Miller’s Organic Farm, located outside the village of Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, looks like all the other farms that dot the winding country roads surrounding it. A simple black mailbox marks its entrance, and an unassuming white house sits at the end of a long driveway, bookended by fields where handsome horses roam and lazy cows graze. But despite the tranquility of the scene, this typical-seeming Amish farm is actually the center of a political maelstrom that has been roiling for almost ten years.

The controversy began in 2014, when two people became sick after drinking dairy products that food inspectors traced back to Amos Miller’s farm (one of them ultimately died; Miller disputes it was as a result of consuming his products). When the USDA investigated his facilities, they discovered that Miller was slaughtering and processing meat from his animals on the premises and not in a USDA-inspected slaughterhouse, a violation of food safety laws. Ultimately, Miller wanted to continue this practice as well as produce raw milk––laws around the production of raw milk and cheese vary from state to state, with Pennsylvania allowing producers to sell it, provided they obtain a permit and their products undergo frequent testing, both things Miller wouldn’t do. His customers, he said, came to him because they wanted natural products, and the government would force him to use myriad chemicals in the production process (for example, washing meat with chlorine after slaughter). The government, meanwhile, maintained it simply wanted to bring Miller’s operation into compliance with federal food safety laws, a feat many other local Amish farms managed.

A few decades ago, the Miller story probably would have faded into obscurity, federal regulations around the interstate sale of dairy products being few people’s idea of excitement. But as the farmer’s entanglement with the FDA and court system dragged on through the Trump presidency and into the Covid years, a curious thing happened: he was embraced and championed by a ragtag coalition of people who, somewhat improbably, found themselves huddled together under the same political umbrella.

You might describe some of the farmer’s champions as Paleo QAnon, a male-dominated group for whom food reflects ideas about traditional gender roles, particularly masculinity, and the corruption of contemporary Western medicine, among other things. Other supporters are health proponents who are hyper-scrupulous about chemicals lurking in grocery store fare, whose views on animal welfare and nutrition aren’t that far removed from those held by liberal vegetarians like Jonathan Safran Foer and Peter Singer. Many are Evangelical Christian homesteaders who moonlight as YouTubers; still others are rank and file Fox News fans, who see in Miller’s story the rage-inducing creep of the nanny state.

It could be hard to make out what Miller thought of the hoopla. Due to Amish reluctance to be photographed or engage in self-promotion, he has made few media appearances, though he was interviewed by Del Bigtree, a prominent anti-vaccine activist, on his podcast The High Wire, and lent his voice to a “mini-documentary” produced by the Lancaster Patriot, a Christian publication that bills itself as “leading a Movement [sic] to restore truthful and ethical media in Lancaster County.” While footage of pastoral landscapes rolled and soppy string music played in the documentary, Miller spoke, in characteristic taciturn Amish style, about his plight. “I’m not against government. We need government,” he said of his apparent adversary. “But when they try to hide the truth, that’s when I take my stand.”

Though his meat processing formed the foundation of the case, it was Miller’s raw milk that proved the most galvanizing. His customer base and supporters believe that pasteurization removes many of milk’s nutrients and that, in its raw state, milk can alleviate symptoms of depression, infertility, autoimmune disorders, and autism, among other conditions. Health authorities say there is scant evidence for this, and that the bacteria present in unpasteurized milk can cause illness and even death.

In August of 2022, Miller’s story got a major boost when it was featured on Tucker Carlson Tonight. “So they went after gyms, organic farmers, and churches,” Carlson said to his guest Jeremy Loffredo, a Miller champion and investigative journalist for right-leaning Canadian publication Rebel News. “So maybe they’re against anything that’s wholesome and edifying, that makes you stronger and healthier and in favor of anything that diminishes you and makes you more dependent?” Afterward, the online discourse about Miller became even more heated: “This is a disgusting abuse of power,” read a typical comment under a post on Food Safety News, which has run pieces critical of Miller. Another post proclaimed, “These ppl [the government] DO NOT CARE ABOUT YOU!” At one point, his supporters collectively raised more than half a million dollars for him, hoping to help Miller’s businesses stay afloat while he was barred from selling goods and to help with his legal fees.

In court, Miller tried a number of strategies. At one point he argued that he sold only to members of his “private membership association,” which he thought meant (erroneously) regulations didn’t apply to him. He also tried to characterize himself as a “sovereign citizen,” a pseudo-legal label sometimes used by individuals to claim they cannot be subject to laws without their consent. He had a court-appointed attorney named Steven LaFuente, but the two repeatedly tried to part ways, though the judge refused to allow it until Miller found adequate representation. Eventually, he retained the counsel of Los Angeles-based tax attorney Robert Barnes, whose previous defendants included Alex Jones, Kyle Rittenhouse, and Amy Cooper, the so-called “Central Park Karen.” (While Barnes played a role in Rittenhouse’s defense team, he didn’t end up defending him at trial.)

