two-day-old bin, spread jam on it, and feed it to him with hot tea. He recalled that as “the most heavenly meal of my childhood.”
As the Great Depression widened, Albert had but two sets of clothes, one for weekdays, one for Sabbath. His shoes were old and cobbled, his socks were washed out nightly. On the occasion of his Bar Mitzvah-the day, in his religion, that he became a man-his father gave him a new suit. He wore it as proudly as any kid could wear anything.
A few weeks later, wearing that same suit, he and his father took a trolley car to a relative’s house, a well- to-do attorney. His father carried a cake that his mother had baked.
At the house, a teenage cousin came running up, took one look at Albert, and burst out laughing. “Al, that’s my old suit!” he squealed. “Hey, guys! Look! Al’s wearing my old suit!”
Albert was mortified. For the rest of the visit, he sat red-faced in humiliation. On the trolley ride home, he fought tears as he glared at his father, who had traded the cake for a suitcase full of clothes, an exchange the son now understood as rich relatives giving to poor ones.
Finally, when they got home, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I don’t understand,” Albert burst out to his father. “You’re a religious man. Your cousin isn’t. You pray every day. He doesn’t. They have everything they want. And we have nothing!’”
His father nodded, then answered in Yiddish, in a slight singsong voice.
God and the decision he renders is correct.
God doesn’t punish anyone out of the blue.
God knows what he is doing.
That was the last they spoke of it.
And the last time Albert Lewis judged life by what he owned.
Now, seventy-six years later, what he owned meant so little, it was a source of comedy. He dressed like a rummage sale. He mixed plaid shirts and loud socks with pants from Haband, a low-cost clothing line that featured items like polyester jeans and eleven-pocket vests. The Reb loved those things, the more pockets the better. He would stash notes, pens, tiny flashlights, five-dollar bills, clippings, pencils.
He was like a kid when it came to possessions; price tags meant nothing, small enjoyment meant everything. High tech? He liked a clock radio playing classical music. Fancy restaurants? His culinary pleasures were graham crackers and peanut butter cookies. His idea of a great meal was pouring cereal into his oatmeal, adding a cup of raisins, and stirring it all up. He adored food shopping, but only for bargains-a leftover habit from his Depression days-and his supermarket journeys were something of legend. He would push a cart through the aisles for hours, judiciously choosing the correct merchandise. Then, at the cash register, he would dole out coupon after coupon, joking with the cashiers, proudly adding up the savings.
For years, his wife had to pick up his paychecks, or else he’d never bother. His starting salary at the temple was just a few thousand dollars a year, and after five decades of service, his compensation was embarrassing compared to other clerics. He never pushed for more. He thought it unseemly. He didn’t even own a car for the first few years of his service; a neighbor named Eddie Adelman would drive him into Philadelphia and drop him off at a subway so that he could take a class at Dropsie College.
The Reb seemed to embody a magnetic repulsion between faith and wealth. If congregants tried to give him things for free, he suggested they contribute to charity instead. He hated to fund-raise, because he never felt a clergyman should ask people for money. He once said in a sermon that the only time he ever wished he was a millionaire was when he thought about how many families he could save from financial sorrow.
What he liked was old things. Old coins. Old paintings. Even his personal prayer book was old and fraying, stuffed with clippings and held together with rubber bands.
“I have what I need,” he said, surveying his messy shelves. “Why bother chasing more?”
You’re like that Biblical quote, I said. What profits a man if he gains the whole world, but loses his soul?
“That’s Jesus.”
Oops, sorry, I said.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, smiling. “It’s still good.”
Church
As the Detroit traffic whizzed by outside, I walked through an oversized sanctuary with Pastor Henry Covington of the I Am My Brother’s Keeper Ministry. It was a spectacular old room, with massive high ceilings, a large mahogany pulpit, a towering pipe organ, and an upper balcony of pews.
It was also rotting away.
Paint peeled everywhere. The plaster was cracking. Floorboards had deteriorated, and the carpet had dips that could twist your ankle. I looked up and saw a hole in the ceiling.
A huge hole.
Maybe ten feet long.
“That’s a big problem,” Henry admitted. “Especially when it rains.”
I noticed red buckets in strategic spots to catch the water. The white plaster was stained brown by seepage. I had never seen such a hole in a religious building. It looked like the hull of a ship blown apart by a cannon shot.
We sat down. Henry’s belly hung so large in front of him, he seemed to hook his elbows over the pew for balance.
“I’m not sure why you’re here,” he said politely.
You take care of homeless people, right?
“Yes, a couple of nights a week,” Henry said.
They eat here?
“Yes, in our gym.”
And sleep here?
“Yes.”
Do they have to be Christian?
“No.”
Do you try to convert them?
“No. We offer prayers. We ask if anyone wants to give their life to Jesus, but no one is forced. Anyone can come.”
I nodded. I told him about the charity. How maybe we could help.
“Oh.” His eyebrows lifted. “Well. That would be excellent.”
I looked around.
This is a big church, I said.
“I know it,” he said, chuckling.
You have a New York accent.
“Um-hmm. Brooklyn.”
Was this your first assignment?
“Yes. When I first came, I was a deacon and a caretaker. I swept, mopped, vacuumed, cleaned the toilets.”
I thought of how the Reb, when he first arrived at our temple, had to help clean up and lock the doors. Maybe that’s how Men of God develop humility.
“Long time ago,” Henry said, “this was a famous church. But a few years back, they sold it to our ministry. Actually, they said if you can pay the upkeep, it’s yours.”
I glanced around.
Were you always going to be a pastor?
He snorted a laugh.
“Noooo.”
What did you plan on doing when you got out of school?
“Actually, I was in prison.”
Really? I said, acting casual. What for?
“Whoo, I did a lot of things. Drugs, stealing cars. I went to prison for manslaughter. Something I wasn’t even
