First Person Account of Anabaptist Immigrant Henrich Clemmer

Hello, my name is Henry Clemmer. I was Henrich (or Heinrich) until I immigrated to an English-speaking colony in Pennsylvania. My last name also has many variations in Switzerland from where my family originates; Klemmer, Klymer, Klimmer, or Kleiner, sometimes spelled with a "C" and sometimes with a "K"; take your pick.

I arrived in the USA in 1717, that’s 300 years ago, with my father Valentine, four brothers and a nephew. I was 16 years old at the time. My father told me, “There were so many emigrating from the Palatinate to Pennsylvania that we filled three ships.” I’ve been told that for a period of nearly 100 years, nearly 70,000 people emigrated from the Palatinate in Germany, although not all were Mennonite. 

The Center of the Town of Affotern am Albis, the origin
of the Clemmer/Clymer name

I was born in Friedelsheim, Germany in 1700. My father had moved there from Affoltern am Albis, Switzerland, after the persecution in Switzerland had become unbearable. Particularly in the Canton of Bern, the authorities were severe. Dad told me of family farms of Anabaptists that were confiscated, sold, and the proceeds divided up among the local magistrate, the local government and the Bernese government. To add insult to injury, some of the funds were used to build new Reformed churches in the area to try to restrain the Anabaptists from spreading.

Dad also told me that the Swiss authorities released prisoners if they agreed to hunt down Anabaptists, paying them a bounty for each one they turned in. Those turned in were sent to prison where they were tortured to reveal names of other Anabaptists. Some were sold as galley slaves, and some were exiled and shipped down the Rhine River to Holland, when Dutch Mennonites offered to pay their passage. They were warned never to return to Switzerland. If they returned to Switzerland they were imprisoned for life, or drowned. This happened to several of my dad’s acquaintances.

My dad tried to explain to me why the Anabaptists were hated so much that the Swiss government wanted to get rid of them completely. It began with believer’s baptism. They didn’t allow their infants to be baptized. The decision to follow Jesus could only be made by an adult. Since their infants weren’t baptized, the church and the government couldn’t control them. They also were hated because they refused to swear oaths, and to bear arms. But there was another driving force. Switzerland was the only territory in the region that had a conscripted army. Other countries had mercenary armies, and the Swiss government hired out their conscripted soldiers to the armies of other countries. With Anabaptists refusing to be conscripted, the authorities were losing a significant source of income.

Torture chamber in Trachselwald prison where
Anabaptists were held in Switzerland

In spite of the persecution, the movement continued to grow. People saw how their Anabaptist neighbors lived holy lives, and followed the hard teachings of Jesus that were often ignored by larger society. After my dad began reading the Bible carefully, and began attending clandestine meetings of the Anabaptists, he became convicted and was converted. Most of his siblings remained Reformed.

Dad told me about the many superstitions that the peasants in Switzerland believed in more than freedom in Christ. The supposed presence of mountain spirits, devils and demons caused much fear and paralyzed their lives. The Reformed Church authorities allowed these superstitions to be propagated because it helped them to control the people. Anabaptism released the converted from these burdens and fears.

When the persecution became overbearing, many Anabaptists moved from

The house where the last Klemmer family lived in
Friedelsheim, Palatinate, Germany

Switzerland to the Palatinate in Germany. My dad and his family joined them. They moved to the village of Friedelsheim, near Mannheim, just west of the Rhine River around 1679. The ruler of the Palatinate invited people to resettle this region after it was devastated by the 30-years’ war; one of the most destructive wars in history. My uncle, Hans Jakob Klemmer, had already moved to Friedelsheim several years earlier. Even though my uncle was not an Anabaptist, there were many other Mennonites in the region, including the family of Christian Hershey. His family was one of the many who emigrated with us from the Palatinate to the USA. I don’t remember when my father became a bishop with the Mennonite church. I always remember him as a church leader.

