The Lark: Vol 4, Issue 14, February 2025

A Fish Out of Water

By Jessica Siegel

When I was in college in Cleveland I had a dear friend. John was an amazing musician. That was our bond. He played multiple instruments and sang like Frank Sinatra.

John was a 6’2’ with a slim build. His smile lit up the room, his laughter made everyone around him smile. His eyes were doe-like, big and round, his lips were pillows around his mouth. He was warm, inviting, a great listener and a great talker.

Our lives never would have crossed paths without the shared passion for music. The world probably saw me as a middle-class woman with higher education, a good student, a strong circle of friends and a bright future.

John was a Black man. He grew up in abject poverty in the inner-city slums of Cleveland. He was a high school dropout, despite his intelligence. He went to work to help support his five siblings and single mother. Dad had disappeared when he was three. His musical talents helped him earn a living and a reputation among the Black churches throughout the greater Cleveland area.

Michel, a music professor at my school, met John and decided that he would be his mentor. Michael got John a scholarship to the university and recruited him into several of the school ensembles. John remained the same kind, empathic, helpful person. His reputation as a good guy and super talented musician rippled across campus. With a formal education, John became an even more prolific and creative composer. Still, every night, he retreated to his old neighborhood to help care for his family and spread joy through sharing his musical gifts.

I had lots of interactions with John around music. I was curious to see what he did at the churches he frequented. One day I asked him if I could join him at his church one Sunday.  John was delighted to escort me to the service and introduce me to his fellow congregants.

So, this twenty- something, white, middle class, Jewish girl went to a Baptist church deep in the black, impoverished neighborhood in Cleveland. The church was in a nondescript one-story building that had just one big room. It reminded me of the stereotypical TV setting of an AA meeting. The walls had once been white, but now were tinged with a dull grey tone from age, dirt, and dust. Old sheets of cracked grey speckled linoleum covered the floor. Florescent lights gave the room a yellowish tint. The ceilings felt lower than the usual eight feet clearance. There was a musty, sweaty stench. A semi-circle of folding chairs was spread out across the room. The congregants were chit chatting noisily, calling out greetings to each other from across the room. Compared to the richly decorated, Baroque style synagogue I attended as a child, the room did not lead me to feel particularly inspired.  I was beginning to feel quite out of place.

Once I settled into my chair, I realized that I was the sole white person in the church. I imagined how Black people might feel when entering the more affluent white neighborhoods of the city, walked the streets, went to school or to work. They must feel out of place. It wasn’t their world. I was feeling isolated and frightened like the proverbial fish out of water.

The service began with an inspirational blessing from the minister. There were lots of “amens” shouted out from the congregation to emphasize the message of the greeting. John was on the stage. He began to play the enormous Hammond organ, and everyone started singing.

No hymnals were needed. There were no prayer books. There was a beautiful, harmonious, communal voice of people shouting out their prayers and blessings, bursting into new songs, standing up, clapping, and dancing to share the word of G-d, their love of the Lord and for each other.  I tried to imagine this in a synagogue setting and found myself laughing aloud.

Photo by Mark Foster on Unsplash

I stayed seated for a while, not sure what to do. My services at the synagogue were nothing like this. We read from a prayer book, chanted traditional prayers, listened quietly when the Rabbi spoke. We read from the Torah and listened to the meaning of the week’s reading. There was a synagogue choir that sang the songs while we sat back and listened to their harmonious voices. The synagogue was immaculately kept. Silver wine goblets and candle sticks were polished and bright. Stained glass windows depicting scenes from the Torah graced the walls. There was a gilded, domed ceiling high above the synagogue.  The lights were soft white and low. There was never any shouting, loud chatter, or dancing.

I watched the members of John’s church reach into their souls to pray and celebrate their Lord. I marveled at the sheer joy and love that filled the church.  It was palpable.  Then the black woman next to me took my hand and encouraged me to stand up. She was bebopping around to the music. I decided to do the same thing.  She shouted “amen” and “praise the Lord”. When I heard something meaningful from the spontaneous, improvised messages, I joined in with my voice shouting “amen” and “praise the lord”. Finally, I threw out a spontaneous prayer of my own and the people replied with fervor. It was magical to hear the “amens” and “praise the lord,” “you’re an angel,” and “welcome to our church” being called out to me.

Perhaps I was the first white, Jewish woman to cross the threshold of the church. It didn’t matter. The spirit inside was that we are all one. We all knew that the world needed healing, love, joy, prayer, empathy and more. The heartfelt messages echoed throughout the church. I looked up to see John. His face was beaming, and a halo of light surrounded his body. His music had become a bit jazzy and raucous. Our eyes locked in on each other and we simultaneously mouthed “I love you” to each other. I left with several new acquaintances and a new feeling that the world was a harmonious place filled with possibilities for love and joy.

I returned to the church several more times and brought others with me to share the experience. It’s been forty years since my last visit to the Neighborhood Baptist Church. In my mind’s eye, I can still see and hear the sights and sounds of the best religious service of my life. It reminds me to sing with fervor and joy, to love the people around me and to allow myself to bathe in the spirit of togetherness.

Copyright Jessica Siegel February 7, 2025