The Brethren resemble Mennonites in many ways, including their belief that baptism is for believing adults only, but they have their differences, beginning with the way they baptize. They traditionally do it by trine immersion, and historically that often happened in the dead of winter, once they broke the ice in the stream. Seriously.
Much of my ancestry on my dad’s side were Brethren, as I explain on my Orphan George blog.
Here’s a brief introduction to the faith.
Alexander Mack (1679-1735) was the leader and first minister of a Pietist community that broke with the three state churches in Germany in 1708. Persecution sent them fleeing to the Netherlands and then, beginning in 1719, to Pennsylvania. Mack arrived with about 30 families ten years later, essentially completing the migration to the New World.
They often resembled the Amish – and some still do – including the German-speaking identity. Like the Amish, Mennonites, and Quakers, they have upheld a peace testimony that rejects participation in war.
They also led lives modeled on simplicity and a non-creedal belief, “No creed but the New Testament.”
They were active on the American frontier and grew in numbers.
There has often been an identity problem. They were often called Dunkards or Dunkers, for their mode of baptism, which some found offensive, or German Baptist Brethren – but please don’t confuse them with the Baptists or the United Brethren in Christ, which I was raised in, or the Brethren in Christ, an offshoot of the Mennonites. Or the Plymouth Brethren in Garrison Keillor’s past, who broke off from the Anglicans.
Tensions between conservatives and progressives led in the 1880s to a separation that split off the Old German Baptist Brethren, on one side, and the Brethren Church, on the other, from the central body, now known as the Church of the Brethren.
The Heifer Project began as a Brethren peace and social justice initiative in the 1950s.
Denominational polity is through Annual Conference.
The annual love feast includes foot washing.
What others call sacraments the Brethren call ordinances. Among them are the laying on of hands and anointing for healing or for consecrating an individual for service.
In my novel Nearly Canaan, Joshua and Jaya settle into a place unlike anything they would have imagined. It’s desert, for one thing, where nearly everything has to be irrigated, for another. Quite simply, it’s a lot like Yakima, in the middle of Washington state. And yes, the state still has gold miners and prospectors.
Here are some significant gold rushes in U.S. history.
Cabarrus County, North Carolina, 1799
Sierra Nevada, California, 1848-55
Colville, Washington, 1855
Pikes Peak, Colorado, 1859
Clearwater, Idaho, 1860
Montana, 1862-69
Black Hills, South Dakota and Wyoming, 1874-78
Cripple Creek, Colorado, 1891
Mount Baker, Washington, 1897-1920s
Nome, Alaska, 1899-1909
~*~
British Columbia could have a Tendrils list of its own. And my family had a mine of its own in Guilford County, North Carolina, in the first half of the 1800s.
The early Quaker movement was heavily influenced by Mennonites via the early General Baptists in England. It’s a complicated story, but today Quakers and Mennonites still share some deep bonds, especially in the witness for peace. And yes, they’re both important in Pennsylvania. In fact, the first Mennonite congregation in America was a joint venture with Quakers in Germantown, then outside Philadelphia.
Here’s some background.
Mennonites are oldest body of the Anabaptist movement, which rejected infant baptism, insisting instead the sacrament was only for believing adults.
The denomination is named after Menno Simons (1492-1561), a priest who left the Roman Catholic church in the Netherlands and was persecuted as a heretic.
Its followers have been heavily persecuted, especially in the early years in Switzerland and Germany. Many were burned at the stake.
It identifies with an underground church going back to Waldo and the Waldensians.
They are strong proponents of peace, refusing to participate in military service or to fight in self-defense.
The Amish split from the Mennonites in 1693. Today some conservative Mennonites resemble the Amish, while others are urban professionals – most fall somewhere between in lifestyles.
They are known for their four-part a cappella hymn singing, although that’s changing with the youngest generation. Lay ministry and mutual discipleship are common.
Communion is celebrated as an annual love feast. Any lingering conflicts among the members of the congregation must be reconciled first.
