Sid Stein Goes to Church

Many traditions die hard. Some are good. For example, I have been attending Siena College basketball games with my father for nearly 25 years. Together, we have watched the program grow from a small Division III school to a Division I mid-major contender which has gone to the “Big Dance” the last two years in a row. The team used to play its home schedule at the school’s 4,000 seat gym – the ARC. For quite a few years now, Siena has held court at Albany’s 13,000-seat Times Union Center which has all the size, amenities and feel of a major civic center. Going to Siena games is a father-son tradition I cherish. We sit in the same seats every year with the other season tickets holders, most of whom we only see during basketball season. Each November, when the season starts, it’s like a family reunion. We reacquaint ourselves with the other members of the Siena “family,” catching up on news and what has transpired in the off-season. Without a doubt, it’s something I look forward to year after year.

On the other hand, some traditions are bad - racism, for example. The election of Barack Obama notwithstanding, racism still exists. Here in Albany, there are two distinct African-American neighborhoods, one north and one south of the downtown area. Both are impoverished and both are generally avoided by the area’s white residents. If that’s not quite racism, it’s a vestige of racial division. Beyond bemoaning the situation, there is little I can do except participate in the political process and try to elect officials who stand for change. For anyone familiar with politics in Albany, change comes slowly if at all.

Siena basketball has become so popular that parking downtown for games has become a problem. Although parking on city streets is free after 6:00 p.m., the spots close to the arena downtown fill up quickly. Even the garages and surface lots have more cars than they can handle when there is a big game. Although parking in a garage isn’t too costly, getting out of the garage after a game can be a nightmare, so I always tried to find a spot on the street. One never knows when one has to make a quick getaway.

Faced with ever growing crowds and my own inability to get out of the house early, I found myself in a parking predicament. Where to park? Driving around searching for a spot one evening, I found a solution which has worked every time since.

Even though Herkimer Street isn’t far, just a few blocks south of the arena, it is located in a poor, predominantly African-American section of the city called the Pastures. The Pastures was once the center of Jewish life many years ago and over the years, I have heard stories from my parents and others about various Jewish businesses which once thrived there. On Herkimer Street itself, stands the old synagogue Beth-El Jacob, where my grandfather (deceased) and my father sometimes worshipped. Even though it is now a church, St. John’s Church of God in Christ, Hebrew letters carved into the stone above the front doors are visible as well as a big Jewish Star of David in stained glass.

Besides the comfortable feeling I got from my historic connection to Herkimer Street, I discovered that there was always a place there to park. I thought how fortunate I was to find a regular parking spot so close to the arena. Then, I felt guilty. After all, my good fortune was the result of racism. White people are apparently nervous about parking in a black neighborhood. Other people’s misfortune has given me a place for my car. Despite my natural Jewish urge toward guilt, it hasn’t stopped me from parking there. I mean, why should I perpetuate racism even if I am, in some small way, taking advantage of it?

Confident that I would have a parking spot, I set off for a game this past December. Sure enough, I found a spot on Herkimer Street and made my way to the arena. I was looking forward to a fun game and spending time with my father. Even though I hadn’t eaten much that day, I was in such a good mood that I decided to have a beer. The line at the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk was short so I bought a flavorful lager. I found my way to my seat, sat down with my father and the other members of my Siena “family” and enjoyed the first half. Siena was playing a team from Delaware which was sorely overmatched. I was glad I decided to have the beer.
During halftime, I walked back to the Brooklyn Brewery kiosk and ordered another beer. I thought, why not? It’s one of those fun games when you know your team is going to win without a struggle. Might as well enjoy it fully and hope for some great dunks.

By the time ten minutes had passed in the second half, I was bored. The game was a blowout. Figuring that the Siena coach would start to play his bench, which usually means sloppier play and more free throws, I decided to leave early. I was also a little buzzed.

I put my jacket on and made my way out of the arena. I was in a merry mood as I headed down South Pearl Street toward Herkimer. It’s not more than a leisurely five minute walk. When I got to my car, I was dismayed to find a whole row of cars double-parked on Herkimer, blocking my exit. Now what? And, I had to pee!

On the stoop of a brownstone by my car stood a group of five or six African-American twenty-somethings clad in what best can be described as ghetto gear – hoodies, caps and bling. Is this what I get for taking advantage of racism? I turned to them, looked them over and asked if they knew why so many cars were double-parked. They laughed and told me that everyone was at church –except for them, of course. I said that I guessed I would have to go to church and find out what was going on. One of them replied that I looked a little too tipsy to be going to church. They all laughed again, but my mind was made up. Besides, this would be an opportunity to visit the former Beth El Jacob synagogue. And off I went.

