It was lunch time on a hot July afternoon, and a line had formed at the takeout window of a local eatery. Employees from a nearby office building waited for their orders of sandwiches and salads. A long van pulled into the parking lot, disgorging a construction crew looking for the cool relief of ice cream cones and cold drinks. A couple of horses harnessed to black buggies drowsed at the hitching rail that is a feature of most businesses in the Amish Heartland. The crowd waited patiently as orders were taken, money exchanged, food and drinks passed over the counter.
Suddenly everyone heard the unmistakable tones of a cell phone ringing. Women checked their purses, and men patted their pockets, looking around in bewilderment. Who was being paged? Toward the back of the line an Amish man with a straw hat, beard and suspenders calmly reached into his shirt pocket, flipped open a sleek silver-and-black Nokia, and spoke into the receiver in his German dialect. The bystanders exchanged puzzled glances. An Amish man using a cell phone?
It is a common misconception that the Amish culture never changes. Many people assume that, because they travel by horse and buggy and shun the use of electricity, the Amish way of life has not progressed beyond the early 1800s. This is not entirely true.
A multiplying Amish population, coupled with the constant increase in English home-building in the rural areas of north central Ohio, means that many Amish have no opportunity to buy farmland, and must search out other ways to support their families. In order to pursue those jobs and to excel in service to their employers, Amish men and women are turning to technology.
Growing numbers of Amish teens are seeking education beyond the traditional eighth-grade limit, and many of them, having attended public schools in Holmes County, are already familiar with computers. The East Holmes school district sponsors an adult technology class that has become popular with Amish young people. In this class they learn basic computer functions and become familiar with spreadsheets, word processing, and basic bookkeeping. Lydia Raber*, a graduate of the class, is now employed in a shop in Berlin, where she uses a computer system to ring up purchases and track inventory.
"I love this job," she says with a bright smile that speaks volumes about her satisfaction. "I wouldn't have gotten the job if I didn't already know how to use the computer." The shop's owner jokes that Lydia knows more about her business than she does. "Id be lost without (Lydia) and that computer."
Some Amish men employed in the construction industry are proficient in the use of CAD (Computer-Aided Design) software, which they use to lay out floor plans or kitchen cabinetry. Factory workers are trained to monitor electronic panels with a bewildering array of flashing lights, toggle switches, and digital readouts that control sophisticated machinery.
Larry Troyer is perhaps the most notable example of a technologically savvy Amish church member. The Chief Financial Officer of Precision Entry, a manufacturer of residential entry doors in Sugarcreek, he readily describes himself as "an oddball." A graduate of Garaway High School ("I was the only Amish person in my class," he notes), he was attracted to numbers and mathematical applications from childhood.
"I have worked with computers since they were out," he says.
Troyer does not see any conflict between his Amish faith and the use of technology, calling it "a tool that I use to fulfill my obligation to my employer." Precision Entry has about one million dollars invested in machinery, and employs 160 people, about 35 of whom are Amish.
"Our biggest asset is our employees," asserts Troyer, and emphasizes that the first quality the company looks for in a prospective employee is "character." A tour of the factory floor reveals Amish and English working side by side, performing with equal skill both high-tech and low-tech tasks in the construction process.
Troyer explains that most of the Amish employees live nearby and can bicycle or walk to work. Troyer himself begins his day with a brisk quarter-mile walk ("it's good exercise," he adds with a smile) to his plush office in front of the plant. Seated in a high-backed executive
chair behind a broad oak desk, he flips on his computer and reviews spreadsheets tracking sales, payables, and inventory. In the competitive world of manufacturing, there is a razor-thin margin for error, and his frequent analysis of data is essential to the success of the company and the livelihood of its employees. At the same time, he casually tosses out advice to a visitor about useful websites and tools for exercising parental controls over what children can access on the Internet.
At the end of the workday, Troyer walks back to his traditional non-electric Amish home for an evening of chores, such as cleaning out the horse stall in the barn.
Church leaders have voiced no objection to their members' use of technology in their employment.
"There are now more Amish working in factories and shops than there are in farming," Troyer states. "There just isn't enough farmland to make farming an option any more." Amish employees see it as their calling to serve their employers to the very best of their ability -- which, in today's world, means with technology as much as the work of their hands. Church members seem to be able to separate their work lives from their home culture, and have no desire to bring home the electronics that could corrupt their chosen way of life.
And so the Amish culture continues to co-exist peaceably with its twenty-first century neighbors. And the Amish man talking on a cell phone at the takeout window? It turned out that he was a member of a construction crew elected to pick up lunch for the rest of the gang, and the phone call was an urgent reminder -- "No onions on my hamburger!"
*Name changed to protect privacy
August 2004 issue