It’s no longer primarily German-speaking or German descendants, a consequence of active mission work and growth worldwide.
Anabaptism is seen as the third stream of Protestantism – the others stemming for John Calvin and Martin Luther. Unlike them, it never accepted state sponsorship or endorsement.
Let’s skip past Jesus and Lincoln and King David and Gandhi, Martin Luther King, etc. Go to more regular folks who also had everyday lives.
Charles Ives, 1874-1954, classical composer and Manhattan insurance executive, an “American original” in both fields. Or even a maverick. Seriously overlooked when it comes to performances and airings.
Charles Kettering, 1876-1958, American inventor. Second only to Edison in the number of patents.
Arthur Morgan, 1878-1975, a civil engineer Kettering encouraged on a life of notable public service in flood control and higher education.
Abigail Adams, 1707-1783, first wife in the second presidency and equal to any of the First Fathers. She really knew how to write a letter.
Jenny Thompson, 1973-present, big-time Olympic gold medalist swimmer. Despite serious setbacks, including biased judging against her, she was persistent. Better still, she claims Dover as her hometown and works as a pediatrician up the coast in Maine. How can I not think of her every time I swim in the big outdoor pool carrying her name?
J.S. Bach, 1685-1750, as an example of daily practice and faith.
John Woolman, 1720-1772, Quaker minister who confronted economic and racial injustice. Many of his critical insights regarding wealth and oppression fit today, too.
Emelia Bassano Lanier, 1569-1645, apparently the real author of the plays attributed to Shakespeare. I’m buying the argument. The works now take on a fresh vitality.
Elizabeth Hooten, 1600-1672, the real mother of the Quaker movement and first woman preacher, quite outspoken, no sleight intended for Margaret Fell. She even came to Dover in 1662 and was severely treated by Massachusetts authorities, despite a letter from King Charles II. I wish we had more from her on the record.
The Theotokos, mother of Jesus, in Eastern Orthodox theology envisioned as something much more than a Virgin Mary. Literally, “the God-bearer.” I mean, she’s addressed as the Mother of God! The implications – and personal interior experience – are mind-boggling for anyone seeking a feminine experience of Judeo-Christian thought, especially when we get back to the everyday life part.
This has been a summer unlike any other in my life, and it’s not over yet. Here in northern New England, the first weeks of September are typically among the best, especially for swimming in the ocean, though the water still hasn’t warmed up enough for that where I’m now living. It’s still in the upper 50s, like most of the nights.
Dawns here, beginning around 3:30 at the summer solstice, are often spectacular. The sun’s still not in sight but screened by Campobello Island in Canada and is already reflecting light off the Bay of Fundy into the sky.
While the Red Barn’s been posting mostly what I had scheduled before we landed the 1830s’ Cape where I’ve been living since the beginning of the year, blogging has felt like a special kind of housecleaning for me – this is the cycle I’ve left behind while gathering a ton of new material that will be featured in 2022.
One difference is that I’ve been largely on my own up here, but not alone. There’s teamwork involved, with visits as well as daily phone calls. And Zoom’s kept me in touch with many good friends and introduced me to more.
There’s a respect I get in being a year-’rounder in a small city where three-quarters of the population is what Mainers call Summer People. Now they’ll soon be going-going-gone and we’ll get back to our more essential, barebone state – what I call the remote fishing village with a lively arts scene.
Still, summer is when this place takes on a special life, one that often feels like a big daytime party that attracts people from all over the country. (I’ve seen license plates from all but seven states, but wouldn’t be surprised if Hawaii shows up.) And this has been the first time I experienced that as well as the ideal of summering on a Maine island. (We are connected to the mainland by a pair of causeways that lead through the Passamaquoddy’s Pleasant Point reservation.)
