|
Back To Clips |
|
Cover story By Chuck Nowlen These are trying times for religion, but
who among us hasn’t pleaded privately at some desperate life crossroads
either, “What am I doing here?” or, “Please, God, can you give me a break,
just this once?” Milwaukee is fertile ground for such
thoughts, especially during the holidays. It’s home to 1,253 houses of
worship, reflecting 65 different faiths, according to the 2002 Yellow Pages.
Some claim there are more bona fide churches here than in any other major
city in the nation. So Shepherd Express decided to sample a bit
of what’s out there, visiting 10 church services – chosen completely at
random – that represent a crude array of Milwaukee’s spiritual possibilities.
Obviously, some churches and faiths are not represented, and we promise to
make amends with similar annual stories in the future. The plan this year was simple: We arrived
unannounced with a backslider’s imperfect open mind, judging not so much a
church’s belief system, but rather each service’s ability to touch and
inspire – to move an uninitiated stranger. We also were keenly aware that
religion is by nature very private and highly subjective, and that even a
collection of devout kindred spirits can have particularly good or bad days. The first-person reports that follow, then,
include an equally subjective, 5-maximum rating system, but they’re by no
means intended as definitive. Other people present might have had very
different reactions; another visit might have prompted a very different
account. So think of the following dispatches as
only one man’s smorgasbord of first impressions – as well as a holiday
reminder that no matter who you are or what you believe, God is far from dead
in Beer City. Sunday, November 24, 11 a.m. Sure ‘Nuff Baptist Passion Mercy Memorial Missionary Baptist Church 3223 W. Lloyd St. BAPTIST Mercy Memorial’s in a tough Milwaukee
neighborhood, but the Deep South throbs like a heartbeat inside – this is an
old-time African-American Baptist church, after all. And the flock gives its all here. Shoulder
to shoulder in the pews – and almost on top of the minister, the elders and
the full, red-T-shirted choir up front – the 300 or so bouncing, testifying
parishioners ride the roots gospel rhythm for a solid three hours nonstop. “Hallelujah, Jesus!” … “Praise God!” You
can tell that even a dollar offering is a sacrifice for some, but there’s no
sense of want here whatsoever – the joy is that pervasive. And if you’re never been to a service like
this, you’ll see passion you never imagined by the end. The music here is wonderful. The booming
choir is led today by an absolutely ecstatic woman whose smile could light up
a ghost town. A drums, keyboard, bass and soprano sax combo keeps a steady
beat from beginning to end – piano noodles during Rev. Harold Moore’s
announcements; thunderous crescendos; long, solo organ strings; and frenetic,
double-time floor-shakers that send the faithful through the roof. “He wakes me up each morning/And sends me
on my way,” goes one hypnotic hymn, building and building and building for
maybe 10 minutes, like many others, until you think the power could actually
pop the windows out onto the street. The big finishes leave you breathless.
Each hymn is followed by hearty applause. Then comes the healing, where Moore is
assisted by a handful of aides and visiting Pastor Joseph Young, who wait for
a stream of volunteers to come forward, but eventually make their way around
the room on their own. One by one, they place a firm hand on
bowing, nodding heads and minister intently for a few moments, sometimes
jolting a supplicant with lightning-bolt fervor. Then – wham! – each
parishioner sinks shuddering to the floor, caught by another aide posted
behind and covered with a blanket if needed. A few start talking in tongues. Wham! … Wham! … Wham! Before long, both
aisles are filled with prone, quivering souls, while observers shout and nod
their praises. At one point, a shrieking, jabbering, contorting woman – who
until then had been only watching – is helped to an anteroom by two female
elders. Outsiders, be ready to drop your jaw here,
but even skeptics have to admit this much: In an era of lukewarm, consumerist
religion, Sunday morning at Mercy Memorial proves conclusively – if nothing
else – that a church only needs true believers to transcend. Rating: 4 ½ Crosses. Sunday, November 3, 10 a.m. Witness For The Prosecution Jehovah’s Witness – Central Congregation 2434 N. 7th St. JEHOVAH’S WITNESS Thankfully, you won’t get the full-court
Jehovah’s Witness press when you walk into this service, which is more of a
guided meditation than a liturgy: no robes, no rituals, no music, no head
minister and – surprising to me – no crosses or public offerings of any kind. Immaculately tailored, like everybody in
the congregation, an usher greets me subtly as about 120 parishioners ease
into the cushy, theater-style pews. He takes me aside, and when I ask how to
address him, he answers, genuinely friendly: “I have no title; none of us do.