“This case is fundamentally not only about preventing Amos Miller from farming the way his religious community traditionally farms,” Barnes said in an interview with lawyer-turned-YouTuber David Freiheit. “It’s also about ordinary people getting to decide what I put in my body.”

But amidst all the national attention, there was one group conspicuously missing from Miller’s growing legion of fans: the Amish themselves.

***

Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where Miller lives, is home to the world’s largest settlement of Amish, a religious group with its roots in the Radical Reformation, whose core beliefs include adult baptism, pacifism, a cautious attitude towards technology, and simplicity (the oft-invoked moniker of Amish and other Anabaptists like Conservative Mennonites, “Plain,” refers both to their spiritual restraint and their modest dress). On a visit to the area in the foggy early days of April, one can stop at a multitude of roadside produce stands selling duck eggs, soaps made of goat milk, and delicacies like homemade root beer and soft pretzels. The seemingly endless verdant fields of soy and corn crops might give a visitor the impression of a totally agrarian society, even though, owing to rising land prices, population growth, and agricultural consolidation, only around a third of the Amish here now make their living farming, a decline that began decades ago and has caused communal anxiety as it has accelerated.

Despite rarely interacting with them, many Americans see the Amish as the embodiment of rustic purity, Christian American values, and––somewhat paradoxically––government refuseniks, owing to widespread (and largely false) beliefs that they refuse to pay taxes or be vaccinated. This is the Platonic Amish person that Miller’s supporters are invoking when they repeatedly mention his religious affiliation; only occasionally does it come up that his community has not publicly rallied behind him. As the well-known farmer Joel Salatin, a friend and confidant of Miller’s, put it on his podcast Beyond Labels in September of 2022, “They now see him as a black sheep, a troublemaker, a rabble-rouser, a rebel… He’s Joan of Arc. He’s out there on his own.”

But the Amish are more heterogenous than the stereotypes, and their beliefs do not neatly conform to the ideas many project onto them. For example, as strong believers in the separation of church and state, the Amish have a gentler relationship with the government than many might expect; even in moments of discord, the Amish practice “nonresistance” rather than acts of civil disobedience, such as protesting. In a popular community handbook entitled 1001 Questions & Answers on the Christian Life, the authors, an unnamed group of Amish laypeople and clergy, insist that their duty is to “be respectful to the government at all times… instead of complaining, we should express our gratitude, live in quiet obedience, and pray for our rulers.”

The Amish also typically shy away from using the court system; they will defend themselves legally if necessary, but usually won’t bring court cases themselves, a notable exception being the landmark 1972 Supreme Court case Wisconsin v. Yoder, which exempted Amish children in Wisconsin from attending public high school. But even in the cases of defense, a protracted and combative court case like Miller’s might raise eyebrows. “If, from the Amish perspective, he’s been given a negotiated way to deal with this other than in the courts, and he’s not taking it, there would be questions raised as to why,” says Steve Nolt, professor of history and Anabaptist studies at Elizabethtown College.

The idea that the Amish, as a matter of faith, adhere to a more natural approach to agriculture than secular farmers, which Miller’s supporters often cite, is also not entirely accurate. Though it’s a stretch to call it theological, their relationship to the land does have echoes of spirituality; as the eminent scholar John Hostetler, who was raised Amish, wrote in his landmark book Amish Society, “As in the Hebrew account of Creation, the Amish hold that man’s first duty is to dress the garden.” But that doesn’t mean their farming has historically been more organic, nor is there a specific theological idea that they should farm their crops or slaughter their animals in particular ways. “There certainly are Amish people who’ve gotten involved with different health food movements or raw food movements, some of them for health reasons, some of them maybe for organic and anti-pesticide, more natural-type reasons,” says Nolt. “But there aren’t explicit religious codes or rules for handling food,” akin to kosher or halal rules for Jews and Muslims.

As a food safety expert with Penn State Extension, Jeff Stoltzfus works mainly with Amish and Conservative Mennonite vegetable growers, helping them to meet the regulations set out in the Food Safety Modernization Act of 2011. In the past fifteen years, he says he’s seen a growing number of Plain farmers pursue organic certification for their products, a process that requires voluntarily submitting to investigation, a move in tension with the idea of the Amish as anti-regulation. This is partly a savvy business strategy, as certified organic products can be sold wholesale for higher prices. “They obviously can’t go out and buy ten more farms,” he says, referring to the Amish preference to keep their enterprises small. “So they look for other opportunities. [Going] organic is one of those opportunities that they’ve found that fits their lifestyle.”