Here are ten highlights of my summer:
Exploring unspoiled nature. The deep forests and rugged shorelines with their breath-taking views keep stirring up memories of the Pacific Northwest, which I left more than four decades ago. OK, my legs aren’t what they were back then, and the trails here are more arduous than the ones in the Cascades, so my jaunts have been slower and shorter – I’m simply ever-so-grateful to have this back in my life every week. And then I’ve been pleased to introduce these gems to the rest of the family on their visits. Oh, yes, I shouldn’t overlook the joys of being behind the wheel while driving along the rolling tree-lined terrain, an experience that has me reliving my first years of driving or later traipses in Upstate New York and Washington state – my, it does take me back but is here right now, once again.
Fathoming the sea. It’s not that I haven’t been around ocean before – Dover, for instance, is on tidal waters – but this is the first time I’ve lived only a block from maritime activity. Many mornings I wake up hearing the foghorn on the New Brunswick side of the channel, one I can glimpse through our neighboring houses via our windows. Most days I get out on the Breakwater downtown, with its active fleet and cluster of sports casting for makerel. Better yet is getting out on a whale watch in a lobster boat or taking the passenger ferry to the town of Lubec and back. And then there’s beachcombing and tide pooling.
Celebrating the Fourth. With the Canadian border still closed, this year’s festivities in Eastport were only half of what they’d normally be, but Old Home Week was still included, with its parades, contests, street dance, and reunions. I slept in through the annual blueberry pancake breakfast at our modest airport but have heard only raves from those who attended from our full household. As for the big show, I’m a stickler about fireworks – it’s not simply bang-bang-bang but a live-arts installation with the entire sky as a canvas and requires all the fine timing a good comedian relies on – and Eastport’s work from the Fish Pier definitely delivered. Next year, we’re looking forward to the additional pyrotechnical show on July 2, Canada Day, honoring our neighbors in New Brunswick across the channel.
Enjoying a real-life Cheers. With the opening of Horn Run Brewing, downtown has a new social center. The place has a distinctive pub air, rather than a bar, and the marine views from indoors or the deck are bewitching. Rather than serving its own food, the brewpub encourages patrons to bring their own, especially from the new Bocephus gourmet sandwich shop a block away or Jess’ food truck, when she’s in town. The Horn Run has proved to be far more popular than its business model projected – it even ran out of brew on the Fourth!
Meeting a lot of fascinating characters. Not just people, but eccentrics and others who bring experience and insight to even brief introductions on the street or out on the Breakwater – or at the Horn Run, for that matter, or a forest trail.
Taking weekly yoga beside the harbor. The outdoor hatha sessions have been mercifully gentle, but it’s still humbling to have to confront what 45 years of neglect can inflict. And then, for the first time in our years together, my wife and I got to do the exercises together – twice!
Sharing live music again. Rehearsing on Zoom just ain’t the same. But some informal gatherings in Pembroke were magical – one featured sea chanties and folk instrumentals, another focused on Sacred Harp shape-note singing. First-class chamber music recitals returned to the Eastport Arts Center, along with a knockout jazz trio and vocalist beside the harbor. And then there were the weekly gospel sings in Lubec.
Delighting in art. In addition to its own resident painters, photographers, sculptors, and crafters, whose work is featured in galleries lining Water Street, Eastport welcomes artists in residence who work in a storefront studio downtown and engage the public. One had color samples for passers-by to use in identifying the color of the harbor and sky that she then used in painting a canvas mural of a day-by-day progression. Another collected strands of rope from the docks and shoreline to create an installation, albeit more modest than the mylar creation that filled half of the old North Church. I’ve been impressed as well by some of the locals as I drop in for the newest work on the walls.
Cooking on my own again. I got truly spoiled, I’ll confess, and will never measure up to her immense talents, but it’s been fun reengaging in my own cooking again. I’m still rediscovering the basics, but in a kitchen quite unlike the one we left – I miss cooking on natural gas, and the induction hotplate and convection oven are tricky, as is the Montgomery Ward stovetop. My flavor-set’s been more Japanese than my wife’s Eastern Mediterranean take, but garden fresh produce and seafood are surprisingly scarce here. The weather’s been mostly cool, with only a few days above 80, so my usual August-September cuisine of tomato sandwiches never manifested. Lettuce, however, has proliferated, so big salads have been a staple. Now, if lobster prices would finally come down! I still haven’t indulged there.