We’re all just ‘brother’ or ‘sister.’” Selected tenets of the Jehovah’s Witness
faith, according to the “Who are we?” bulletin I’m handed at my request: The
Bible is literal and historical; mankind now lives in “the time of the end;”
blood transfusions “violate God’s laws;” and “Satan is invisible ruler of the
world.” Visiting Brother Corey Richards strikes
hard at that last one as he haltingly reads a prepared address that takes up
an entire 45 minutes – and, forgive me, almost puts me to sleep. Suggestive
clothing, “drunkenry,” “misuse of love:” just a few obvious keys to Satan’s
workshop. I honestly mean no disrespect – maybe I’m
just having a bad day – but I can’t help but yawn here and chuckle a Woody
Allen line to myself: “Hey, don’t knock my hobbies.” Sincere faith, but with a closed-society
feel and a too-rigid message this morning that falls on deaf, backslider’s
ears. Rating: 1 ½ Crosses Sunday, October 21, 8 a.m. A Surprise Ending All Saints’ Cathedral 818 E. Juneau Ave. EPISCOPALIAN I’m not exactly ripe for an Episcopalian
conversion today. It was a cruel dawn after a late Saturday night. I’m a
solitary stranger in a vast, echoing and sparsely attended cathedral. And
it’s located in one of the trendiest, yuppie-scum neighborhoods downtown. Plus, I know almost nothing about the
Episcopalian faith – only that it’s the American “continuation of the Church
of England,” which, according to a pamphlet inside, predates the 7th
century and retains some Catholic traditions that dominated Christianity for
centuries before that. So I expect vestiges of Henry VIII, the
power-mad wife-eliminator, only in post-millennium Milwaukee. Then comes the officiating minister, the
Very Rev. George E. Hillman, dean of the city’s Episcopal Diocese. Hillman’s
gentle face is Everyman’s, but his voice is cultured Ivy League. And after
entering in majestic green robes, he sits in a magnificent Old World chair –
seemingly miles from the pews – beneath one of the most elegant altars I’ve
ever seen in my life. Uh-oh, I’m thinking, here comes a sermon
about The White Man’s Burden or something. But, by the end of the service, I feel
surprisingly at home, evidently, like the rest of the flock. Which, I note early on, is anything but
high-brow: mostly blue-collar or middle-class; all ages; black and white;
many dressed almost Saturday-morning casual. The moment echoes in more ways than one
when a young man with a buzz-cut Mohawk – apparently afflicted with a serious
muscle disorder – trudges up for communion alone in military trench coat and
heavy boots. Across the aisle from me, a stooped-over, older woman makes her
way in a worn red scarf and black pants, but also dazzling white sneakers –
with bright-red logos on the heels that actually sparkle and glow! And I am caught by Hillman’s sermon, which,
like the rest of this early-bird service, impresses without hymns or music,
and is based on Christ’s famous reply to the “establishment” ancient
Pharisees: “Render onto Caesar that which is Caesar’s; render onto God that
which is God’s.” Hillman brings the message right to the streets, his voice
drawing power from the church’s burnished echo. “It was like my aged grandmother used to
say, ‘I smell a RAT!’” Hillman mugs at one point, now comparing the
Pharisees’ power-grabs to “what we still find today, especially when we
consider some of the things we see in government.” (The Legislature’s caucus
indictments had just been announced the week before.) Hillman repeats Christ’s pronouncement,
adding this clincher: “And it all comes down to the same reaction people must
have had in Christ’s time: ‘Wait a minute! Do you mean we actually have to
THINK about stuff like this? Do you mean that WE are the ones who have to
choose?” This quiet, dignified jewel stayed with me
for the rest of the day. Rating: 3 ½ Crosses. Sunday, October 27, 9 a.m. Dolan Hits The Airwaves Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist 812 N. Jackson St. ROMAN CATHOLIC It doesn’t get more modern-Catholic than
this: the Archdiocese of Milwaukee’s radio-simulcast Sunday morning Mass –
said by its new spiritual leader and sometime media star, Archbishop Timothy
M. Dolan. Maybe it’s my own media-dog prejudice, but,
for all its heart, this service just seems too staged, too seamless and,
well, a little too vanilla for my tastes. Think “The Robe” meets “Leave It to
Beaver,” with – forgive me again – just a dash of “The Tonight Show With
Johnny Carson” tossed in. Don’t get me wrong: It’s not like there
isn’t passion here. Nobody beats the Catholic Church when it comes to
ecclesiastic fanfare, after all. And, with rich organ strains playing nicely
off the marble-and-stained-glass décor, this cathedral makes you feel, I
don’t know, CLEAN from the moment you walk in the door. Not that it’s ivory tower, either. For all
of Dolan’s celebrity and presence, he comes off very much as one of us.
