My So-Called Episcopalian Life

Yeah, I was probably the only atheist Jewish Communist kid in the choir.

Where I used to spend my Sundays — and also many other days.

Interior - Cathedral of St. John the Divine - Sunday Afternoon.

WIDE SHOT: We are at one end of a vast Gothic cathedral (two football fields could be laid end-to-end inside it) on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, bordering Spanish Harlem. At the opposite end, sunlight streams in through an enormous stained-glass rose window. A thunderous pipe organ — its innards are the size of a three-story building — is being played by SIR ALEC WYTON, a world-renowned organist who doubles as the choirmaster. The EPISCOPALIAN BISHOP OF NEW YORK, in heavy purple robes, stands in the pulpit, leafing through the notes of the sermon he is about to deliver. Before him, on risers, a black-robed CHOIR — three rows of CHOIRBOY SOPRANOS and, behind and above them, two rows of ADULT MALE ALTOS (singing in falsetto), TENORS, and BASSES — belts out a hymn.

Now the CAMERA zooms in, tighter and tighter, on eight-year-old JOSHY KORNBLUTH, one of the choirboys. Though he is in the bottom row — an indication of his low standing in the choir — he sings with great conviction. Finally, when his head fills the entire frame, the image FREEZES and we hear a RECORD SCRATCH.

VOICEOVER (ADULT JOSH): So you may be wondering how I got here.

When I was in the second grade at P.S. 128 in Washington Heights, my teacher, Mrs. Spielhagen, called in my parents, Bunny and Paul, for a meeting. Even though she had once literally made me wash out my mouth with soap (for inadvertently cursing), I liked Mrs. Spielhagen: every morning, as she ushered us into the classroom, she’d say, “‘Come into my parlor,’ said the spider to the flies.” It was a rarity to see my divorced parents together, and even more of a rarity for them not to be yelling at each other. But this was a moment for somber consideration. As I sat nearby, Mrs. Spielhagen gave them a warning: “If you don’t get your son out of public school soon, he’s going to be killed!” My parents nodded. They knew that New York City’s public schools could get pretty tough. (My dad, then a special-ed teacher in a public junior high school, sometimes described his students — whom he adored — as “kids who once kicked a teacher in the ass.”) All this concern for my physical safety was somewhat ironic, as my Communist parents had long ago sold me on the idea that I would one day lead the violent overthrow of the U.S. government. Maybe, as a revolutionary-to-be, I was still in a vulnerable pupa stage.

P.S. 128. (Unfortunately, I can still recall the smell of the lunchroom — that blue structure in front.)

The wheels for my rescue were quickly set in motion. My parents researched the private-school possibilities for me, and finally settled on the all-boys Cathedral School of St. John the Divine. The key issue was that I had to join the choir (which, by that point in the school’s evolution, only a small portion of the student body belonged to): that way we’d get the hefty choir scholarship that would allow my parents to afford sending me there. So, starting in the third grade, instead of walking to and from P.S. 128, I rode the No. 4 bus (40 minutes each way) to Cathedral School. Not gonna lie — I dug the school uniform: blue blazer with a cool patch; gray slacks; white button-down shirt and blue tie (which I tied myself); shiny dress shoes; and a nifty blue beanie to top off the whole ensemble. Looking back through the years at chubby little me riding a city bus in this attire, I’m amazed I survived a single trip.

We had choir practice twice every weekday: in the early morning hours before school started, and then in the afternoon, after school was over. This late-afternoon practice was followed by Evensong, the evening service, which was conducted in one of the cathedral’s smaller chapels. So that’s four hours of choir practice each weekday, followed by a two-hour service. And then, for me, the No. 4 bus home in the evening. We had Saturdays off — yay! But then on Sundays we came in for practice in the morning and rehearsed with the adult choristers until it was time to perform at the week’s main event: the Sunday-afternoon service.

Cathedral School (considerably leafier than P.S. 128, above).

It was pretty grueling, this whole choir thing — but I knew that I needed to stick it out so we could keep getting the scholarship. And Sir Alec Wyton, our choirmaster, did teach us a lot about music theory and sight-singing. My main issue was that, for some reason, everyone at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine seemed to be fixated on God.

Coming home after my first choir performance at Evensong, I told my mom: “They’re making me cross myself!” I showed her how I’d had to tap my chest in four places: up … down … left … right.

Mom was unfazed by this. She said, “Joshy, this is simple: When they make you cross yourself, just say, under your breath: ‘There … is … no … God.’”

It worked! I must have muttered that mantra thousands of times inside the cathedral — and in doing so, my Communist faith remained unshaken.

More Episcopalian-choirboy stories to come in this space! Not to mention several close encounters with Presbyterians!