Seriously revising my next book. I should have been suspicious when the book seemed to write itself, but reactions from a circle of beta readers to my big history of Dover Friends Meeting and its bigger context in early New England sent me back to the drawing board. I’ve been engrossed in refocusing and restructuring the work, a project that’s been tedious on my end but quite satisfying when I revisit the results so far. It’s taken on a whole new tone, with a voice and presence quite distinct from what my professional journalist’s training would have permitted. How refreshing!
~*~
Let me also add observing deer closeup from my windows. You know, looking up while washing dishes or keyboarding.
This buck, taking off from our yard, is sprinting across the lawn across the street.
Sometimes they hang around long enough I can really study them – a few spotted fawns for several hours, actually I love it when the adults rise up on their hind legs to pick apples from a branch overhead. They’re still enchanting, but when it comes to trying to garden, they are vermin.
In my novel Nearly Canaan, Joshua and Jaya settle into a place unlike anything they would have imagined. It’s desert, for one thing, where nearly everything has to be irrigated, for another. Quite simply, it’s a lot like Yakima, in the middle of Washington state, a place that has some fine rodeos, like the one at Ellensburg, up the canyon, or out in White Swan on the reservation.
This list started out to be the biggest ones, but I’m finding even that can be tricky, depending on the varying measures. And then there are the Best Lists, which laud smaller events like the Reno Rodeo in Nevada and the Pendleton Roundup in eastern Oregon.
So here’s a list anyway. Giddyup!
Cheyenne Frontier Days, Wyoming
Calgary Stampede, Alberta, Canada
National Western Stock Show, Denver
Ponoka Stampede, Alberta, Canada
Fort Worth Stock Show, Texas
La Fiesta de los Vaqueros, Tucson, Arizona
Williams Lake Stampede, British Columbia, Canada
Festival Western de St. Tite, Quebec, Canada
World’s Oldest Rodeo, Prescott, Arizona
Parker Ranch Fourth of July Rodeo, Hawaii. Oops, not North America but still in the USA.
The coastal loop of Maine north of Portland but before Acadia National Park can easily be overlooked by many tourists who stick to Interstate 95. Besides, U.S. 1, its principal route, turns into a traffic jam during the summer, which is why we go in the shoulder seasons.
Many of its delights are found along the side roads that reach down its fingers to the sea or inland in the other direction.
Here are a few of the things we enjoy.
The lighthouses, of course. Pemaquid Point at Bristol is a photographer’s favorite, but there are 20 more. Some are privately owned, and many – including the 11 on islands – are viewed best from the water.
Ferry rides are one way to get to the islands and a fun trip in their own right. The state runs vessels from Rockport, Bass Harbor, and Lincolnville, and private services add New Harbor and Port Clyde to the points of departure.
Getting to Morse’s sauerkraut in Waldoboro, leading away from the water, can seem like forever, especially in winter, but when we go, we stock up. This cabbage is nothing like the crap we were force-fed as kids, and the German restaurant and store are treats in their own right.
Moody’s Diner, back out on U.S. 1, is a classic and where I learned the difference between lowbush blueberries common to Maine and the highbush ones like I grow.
If you can, pick a town and stay there for a few days. We’ve done B&Bs in Bath, Belfast, Boothbay Harbor, Camden, and Damariscotta – as well as weeklong conferences in Brunswick – and each town is different. We’d go back in a flash to Camden in the depth of February again, if the opportunity arises. Or if it’s in the summer, we definitely want to visit the lavender farm. You have to walk around to really enjoy each town and its people.
The Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockport emphasizes work by Americans, especially modernists – and its connection to the Wyeths and Alex Katz are strong. The museum even owns the Olson house, made famous in the painting Christina’s World.
Bay Chamber concerts have been providing classical music each summer out of the old opera house in Rockport and related venues along Penobscot Bay. It began as the summer home of the famed Curtis Institute in Philadelphia and maintains high standards.