Casey Spacht, Executive Director and founder of Lancaster Farm Fresh Co-op, an organic cooperative with over 100 farm members, many of whom are Amish, says that in fact, the Amish were just as reliant upon chemicals as secular farmers until fairly recently. “Most Amish who farm, they’re not doing it to be organic,” he said. “They’re doing it because they want to stay at home with their family.” (Spacht says Miller, who is not a member of the co-op, is an acquaintance and a “good guy,” says he isn’t personally worked up about the issues Miller is arguing with the government about: “I’m fighting for farms not to become parking lots.”)

Stoltzfus says the Plain farmers he works with don’t seem to be obsessing over Miller’s plight––“I’m not necessarily privy to their supper table discussions,” he says, but it’s “not something they’re fixated on”––and that overall, they have no more difficulty meeting standards than others. “I worked with as many non-Amish growers that struggled with the fact that we have another regulation to deal with than I did with Amish,” he said, though he stresses that the Amish are not monolithic.

Conversations with Amish farmers and agricultural workers do reveal a wide variety of opinions about Miller (the Amish generally shun publicity and are reluctant to use their names in print). Some told me they had only a vague idea of the story; others implied the drama was bad publicity for them. “It’s a shame,” said an Amish person who runs an outfit selling canned goods, most of which are produced under the auspices of the state agricultural authority. Others, however, took Miller’s side. “It’s terrible,” said a twenty-five-year-old who grew up on a dairy farm but whose family sold their herd years ago when it stopped being a viable source of income. “Because he’s making good food, right?”

This last view is one that might be on the rise. Though it’s hard to quantify, Nolt says he has sensed a change in certain corners of the Plain world in recent years. “There’s this kind of unsophisticated idea that’s gone to seed of like, well, we’re exempt from everything,” he says.

Even in insular communities like the Amish, the bitter national dialogue has a way of trickling in. They’ve been specifically targeted by outside anti-vaccine advocacy groups––Nolt cites an ad in a local publication frequently read by the Plain community, using an illustration of a buggy crash as a visual representation of a Covid vaccine––and wooed by the Republican party. Though they historically don’t vote in national elections and stay far away from the political fray, the percentage of eligible Amish voters who showed up at the polls in 2016 jumped to nearly 20%, which Nolt calls “really unusual.”

On a visit to the area in 2022, I looked out the window at my Amish host’s home and saw something that I took as a potential harbinger of something odd and grim: a Trump 2024 sticker, on the back of a wheelbarrow.

***

Miller and the government came to an agreement in late 2021 that, in exchange for Miller paying a series of reduced fines, both to ensure further compliance and to reimburse the USDA’s Food Safety and Inspection Service for their costs, he would not face any jail time for contempt. It appeared he held up his end of the bargain, and the situation seemed resolved in early 2023.

But the détente was fragile: on January 4, 2024, state officials raided his property, citing reports that linked his milk products, including the seasonal favorite eggnog, to foodborne illness in minors from New York and Michigan; the Pennsylvania Attorney General announced they were suing Miller, and, in a complaint they filed, called the government’s efforts to get Miller into compliance “exhaustive.”

Within hours of officials entering the Miller farm, supporters had rallied online, organizing prayer circles, lobbing off incensed tweets, and penning angry blog posts. Yet another fundraiser was started, this one on GiveSendGo, a Christian crowdfunding platform, organized by Chris Hume, the managing editor of the Lancaster Patriot. “Amos Miller Under Attack AGAIN,” read the banner headline, underneath which was a picture of three state officials carrying coolers out a door under the watchful eye of four Amish men in signature garb, looking slightly downtrodden. A goal of $150,000 was set. In less than three weeks, it had exceeded expectations.

Outside the first court hearing on March 2 in Lancaster, a crowd––drawn in part by Robert F. Kennedy Junior, who encouraged people to attend on X (formerly Twitter)––held up signs that read “FDA GO AWAY” and “Food Freedom”; one person chanted “give me salmonella or give me death.” And this time, mingling amongst the group, handing out farm fresh eggs, was a group of Amish men wearing traditional straw hats and beards, just like Miller’s.

 

 

Kelsey Osgood has written for The Atlantic, the New York Times, and Time, among other publications. Her first book, How to Disappear Completely: On Modern Anorexia, was chosen for the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers program; her second book, on religious conversion, is due out from Viking Penguin in March of 2025.