En Route to Damascus
“In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.”
– Proverbs 3:6
My faith path has been circuitous. I have ended up (I believe) in the Black Baptist Church. But I have felt the call to this site of faith for a very long time. When I was young, I would wait outside the local Baptist church just to hear a bit of music -- the sounds of people worshipping inside. And then I would watch with admiration the women streaming out of the building, talking to each other excitedly, lovingly, wearing hats like I’d never seen, growing up in a hippie academic family as I did. Oh, that I could ever wear such a hat, I would think to myself. And even more, oh that I could be a part of something like that, that exchange I would much later learn to call, fellowship.
Growing up in the ‘70s, in what now would be called a “diverse area,” I was friends with mostly Black and brown kids. And then suddenly, what I now know as an almost inevitable sociological shift, once in high school we all went our separate ways. All my friends had turned White. I began going to church with one of them, and her very nice Protestant family. They graciously picked me up from my atheistic home each Sunday in their lemon-yellow Skylark and off we went to the building that looked like a toaster in downtown Ann Arbor. I found the services -- and the music, for that matter – pretty uninspiring. But I had asked to go, so I behaved myself. Sunday school made no sense to me and oftentimes my friend and I would sneak off to nearby Angelo’s for French toast instead. Stevie Wonder was ringing in my head, Mama gives you money for Sunday school, You trade yours for [French Toast] after church is through.
Once I got to college I forgot about church for the most part, though that was a time I really could have used some church. If we ever needed the Lord before… and all that. I began at Michigan State University, stumbled back to my hometown and the University of Michigan, and finally ended up graduating from sunny University of Arizona. More circuitousness. I then moved to New York City, because I was an actress and LA sounded really weird. There I sought out church once again. I started attending Marble Collegiate Church on 5th Avenue. It was… nice. Familiar. And the minister, Dr. Caliandro, was good, good people. But the services were so quiet, so understated. I needed more. I was not sure what I was looking for exactly, but it was not the gentle handshake and whispered Peace be with you that I would receive from a few worshipers as they filed out of service. This was, of course I see now, a necessary stop on my meandering journey. In fact, I later ended up writing a letter to the minister at Marble Collegiate, thanking him for directing me to… Judaism! He was quite gracious in his reply.
I was in my twenties, living in Manhattan, working as an actress, with a myriad of side hustles to support the non-paying acting. I made an effort to attend most every free gospel event, always feeling deep down that I wanted to be more than just an onlooker, that I wanted to be a part of that which was occurring in front of me. But I also refused those walking tours of Black churches, a gaggle of White folks shuffling into a Black congregation mid-worship, ogling the space as if viewing a performance art piece.
The West Side Y, on 63rd Street, offered an extensive array of free lectures and programs. One that I attended included a panel with a minister, a rabbi, and an imam. I had taken classes on Islam in college and was most interested in hearing the Muslim perspective on whatever was the subject of the panel. (It was a long time ago). Upon arriving, I picked up the leaflet advertising upcoming programs which had been left on my folding chair. One offering was a study class of the Torah. No strings attached, but one could use it towards conversion if one were interested. Well, conversion was not for me, of course, but I loved studying religion, and knew very little about Judaism -- although my father was Jewish by birth. My Dad had been raised in a family that chose to acclimate to the American way from inside their two-story brownstone in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. They had a Christmas tree every year, even as he and his brother were barmitzvah’d.
Dad grew up thoroughly disinterested in his birth faith. And then, as his studies moved towards the cessation of military conflict, he became convinced of the downright destructiveness of religion. It was the incubator for war, as far as he could see. My father was an extremely intelligent man and I always thought it odd that he would carry, what seemed to me, such a simplistic view on this particular issue. But it was cemented inside of him and he harshly criticized my forays to the toaster church as a high school student. He looked down on anyone who claimed a belief in God. It hurt me at the time, but I kept getting in that Buick Skylark every Sunday anyway.
I signed up for the Torah class. We took turns meeting in each other’s homes, even in my embarrassingly small studio apartment on East 28th. The class was comprised of me, and three men with shiksa girlfriends who were planning to convert. Our leader was a hippie artist female rabbi whose work was mostly in the medium of hair. This included wrapping snarls of it around her bathroom sink faucet. It was a good class; we drank wine and began at the beginning. There were study questions and rich conversation. Knowing nothing of the Bible to speak of (remember, I didn’t really pay attention to Sunday school) I kept fairly quiet. Interestingly, a few months later I ended up as an administrative assistant at a synagogue. This was yet another one of those paying gigs which allowed me to pursue my acting. It was a historically famous synagogue that I worked for, I learned. And one of the rabbis was incredibly magnetic, and accessible. Ya-dah, ya-dah, ya-dah, as they say, I decided to convert.
