Insurance policies are like any belief system. They all require some faith in order to work. Stripped to their essentials, the religious and the secular aren’t so different. (I once knew a minister who admitted choosing the profession and particular denomination because of its great retirement plan. But that’s another story.)
Insurance policies and belief systems usually hold three things in common. The first requirement is to hitch a ride with a cosmic power, political party, corporation or university — anything, as long as it’s seen as something greater than one’s self.
Fundamentalists of all stripes border on the presumptuous and absurd when they turn their Word, Führer or institution into something absolute, perfect and eternal.
Insurance policies and beliefs must also provide levels of psychological comfort. To quote St. Sinatra, “I’m for anything that gets you through the night, be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.” Without relief or hope, why bother living?
And thirdly, insurance policies and beliefs must hold out the likely and timely reward of promised benefits.
One insurance policy combined the best that both of these worlds could offer.
In 1783, the people of Magdeburg, Germany, reported receiving a letter “written in golden letters and sent by an angel.” Those who refused “to spread out” the word of this angel, or who didn’t “believe this letter is written with my hand,” were “as stupid as cows.” For the next 150 years, printers on both sides of the Atlantic worked feverishly to distribute copies throughout the German-speaking world.
Hanging framed copies of this “Himmels Brief” (or Heaven’s Letter) on the wall protected a house and barn “from fire and water. ... Anyone who carries this letter with him or has it in his house will not be struck by thunder and lightning.”
This belief remained strong and widespread among Pennsylvania’s Germans. Well into the 20th century hunters and farmers continued to protect themselves from accidents by sewing this “brief” inside their coats.
There was no doubt where this angel stood. The words were straightforward and direct.
Sundays were for attending church, not for laboring in the fields. In fact, the angel warned, don’t work late on Saturday night. To do otherwise would bring “war, pestilence, famine and plagues.”
No matter what day of the week, don’t pretend or express pride by “making up your face” or “wearing false hair.”
This angel didn’t tolerate greed either, telling believers not to “hunger for silver or gold,” but to “give your wealth to the poor.”
The letter had a lot to say about maintaining communities too. Those who aren’t neighborly are “cursed and lost.” You shouldn’t “rejoice when your neighbor is poor, rather have compassion on him and all will be well with you on earth.”
Sure, it’s easy for modern sophisticates to dismiss this “brief’s” origin and its harsher, less realistic commandments. But there’s enough common sense at its core to appreciate how people from another time tried to make their lives more tolerable.
Bruce Teeple, of Aaronsburg, is a freelance writer, local historian and community columnist for the Centre Daily Times. Readers can write to him at mongopawn44@hotmail.com.