Expect two down-home endearments when he greets you at the end in full robes:
He will hail any youngsters nearby with the playfulness of a favorite uncle;
you’ll also get an Irish handshake that just might bounce you out of your
shoes. Still, even as an interloper, I can’t help
but feel like a movie extra at this one. Before the service begins, an
obviously refined tenor runs the congregation through a
this-is-how-you-sing-it exercise for the upcoming Eucharistic Prayer hymn.
(Sorry, but I just couldn’t get the picture of an Ed McMahon audience warm-up
out of my head.) True: This service is radio-broadcast, and,
at church, stagecraft can be a good thing. I just felt like a true classic
might have lost something here as a result. Rating: 2 ½ Crosses. Sunday, November 10, 10 a.m. And Now For Something Completely Different Milwaukee Mindfulness Practice Center 2126 E. Locust St. BUDDHIST Chonnnnnng
…
A bell calls the group to meditation. They sit quietly now in a large
rectangle on the earth-toned, carpeted floor. Incense perfumes the air, and all 15 or so
are dressed in loose-fitting clothes – some in yoga attire, others in blue
jeans or sweat pants. Most sit cross-legged, but all are in stocking feet on
flat cushions. One or two leave warm cups of tea before them on the floor. Deep in meditation now, all eyes are closed
to the pure white walls, the plants around the perimeter, the
translucent-gray Asian screens here and there, and the tiny black statue of
Buddha, which rests at the front of the group under a burnt-orange sign that
announces, “Peace begins with a gentle smile.” Chonnnnnng
…
Another bell rings after 20 minutes of meditation, and now the group rises
and stretches. At the sound of a third bell, they gently
turn left en masse, and for the next 10 minutes, they pace lightly at a snail’s
pace – maybe one step every three seconds – until they’ve circled the room
twice, completely silent, and are now
seated at their starting spots. Chonnnnnng
…
Another bell, and I decide to join in the meditation as I sit on a chair near
the entrance – the group seemed so tightly knit when I arrived that I balked
at staking out a spot among them. I close my eyes and start repeating my
verbal-cue mantra – I once dabbled in transcendental meditation long ago. And
soon I am entranced, thinking deeply about nothing in particular, only the
words I’m repeating over and over in my head. Random thoughts and images; sometimes a
relaxing, complete void: They all pass before me and waft gently away, like
clouds on the perfect Indian Summer morning this is. Chonnnnnng
…
By the time the last bell rings 20 minutes later, ending this minimalist
service, I am relaxed, lighter than air and uncharacteristically
even-tempered. And I notice another sign near the entrance that lists “The 12
Symptoms of Inner Peace” – among them: loss of interest in judging oneself;
loss of interest in judging others; loss of ability to worry; and an
increased tendency to let things happen, rather than make them happen.” Despite the New Age, herbs-and-tofu feel of
this one, I don’t so much drive home afterward; I FLOAT. Rating: 5 Buddhas Friday, November 29, 7 p.m. ‘Baruch Atah Adinai’ From A Living Room The Olive Tree Messianic Congregation Oak Creek/South Milwaukee MESSIANIC JEWISH This is a messianic Jewish service, drawn from
the ancient, seminal time when the roots of Judaism and Christianity
converged, as if drawing nourishment to the same tree – or at least that’s
what I’m told here. Hence, the parish’s name and the motto in its phone-book
ad: “Where Yeshua (Jesus) is exalted and Jewishness is upheld.” Call before you show up, though. Rabbi
Yaakov Schmadl’s circle is tiny and especially devout; and this Friday-night
worship service is in his simple South Milwaukee living room. You’ll miss the
house if you aren’t looking for it – all that distinguish it from the rest of
the homes nearby are the discreet blue holiday doorway lights that whisper,
“Happy Hanukah.” “Call me Jim – I’m Rabbi Jim,” the
avuncular Schmadl reassures a stranger on this, the first night of the eight-day
Jewish holiday. Between Schmadl’s couch and his entertainment center – which
is adorned with scores of rabbinical knick-knacks – sit a dozen close friends
and longtime parishioners, scattered among folded chairs set neatly on the
carpet in rows. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread hovers in the air. Schmadl blows a worship call from the
shofar, a long ram’s horn, and his wife Kathy lights the Shabbat candles to
begin the service. Soon, after staid Old Testament readings, comes a charming
15- or 20-minute song session, where Kathy steals the show – zapping the CD
player with a remote control, then bouncing her choral leadership of a
succession of “Fiddler On The Roof”-type hymns with a solitary tambourine. She is just so happy, so peppy and so inspired
– you can only smile at the strange, makeshift atmosphere, which is clearly a
tonic to everyone here. Rabbi Jim, too, is an endearing spirit.