Meanwhile I meet a guy. And guess what, he was Jewish. Now I made sure he knew what I was up to -- and that it had nothing to do with him, as it had all begun way before him. Way before I was serving him vodka tonics at the bar at the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. But it sure worked out when the time came to meet his very Jewish parents who had made aliyah to Israel many years before. We were married, in a Jewish ceremony, by my favorite rabbi.
Once, when I was meeting with the rabbi for a pre-conversion session, he asked, “Why do you choose to publicly join a group of people who have been oppressed, discriminated against, and attacked for centuries?” I found this an astonishing question. I do not recall my answer (remember, long time ago) but the question felt as if it shone a bright light on my whole life. I realized that I related to all that was “other.” Not in any kind of heroic way. I was simply drawn to the people, animals, songs, and ideas that were different from those most culturally available. Certainly, there are some obvious explanations for this, looking back. I was an outsider quite regularly in my young life, for various reasons. And I never did relate to those who were in power, on top, in charge. In fact, I bristled at authority in general -- a trait I definitely inherited from my dad.
Anyway, I got dunked in the mikvah, married a Jewish man in a Jewish wedding and raised my children as Jews. They went to Sunday school, which is Hebrew school in this case, and they were bat and bar mitvah’d. I wanted my kids to have religious something. After thirteen years of age they could go their own way, hopefully taking God with them in some form or fashion. I would drive the kids to Hebrew School each Sunday -- which they hated -- listening to my Christian Sunday radio show replete with gospel music. I saw no irony in this at the time. Years went by; divorce happened; I met another guy. This guy was a Baptist minister. Mind you, I was still going to Jewish services, the big ones anyway. I had long since tired of my groovy synagogue where everyone wanted to make sure no one was offended by anything. So much so that when they spoke the word God they would add, “or whatever power it is you believe in.” Well, for God’s sake, I had joined a religious institution because I believed in God! Even with all the rote rules that we followed (covered heads, etc.) and rituals (the weekly march of the Torah, for example), we were going to offer up alternatives to Yahweh?! It made no sense to me.
The Baptist minister and I became involved, and we talked religion constantly. It was a great relief, as my ex-husband could not have cared less about the subject. He “allowed” the observances I incorporated into our family life but probably would have been just as fine had he married a shiksa who never converted. I got to speak the word God aloud, and ask questions, and share my “other” perspective on all things religious to this man who was raised knowing but one way to God, the Baptist way. Yet he was thoroughly accepting of my Jewish faith and practices, asking me his questions back. This was all quite liberating for me and I began to feel more “qualified” to enter those religious spaces that had always held my greatest interest.
I began to visit his church, and other churches where he would guest-preach. I met all sorts of Baptists. A lot of them were pretty wary (at best) of this White girl walking into their churches. When the two of us walked in together, there were many double takes. I was not offended. I mean, the Black church exists solely because people who looked like me would not let African Americans into “their” churches. Or if they were somehow allowed, they were made to sit far away and keep very quiet. So much so that in 1794, the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church was founded by Richard Allen in Philadelphia. The rest is literally history.
And that history, of course, begins much earlier. And I know it well. Because all those years I was attending shul and making latkes I was also studying and teaching African-American literature, culture, and history. I spearheaded programs for Black students at my university, because they told me they wanted to see a little more of them and a lot less of us. I was an ardent supporter and ally of the foregrounding of Black voices in all facets of academia. And yet here I was traipsing into a space that historically has been one of the only places a person of color can be themself, and with themselves. The church was a location of self-expression without penalty. Penalty, mind you, meted out by my ancestors (of one kind or another). Who did I think I was? I was eventually baptized by my boyfriend, in a private ceremony, along with a mutual friend. It was my second full water immersion.
After a while the preacher and I went our separate ways and I forged ahead, looking for my own church home. I thought I had found it at one point, hoping that after I had been there for a few months that the cold shoulders would begin to warm. The First Lady there was very gracious, and her husband was a good preacher. But I clearly kept sitting in other folks’ spots, and there was this one little girl who could not stop staring at me. I seemed a curiosity to her, one she was not so sure she liked. But God was in that house of worship and the music was on point. So I persisted.