Things in the Palatinate were better than Switzerland, but Mennonites were still considered second-class citizens. They couldn’t own property, they weren’t allowed to proselytize, and couldn’t meet in groups of more than 20. So, after my mother died, and after my dad heard about the invitation by William Penn and George Fox to come to Pennsylvania, and after he had spoken with many other Mennonites in the region, he decided to emigrate to Pennsylvania. I imagine he really didn’t know what lay ahead for him, but he figured that life couldn’t be much worse than it had been in Switzerland or now in the Palatinate. I was only 16 when we left Friedelsheim bound for Philadelphia.

The trip to Rotterdam then across the ocean was a real hardship. We endured a long, arduous journey that began with a 6-week trip down the Rhine River to Rotterdam, Holland. We were delayed for several months in Holland waiting for a ship to take us across the ocean. We sailed across the Atlantic Ocean for 7 weeks until we finally reached Pennsylvania. During the journey, I was seasick most of the voyage. We had trouble with rats scouring around the decks and getting into our supplies. We suffered from sour beer, worms in the drinking water and fighting among fellow passengers. Each passenger had a sleeping and sitting area of 2’ by 6’. The meat, fish and butter were so heavily salted and smelled so terrible that I could barely swallow. I was always thirsty and either too hot or too cold! Someone opened our chests that we had put in the cargo area of the ship and our valuables were stolen. I remember my father Valentine and the other Mennonite Bishops sitting together and studying their German Bibles and the one map they had of William Penn’s Colony.

When we finally got to Pennsylvania, we spent some time in Germantown with other Mennonites and some Quakers. Germantown is a little north of Philadelphia. My father worked as a weaver until we accumulated enough money to buy some property and begin a homestead. We eventually settled in Bucks county, where dad started a church. I helped build what became the second Mennonite church in the USA, working as a mason. It was Skippack Mennonite Church, founded in 1720.

Clemmer home on Allentown Rd. as it appears today.

After I got married to Maria Bitzer in 1740, I bought land and built a house in 1748 between Allentown Road and Godshall Road in Franconia Township, Pennsylvania, just south of Souderton and Telford. I built my log house in the typical Swiss-German style. We had 156 acres to farm, kept about four horses for transportation and farm work, and four cows.

On October 14, 1777, George Washington’s men from the Revolutionary army passed by my homestead as they retreated from the battle of Germantown. The soldiers took the Allentown Road with the wounded on their way to the hospital in Bethlehem. After all that my family had been through in Switzerland and Germany, you can imagine how we felt about this turn of events. Most of us had little problem being British subjects. The Revolutionary militia began soliciting us to fight for them. We suggested donating to destitute families who lost husbands and sons to the war. Pennsylvania countered with levying a war tax or paying for a substitute soldier. We couldn’t in good conscience do either. We could not in any way assist in the destruction of people’s lives. Some of my fellow Mennonites had their farms confiscated in order to pay the fines.

Some of my Mennonite friends were considered traitors by the patriots because they came to the aid of hungry and wounded soldiers on both sides. Life in what we thought was the promised land turned out to be just as hard to a true follower of Christ as it had been in Europe. As a result, some of my friends decided to move to Canada.

Eventually things settled down and we joined Franconia Mennonite Church. Maria and I had 8 children. We dedicated our lives to being good farmers and followers of Jesus.

Preserved gravestone of Henrich and Maria Clemmer
at Franconia Mennonite Church

My father continued as a bishop in the Mennonite church, and was one of the signers of the Dordrecht Confession of Faith in 1724, which was first published in Holland in 1632. This statement of faith had helped to consolidate the beliefs of the disparate parts of the Radical Reformation in Europe, and now was available to influence our Mennonite church here in America.  

In spite of everything, I lived a long life—91 years. I died in 1791, and was buried beside my wife Maria in the Franconia Mennonite graveyard.

Sources: Clemmer book, Richard Davis Mennosearch.com, Barkey-us.org/wordpress.com, Donna Basinger, Furgge, historical novel by Katharina Zimmerman, US Anabaptists during the Revolutionary War

A True Friend

The summer I turned three, my family moved off the family farm (now Greenfield Restaurant and Bar for those familiar with Lancaster Co., PA) to become town dwellers in New Holland, PA. We lived on Locust Street in the first house (click on the link) in a duplex. Except for the fact that the duplexes weren’t connected together, our block comprised of what could be described as row houses on both sides of the street.

