Even before entering the community, one is greeted with a parable. The drive to their market runs through a train trestle that is large enough for only one car. I laughed out loud when I read that the name of the road was Needles Eye Lane. In Matthew Jesus says to his disciples, “I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” Could there be an entrance more appropriate for a wealth shunning community? In later conversations I discovered that the Mennonites didn’t even give it this name. Apparently the name preceded the Mennonites purchase of the land in 2003. Had they needed a sign to purchase the land I’m sure that would have been more than enough. To paraphrase John Donne, ‘tis stranger than fiction, but true.’ Or as another friend of mine says, ‘You can’t make this stuff up.’
When one passes through the needles eye in summer they are greeted with a different world. A simple white market sits at the end of a gravel parking lot. To its left down a sloping hill is the land unfolded like a quilt. Various horses, buggies and bearded men in straw hats scatter the land. Like worker bees they drive their produce laden wagons to the basement of the market where I would later learn it was sorted into bins with each farmer’s name. Other brothers then prepare the produce, cart it up wooden steps to the market above where they fill the half-empty stalls for the shoppers. I imagine that I was like many other shoppers who were enamored as much with the heirloom tomatoes and pepper jelly as with the men stocking the shelves. I was examining a cantaloupe when one of the brothers paused beside me with a box of cucumbers. In a slow measured voice he said, “Last week a lady asked me if the cantaloupe were good. I told her I thought so, but if you really wanted to know you should probably ask their parents.” He then grinned broadly and continued to stock the shelves. Who would have expected jokes at the Mennonite market?
If you have ever asked someone on a first date than you know how I felt when I was checking out. I wanted to get more time with these folks, but I didn’t know if they wanted time with me. I didn’t know how they felt about outsiders. Certain that I’d get rejected; I almost departed without a word. But just before stepping away with my champagne grapes and watermelon I blurted out, “Do you all allow visitors to your worship service?” Instead of answering he turned and walked away. I was certain I’d offended him until he pulled a couple of sheets of paper from a display and handed them to me. “Yeah,’ he finally said, “the service is at 8:30, just drive on around the community to the meeting house which is just over that hill.” And just like that, I had a date with the Mennonites of Delano.
(next: The Meeting House)
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