the primary question the bishops ask in considering whether to permit or put away a technology.

The bishops' rulings can take decades. In daily life, the Amish take their directions in dress, thought, behavior, and custom from a body of unwritten but detailed rules known as the "Ordnung." Individuals and communities maintain a separation from the world (by not connecting their houses to telephones or electricity), a closeness to one another (through regular meetings), and an attitude of humility so specific they have a name for it ("Gelassenheit"). Decisions about technology hinge on these collective criteria. If a telephone in the home interferes with face-to-face visiting, or an electrical hookup fosters unthinking dependence on the outside world, or a new pickup truck in the driveway elevates one person above his neighbors, then people start to talk about it. The talk reaches the bishops' ears.

In the middle of Amish country, it occurs to me that Internet culture itself grew out of a kind of virtual Ordnung - the norms of cooperation, information-sharing, and netiquette taught to newbies by the first generations of users. The celebrated "anarchy" of the early days was possible only because of the near-universal adherence to largely unwritten rules. But the Internet population has grown fast - so fast that the sudden influx of tens of millions of newbies has overwhelmed the capacity of the old-timers to pass on the Ordnung. In the process, the Internet loses its unique hallmarks, coming to resemble and reflect the rest of contemporary culture.

"Instead of a telephone shanty, some Old Order Amish leave their cell phone overnight with an English neighbor, who recharges it."
"The Amish employ an intuitive sense about what will build solidarity and what will pull them apart," says Donald Kraybill, author of The Riddle of Amish Culture. "You find state-of-the-art barbecues on some Amish porches. Here is a tool they see as increasing family coherence: Barbecues bring people together." Asked what kinds of questions the bishops will likely raise about cell phones, Kraybill replies, "Are cell phones being used 'to make a living' or just for gossip and frivolous chatter? Will permitting cell phones lead to having phones in homes, and where will that lead ... to fax machines and the Internet?"

"We don't want to stop progress, we just want to slow it down," several Amish told me. Conversations about technology often turn on where to "hold the line" against the too-rapid advance of innovation. Riding in automobiles to work, but not owning them, putting telephone shanties in fields, requiring battery power instead of electrical lines are all ways of holding the line.

And clearly a lot could be learned about the Amish hold-the-line philosophy by looking at those who either crossed the line or pushed it further out. So I sought out several of the more boldly experimental members of the greater Plain community (Amish and Mennonites and other religious groups sharing a kindred commitment to plain living). In ranging from farmers who ran small enterprises in barnside sheds to well-equipped machine workshops and multimillion-dollar crafts factories, I soon was directed to Moses Smucker, who runs a harness shop in Churchtown, Pennsylvania.

Moses is an early adopter. He didn't mind if I used his real name, a liberty that has made him the subject of a few other journalists' stories. When I arrived at his manufacturing headquarters, I took a look at some of the harnesses on display - one of them had a price tag of $12,000. If you've ever seen the Budweiser Clydesdales Christmas commercials, you've seen harness bells from Moses Smucker's Churchtown workshop.

In the back of the store, more than a dozen young Amish men were working at modern machinery powered by hydraulics and diesel-generated electricity. Upstairs, I saw a woman in traditional plain clothing seated in front of a PC.

Moses Smucker might look like Abe Lincoln, in his black suit and mustache-free beard, but he bore the same time-is-money air of any factory manager taking a few minutes out of a busy day to talk to the press. Where Amos was rough hewn and wry, Moses seemed shrewd and slick. His office was certainly in a different century from Amos's. An electronic rolodex and an electric calculator sat atop an old roll-top desk. I noticed a clock in the shape of a horse and buggy. The whip ticked back and forth.

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