Popham Beach in Phippsburg has to be the loveliest in the Maine. The state park is also the busiest. Get there early, if you can, before the line forms.
The river herring also known as alewives are a regional treat, especially when they migrate each spring. You can see them up-close in Damariscotta … or dine on them, if you ask around.
When the herring run, the osprey follow. The big birds rival eagles in their majesty.
It’s about 700,000 times smaller than the average human.
It has 960,000 neurons, compared to 86 billion for a human.
It has six articulated limbs, each with six segments.
It has five eyes. Two of them are compound eyes made up of 6,900 lenses and cover about half of the face, These two mega-eyes sees the world differently. Red looks black, and the three primary colors are blue, green, and ultraviolet. It detects motion intensely but outlines are fuzzy and images, blocky.
Its other three eyes detect only changes in light, as a warning of danger.
Its four wings move at 11,400 strokes a minute.
The wiggle dance tells other members of the colony where a nectar supply is within a five-mile radius of the hive.
Of 20,000 species of bees, only four make honey.
Around 80 percent of all American fruit, vegetable, and seed crops are pollinated by bees.
Its straw-like tongue extends far beyond the jaw but has no taste buds. Instead, specialized hairs sense the chemicals that brush up against its exceptionally hairy body.
– from an article by Natasha Frost at Atlas Obscura
The flexed arm of 15 Massachusetts towns sticking out into the Atlantic is a unique part of New England. You sense something’s different as soon as you cross over the Bourne or Sagamore bridges high above the Cape Cod Canal.
Here are some considerations.
It has four different sections, and they can be confusing. The Upper Cape is what you encounter immediately over the bridge, while the Lower Cape, or Outer Cape, is what comprises the wrist and hand of the upraised arm. Got it? That always feels reversed to me. And in-between are the Mid-Cape and Lower Outer Cape. Usually added to that are “the islands,” Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, which you reach by ferry.
The Cape is infused with a Colonial appearance, despite all the development since, or at least since the high Victorian era. And it’s definitely integrated with the ocean, on both sides. It often becomes overwhelmingly twee, though the thrift shops can be well worth investigating. Make sure your American flag has only 13 stars.
What people usually think of as the Cape is its far outer tip – the glorious sand dunes and then flamboyant Provincetown. For me, the heart of it all has been the Portuguese Bakery in P’town. Cheap, blue collar, and distinctively tasty, until recently. Portuguese, after all, have long been the fishermen.
The Cape is noted for its lighthouses – 18 still working, last I counted. Some of them are privately owned.
Chatham, at the elbow, has a gazillion big seals – and a shark population that feeds on them. You can get close-up views of the seals at the town’s commercial fish dock.
The sandy cliffs and beaches along the Atlantic run for miles, from Marconi station on up to P’town. You can just walk and walk and walk, maybe returning on the converted railroad trail up above.
Traffic jams are a constant headache through summer, especially on weekends.
The Cape pushes the ocean current further out to sea, meaning colder waters rise up in the void to its north. For swimmers, that means warmer waters on the Cape than we have in New Hampshire or Maine, beginning earlier and later into the season, too. By the way, the Plymouth Bay side is usually warmer and gentler.
Bicycling is big.
I suggest going in the shoulder season, before Memorial Day and after Labor Day. Good swimming can extend through September, if hurricanes cooperate. For the rest of the year, the weather can be weird. Remember, the Cape’s at the mercy of the ocean.
Savoring those rare moments when I don’t feel an inner compulsion to be moving on from whatever I’m actually doing. That is, when I’m free of that old weight of duty kicking in.
As happens in Quaker worship. As well as Orthodox Easter and other feast days.
The North Atlantic.
Birds at the feeder. Or sighting an eagle or osprey anywhere, even hawks or hummingbirds.
Fresh tomatoes or asparagus. Along with other things straight from the garden.
Lobster, scallops, mussels, crabs. The joys of living so near the ocean.
A good poem or novel, especially by an unknown writer.
Musical performance that breaks free of convention while remaining true to the score.
Jnana's Red Barn 