As I approached the steps, I stopped to look at the building. I made my way up the steps to the front doors of the building. They were wood and looked old – maybe original. The first door I tried was locked. So were the next two doors. I wondered if anyone was in church at all. Had I been lied to? Was the group down the street still laughing at me? I tried the fourth door. It was open. I went in.

There was a small anteroom which led to the main sanctuary. I peeked through the glass in the sanctuary doors just to make sure there were people there. The church was only about a quarter full and someone was preaching. It was clear that the service wasn’t over yet. Since I had two beers, I decided to find a men’s room before I joined the congregation. I hoped that no one would see me. I didn’t want to look like a tipsy homeless person just looking for a warm place to pee.

I eventually took a seat in a pew toward the back of the church. I became the sole white attendee. Yes, I felt out of place, but these were good Christians who were more interested in worshipping the Lord than worrying about why I was there. There was preaching and singing. A real revival! A small combo consisting of an organ, drums and maybe a bass guitar accompanied the singing. There weren’t any Mahalia Jacksons there, but the gospel singing was pleasant, warm and uplifting.
The service was everything I expected. Congregants were singing for Jesus and dancing around the sanctuary. One teenage boy showed his jubilation by running exuberantly around the room. As I enjoyed the sights and sounds, I was wondering what people might expect from the lone white person there. Was I supposed to do cartwheels down the aisle like John Belushi in the Blues Brothers?

I didn’t engage in any acrobatics. Instead, I sat there quietly, somewhat overwhelmed by the history of the place. Except for a simple large cross which adorned the wall behind the altar, it didn’t look like much had changed from when it was a synagogue. Above the cross was a large round, stained-glass window depicting a Jewish Star of David. On both side walls, there were four smaller but long stained-glass panels with the same Jewish star adorning the top of each one. At the bottom of the eight smaller windows, the names of the Jewish donors of each window were still visible in the stained-glass.

I receded into a long-forgotten Jewish history as I listened to gospel music and preaching. I thought about my now deceased friend, Nathan Rosenstein, who used to own a market not far from the synagogue and how he might have prayed here on the Sabbath and High Holy days. As I soaked up the sweet sounds of the gospel music, I contemplated how the Jewish community in Albany has changed over the years, migrating from downtown to uptown and beyond to the suburbs. Somehow I was filled with bittersweet memories which were not my own – memories which had now been supplanted with the hope of salvation through Jesus.

A few people stood up to testify about how Jesus had entered their lives during difficult circumstances, helping them manage one crisis or another. Some spoke of minor “miracles” about finding their way after being lost on a trip while others spoke about help bestowed upon their family in a time of sickness. There were many “Amens.”

At some point during the service, a man stood in front of the congregation. He brought out two wicker baskets which he placed on a table in front of the congregation. The preacher spoke about the importance of supporting the church. When he was finished talking, worshippers stood up and approached the table, depositing their donations in one basket or the other. Not wanting to be the only person who didn’t pay his dues to the Lord, I reached into my pocket and pulled out two five-dollar bills. I stood up and walked down the center aisle, a five in each hand. As I reached the baskets, I smiled and deposited a bill in each one before returning to my seat.

Before long, the service concluded. People got up and began talking to their fellow worshippers. I stood up too and was immediately greeted by a woman who said, “G-d bless you.” “G-d bless you too,” I replied. More than one person came up to me and greeted me in a similar fashion. It was very endearing.

Still feeling a little tipsy, I approached the altar and found an older woman standing by herself. I told her the following story:
“You know, I wasn’t planning on coming to church tonight. I went to the Siena game and parked my car here on Herkimer Street. When I got back, I discovered all these cars were double-parked blocking me in so I came into the church to see what was going on. I didn’t want to disrupt the service so I sat in the back. I am Jewish and my grandfather and father used to worship here back in the days when it was a synagogue. I just want you to know how happy I am to find that this building is still a house of G-d. So, even though I started out by going to a basketball game, I guess G-d wanted me to come here and find some religion.”

The woman was thoroughly delighted with my tale, blessed me and asked me to come back again. I was so delighted that she liked my story that I went around and repeated it at least five times to other members of the church. They were all delighted as well and offered to help me find who was double-parked. I told them not to worry about it. I said I was happy to come to church and was sure that because the service was concluded, my car would be freed soon. Amen!

With a big smile on my face, I left the church and walked back to my car. Sure enough, someone had left allowing me to navigate out of my parking spot and head on home. The same twenty-somethings who had laughed at me when I first arrived were still there. They were still laughing, but now somewhat impressed that I had actually ventured into the church. One of them added: “You don’t look so tipsy anymore!” And off I went.








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