We were the only Mennonite family to live on the street, so we met quite a few interesting families in the neighborhood, including a Hawaiian family whom my father befriended. The man had just been released from jail for involuntary manslaughter due to an automobile accident, and my dad took him under his wing to help the transition back to life on the outside.

One of the other diverse families lived eight doors down the block from us. They were Catholic. They had a son Paul who was my age. If you grew up in the 50’s, I probably don’t need to define for you how most non-Catholic evangelicals, including Mennonites, viewed Catholics.

Paul and I became inseparable friends. He was an only child and his parents doted him with all the wordily goods children our age wanted. Our family consisted of four and grew to seven before we moved. Needless to say, there weren’t many extras at our house, so I spent all my time at Paul’s house. I remember my brother desperately wanting a baseball glove like all the other neighborhood boys. Since we couldn’t afford such a luxury, my mom sewed together a glove out of old material. My brother was so proud of the glove he ran right out to play, slapping his fist to form a pocket to catch a ball in. The other boys laughed him right off the field.

Paul had a sand box in his back yard, and we moved endless amounts of dirt with his front loader and dump truck. We played cowboys and Indians. He wore the chaps and strapped his pistol around his waist and he gave me the bows and arrows. He had a tent, so we spent a number of summer nights sleeping outside. I do remember the first night was a bit frightening. We heard a noise and got scared and ran home.

I can still visualize and smell his house. It was a mixture of cigarette smoke and beer—two smells totally foreign to me. Upstairs there were statues scattered around. In their basement was a workshop where his dad spent his free time working on various projects. And they had a TV! Of course, Mennonites didn’t have TV, so I would go over to his house to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Other that a few Western shows, where we learned how to authentically play cowboys and Indians, we didn’t spend much time watching TV. We were too busy playing. The wide expanse of land on the other side of our house gave plenty of space for exploring. In the summer, the empty field was usually filled with corn. In and out of that we would run, inventing games as we went.

On the top of the hill behind my house was a church and a large graveyard. We remember Memorial Day ceremonies, where a troop of soldiers would come and after playing some patriotic songs, would shoot their guns into the air. Once we sneaked into the church basement through an open window. We played hide-and-seek in the Sunday school rooms.

In spite of the differences between Mennonites and Catholics, my parents never forbade our activities and friendship. Perhaps they warned me about the dangers of TV, or other things, but I don’t remember.

Our first separation came when school began. I went to the local elementary school for first grade, and he went to a private Catholic school. We could handle that, because we still had afternoons and summers together.

Our biggest separation came before I entered the third grade. Our family, having grown out of the little row-house, bought a house and moved to Goodville, some five miles to the east of New Holland. It was the summer that I turned eight. This was a bigger challenge. I was devastated. I can still vividly remember a dream I had that we had returned to New Holland, and when I woke up I was distraught. I wanted my dream to be real. I missed my friend Paul more than anything else.

One day, about a month after our move and just before school began, there was a knock at our side door. It was my friend Paul! He had ridden his bicycle, without his parents’ permission, all the way to Goodville to visit me! Five miles on a 20” wheel bicycle was quite a feat for an eight-year old. This was how much our friendship meant to him!

My mother, half in shock, called his mother to tell her where her son was. Paul’s mother was also in shock. They came in their car to retrieve him and the bicycle. I don’t know what punishment he received for his little excursion, but I can imagine it wasn’t pleasant.

Illustration by Maurice Sendak from a vintage ode to friendship
by Janice May Udry

I don’t remember having any contact with Paul after that incident. I returned to New Holland for high school, but he continued attending a Catholic school.

I’ve had many friends since Paul. But I don’t remember ever being as devoted to any other male friend as with Paul. This despite huge differences in upbringing and faith traditions. The innocence of childhood with the lack of socialized prejudices—what a refreshing reminder for an adult.

Have you had a best friend?

