Episode Overview

In this episode of Liddle Did I Know, I revisit a pivotal chapter in my childhood when faith moved from a distant Sunday routine into the very center of our home. What began as a well-intentioned effort by my mother to bring God closer became, in time, a crucible of control, performance, and disillusionment.

From Sanctuary to Living Room

By third grade, the drive to Guilderland Baptist Church gave way to folding chairs in our own living room. Thus was born the First Baptist Church of Cohoes. My siblings and I became full participants—passing hymnals, arranging chairs, singing, and even reading scripture. Suddenly, church wasn’t something we attended; it was something we performed.

But not everyone joined in. Bill left for the Army. Sharon and Jim found refuge in Catholic Mass. Dad, ever the quiet figure, stood on the sidelines. And Nana watched from her chair as the boundaries between family life and religious duty began to blur.

The Weight of Reverend Alstead

When our congregation moved to a Victorian building on Main Street, Reverend Alstead took the pulpit. He was the kind of preacher who left no room for doubt or dissent—rigid, fiery, steeped in dogma. Under his watch, and fueled by Mom’s newfound sobriety, the atmosphere at home grew even tighter.

Faith, which might have been a comfort, became another set of rules to obey, another stage to perform on. I felt it in every hymn sung and every scripture recited—a subtle but suffocating heaviness.

Neighbors and Narratives

I remember inviting the Murrays, our neighbors, to church. They smiled politely, but I could feel their hesitation. Perhaps they sensed what I was only beginning to realize—that the humility preached didn’t always align with the pride and judgment that lingered in the pews.

It was here, too, that I began to sense I was living two lives: the acceptable, church-approved version of myself, and the one that felt truer, shaped by the playground, school, and the laughter of friends.

A Shattering Moment for Nana

One Sunday, Reverend Alstead confronted Nana for wearing a pantsuit to service. In front of everyone, he told her it was unfit for the sanctuary. I’ll never forget the look on her face—small, humiliated, undeserving of such public rebuke.

That moment marked a turning point. Even the warmth of Nana’s presence was no longer safe from the creeping shadow of dogma. Soon after, Mom led us away once again in search of a “better” church.

Loudonville Community Church

We landed at Loudonville, nestled in one of Albany County’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Everything about it seemed polished, proper, and perfect. But to me, it felt hollow—another performance, another layer of distance from the authenticity and warmth I craved.

Reflection

What began as hymns in our living room slowly revealed itself as hypocrisy in grander sanctuaries. From folding chairs on Masten Ave to the pews of Loudonville, I learned early that religion could both anchor and suffocate.

This chapter of my life wasn’t just about faith—it was about control, appearances, and the widening gap between what was preached and what was practiced. And it left me asking questions I wouldn’t have the courage—or the language—to voice until much later.

Background Music: Bittersweet by Kevin Macleod Projects — Kevin Macleod