The Church

Today I went to Metrobrook. Metrobrook is a sister church of Elmbrook church and is located in central Milwaukee. Before Marquette, I attended Elmbrook regularly; I am now looking for a church in the Milwaukee area.

Metrobrook is very different from Elmbrook. One of the most noticeable differences is the size of the congregation. When I visited Metrobrook there were about 40-50 persons in the congregation. A smaller congregation makes for some very intimate relationships.

It’s even more intimate if you make yourself vulnerable, and that’s what people did this past Sunday at Metrobrook; they had a “Family Time” where people shared testimonies, struggles, and overcomings.

It was literally an outpour of emotion. I used to think that people cried (literallly cry, like tears) for attention, but I scrapped that idea after that service. It was almost overwhelming to hear all the hurt.

After a few speakers and minutes, I collected my thoughts. Church, for me, changed. In my youth, church was a routine. My heart was in it, but I rarely deviated from the norm. Metrobrook added a new characterisitc. Church became a place for the sick.

I’m serious. Think about it. Society and culture, for me at least, has painted church as an uplifting place; it’s where people go to feel better and wash the ink away. Church is a fellowship. It is where broken hearts bleed out the rest of their hurt. It is where encouragement is materialized. It should technically be a very sick place. ((But, of course, it is a place where God is present. So it wouldn’t be totally sick.))

Matthew 9:12: On hearing this, Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.”

I thought this post would have been better, but I feel it’s lacking. Perhaps I could develop it more, but I’m far too lazy. How about a short little story? K.

At about 8:30, I woke up. I showered, and went downstairs to eat breakfast. Then I walked out to the bus stop to wait for the bus. It never came, but an amiable old lady did. We walked together for awhile. She was on her way to church too, though a different one.

I never received her name. I don’t even want to make up a name for her. She talked about a lot of things, and I suppose older folk tend to do that. We bounced from subject to subject, and she imparted some street wisdom about using the bus and where to walk. Never would I have expected a senior caucasian woman to share some street smarts with me. That’s ghetto.

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