Now most people know that the Black church can be a very traditional, even conservative, space. Again, historically this makes sense. Unfortunately, this conservatism turns off some younger and/or progressive people. While I was not especially young, I finally had to leave after one too many sermons railing on homosexuality as the devil’s doing. Many biblical scholars would agree with this argument of course, as one can easily draw that conclusion from the Bible’s text. But there are other learned people who do not see this issue the same way. I am by no way to be counted in that particular learned category, but I just kept thinking of my students who shared with me their experiences of church, feelings of alienation in a space where generations of their family had found sanctuary. I thought of my gay friends, too. It just felt hypocritical of me to stay. Not that anyone chased after me when I finally left that church.
And then I found a small church, with a new pastor, and a bunch of loving people who were willing to accept me into the fold. Certainly, there was a trial period, and I did my best to prove worthy, to show my commitment to the congregation, to the church, and to Christ. I wanted to make clear that I was not there for some novelty experience. It was incumbent upon me to be patient, until the church members were satisfied with my intentions. I kept a low profile, didn’t ask for anything, just kept showing my gratitude for entree into such a warm and loving place. Slowly but surely, I became a part of the congregation; I had found my home church. I danced with the Women’s Ministry on Women’s Day (and finally got to sport that church hat). I sang with the choir, but only because it was a whosoever-will kind of choir.
I even became leader of the Women’s Ministry eventually, despite my reluctance. I was uncomfortable as a White woman, leading a group of Black women. The pastor convinced me to accept the position, but I never settled in and was grateful when my two-year stint was over. I have spent a good amount of time in non-White spaces, thus having the privilege of a small glimpse into the way it must be to walk through this White world as a Black person. Being an outsider, the “only…” has been a consistently uncomfortable and edifying experience for me. As a woman, I am familiar with having to navigate majority male spaces, figuring out how to “handle” certain male-dominated situations. Well, people of color do this non-stop, until that is, they get to return to their “own” spaces -- whether that be the Black Church, a family reunion, or an HBCU.
Now, five years after joining First Baptist, I am in a new state on the opposite coast. During a pandemic. If there could possibly be an upside to this devastation it is that church is taking place online right now. I have been able to “attend” services all over Los Angeles, to seek out a place that just might be willing to take a chance on me. And I think I may have found it. An historically Black church, it apparently only recently deleted the word Baptist from its name. One day I will learn the story behind this change. The pastor is smart and funny, and he knows the Word. The few folks I have communicated with have been kind. I have been attending Bible Study and Sunday services these last few months, online. They are not interactive so I don’t know if the members can tell from my tiny Facebook photo that I am White, or if they even care. I picked up Communion kits from a lovely group of Deacons a few Saturdays ago; sent in a gift card for their collection supporting the same charity my church back East worked with; and I even found my way to the food pantry they recommended after asking for volunteer possibilities. I feel excited at the prospects of a new church family.
I attend the live online worship every week. I have long been accustomed to the idea of devoting half my Sunday to church. Baptists are notorious for “long” services, and I am grateful for that tradition, separating myself from the world of man and practicing a closer walk with God. The fellowship, the Word, the music, the inspiration… It has been my retreat for so long. And now more than ever, I cry in gratitude for possibly finding my place in all of this mess, as I sit in bed with my coffee and my cat, staring once again at a computer screen.
My path has been circuitous. But whose life path, from an aerial view anyway, has not been? I am grateful for the walking trail that has led me to Los Angeles, and to this church. And to so much more along the way. God is everywhere out here, in the mountains and the ocean, the bamboo forests and the bougainvillea. And in those sunsets. I pray that when we are able to attend services in person once again, that it will be confirmed that I have found my church. But if God says otherwise, then I’ll just keep on walking.
Katie Singer has a Ph.D. in American Studies from Rutgers University-Newark and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Fairleigh Dickinson University, where she taught writing, literature and African-American studies. She is presently History faculty at Rutgers University-Newark, and recently relocated from New Jersey to California.
Her writing consists of articles, essays, short stories and poetry. Dr. Singer has published in a number of journals, most recently in the anthology, Food, Migration, and Diversity: The Many Flavors of the Short Story, which was published in conjunction with the International Conference on the Short Story in English, of which she is a board member.
Dr. Singer has presented at conferences, in the U.S. and abroad, on topics that include preservation, oral history, racial justice, African-American literature and African-American historical commemoration. She dedicates her summers to her creative writing practice and is currently working on a collection of linked short stories featuring women “of a certain age.”