No Permanent Home

"For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come.” (Heb. 13:14 NLT)

I have lived a privileged life. I have been able to work and study in places around the world, and have learned to communicate in various languages in the process.

In Latin America, I have lived for extended periods of time (for at least a year) in Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico. In addition, I have visited all but three Spanish-speaking countries as well as Brazil. I calculate that in all I have spent the equivalent of seven years in the region.

In Europe, I have spent significant time in Switzerland, the homeland of my spouse, and recently returned from a year there. In all, with our summer visits included, I’ve spent nearly four years in Switzerland. I studied for four months in Germany, and visited eight other European countries.

There are many things that I have learned from these diverse places and have incorporated significant lessons from each of them into my world view. I have also developed significant relationships with beautiful people from these places. In addition, people from all around the world have been in my classes; from Iraq and Kurdistan, from Paraguay to Puerto Rico; from Japan and China to India and many parts of the former Soviet Union. I keep in contact with them years after they were my students. Their understanding of the world expands my own.

Because of these varied experiences, I have often asked myself the question, “Where is home?” This difficult for me to answer, because even having been born in the USA, I often don’t feel at home here. Nor do I feel at home in any of the other places I’ve lived. I feel like a “stranger[ ] and alien[ ] on the earth” (Heb. 11:13) with no “permanent home.”

After we’ve returned to the USA from our various adventures overseas, many well-intentioned people ask us, “Aren’t you glad to be home?” assuming that things are much better in the USA than anywhere else in the world. First of all, the USA is not my wife Esther’s home. She was born in Switzerland, and all of her family still live there. Second of all, I have discovered that things aren’t always better in the USA. In fact, there are many things that are worse. But I can say this only because I have experienced other ways of doing and being.

So where IS home? The scripture I quoted above from Hebrews, says that we have no permanent home. Other versions say: “no continuing/ enduring/ lasting city.” I like the German “Hoffnung für Alle” version the best. (Loosely translated by me) “For on this earth there is no city where we can always feel at home.” This has been my experience.

Valley where the Emma River cuts through the Alps
to form the Emmental, where many Anabaptists lived before
being pushed out of Switzerland.

300 years ago, my ancestors were pushed out of their homeland in Switzerland. The Bernese government was so eager to get rid of them, they paid their passage on a river boat down the Rhine to Holland. Some tried to resettle in Germany, but were still considered second class citizens with lots of push-back from the locals, both neighbors and government officials. Many eventually emigrated to the USA when they learned of the invitation of William Penn and received aid from Dutch Mennonites for the passage across the ocean.

When they arrived in the USA, they were almost immediately confronted with the American Revolution, along with skirmishes with local Native Americans. Some moved farther west or to Canada. They understood better than we do the concept of “no permanent home.” They were refugees, “strangers and aliens” for several generations. This lack of permanence made them more dependent on God.

I am seven generations removed from those refugees. Most of their descendants have chosen an “enduring city,” and have become settled and self-satisfied where they live. It is easy to fall into this trap. I am not immune to these tendencies.

How do we avoid the propensity to build ourselves “permanent cities,” where we “always feel at home,” where we become smug and self-satisfied? Where we become less dependent on God?

1.     Move to another country and live for a year or more doing some sort of service with a mission agency or NGO.

2.     Get to know some refugees in your town, county or state. Listen to their stories, prepare them a meal, walk with them in their daily struggles.

3.     Get to know anyone who lives at the margins of your town. Every town has them, and if you don’t know who they are, you are living in a bubble.  

4.     Volunteer at a food pantry, soup kitchen, or social service agency in your town.

So where is home? Our home is not a permanent city in a particular geographical location. Our home is where we find our authentic selves apart from what our culture tells us to be—our true God-imageness.  Our home is where we meet with others who are also searching for their authentic selves. Our home is where we reach out to others to help them find their own God-imageness/ belovedness/ goodness. Our home is in Jesus’ kingdom that knows no geographical boundaries, political system, or cultural preference.

As a wise former student wrote, “Home is anywhere our soul finds rest.”