Before launching into a cerebral sermon on the Hanukah story and the
difference between knowledge and wisdom, he winks to the front row and
blushes. “The challah bread tasted a little doughy tonight, didn’t it?” Now
he winces. “I should apologize. I pulled it out of the oven before it was
done.” To a completely uninitiated outsider,
anyway -- and based purely on entertainment value -- this one, too, is an
unexpected jewel – although, to be sure, it is absolutely NOT recognized as
legitimate Jewish faith. In fact, several Jewish observers contacted
after this service disdainfully described Olive Tree as “Jews For Jesus.” Rating: 3.5 Stars of David. Sunday, November 10, 9 a.m. Catholic As They Wanna Be Our Lady of the Rosary Catholic Church 5202 W. Lisbon Ave. ROMAN CATHOLIC (LATIN MASS) For some reason, a lot of cop cars find me
on my way to Our Lady of the Rosary. One tails me on Juneau Avenue headed
west for about eight blocks; another follows me a long while at North and 26th;
and I see two more cruising West Lisbon before I veer over and get a parking
spot right at the church’s front door. OK, call it happenstance. Still, a police
presence seems somehow appropriate for a traditional Tridentine Mass – said
in Latin as a vestige of the bygone Catholic monolith. This church remains
steadfast in its commitment to that stark, unyielding past. “Judica me, Deus” – “Give judgment for me,
Oh God,” a grandfatherly Fr. Bernard Colussy murmurs near the start of the
Mass, later striding down the center aisle with two altar boys to sprinkle
the congregation with holy water – which, for the record, does not sizzle
when it touches an outsider’s skin. “Et discerne causum meam, de genta non
sancta” – “and decide my cause against an unholy people.” The crowd of 70 or so here is an older one
– average age, maybe 60. All ladies’ heads are covered. The dress is formal,
but also simple and plain. And you can FEEL somehow, that this is a
throwback Catholic church. It’s tiny and somewhat jury-rigged, crafted out of
a second-floor space that looks like it might once have been a small dance
hall. The room’s rich, stained-wood beams and
bowed ceiling inspire piety, as do the ornate crucifixion statues all around
the white walls and the Biblical figures that flank the altar – obscured from
the back by a pair of bulky ceiling heaters. A faint musty smell only adds to
the atmosphere. And, by the end, I do feel something – but
I think only distant reverence for the Mass’s history and austerity, and the
genuine devotion in the pews. Rating: 2 ½ Crosses. Wednesday, November 20, 6:30 p.m. My Old Wisconsin Home Mount Olive Lutheran Church 5327 W. Washington Ave. LUTHERAN Indulge me here, please. This is the faith
I was raised under, and while the affable but tepid service might leave some
visitors empty, to me, it’s a polka down memory lane. Winter confirmation classes. Being an altar
boy. One Easter Sunday, I lit the candles as usual but – God knows why; call
it simple teenaged bone-headedness – I clean forgot to put them out before I
left. The pastor singed my ears for it when I ran into him the following
Wednesday. Anyway, I never went back. Thirty years later, though, I remember
other great stuff at Mount Olive, where the 50 or so Wednesday-night faithful
are dominated by youngsters about 13 and under: the Apostles Creed (“I
believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth …”), The
Lord’s Prayer, the benediction (“The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord
make his face shine on you and be gracious onto you …”) and all the other
liturgical magic that both bored me and inspired me as a kid. The magic doesn’t quite return this night,
though – despite Rev. John Struve, whose portly, only-in-Milwaukee charm
clearly touches the rest of his flock. Rating: 3 Crosses. Tuesday, November 19, 6:30 p.m. Praise The Lord And Pass The Syncopation! Christian Faith Fellowship Church 8605 W. Good Hope Rd. PENTECOSTAL Say what you want about the Pentecostal
faith, this service will sweep you off your feet. Unbridled, joyous and
irresistibly infectious, it lifts the 600 in the pews into a rocking,
praise-Jesus party from the start – you can feel the excitement in the
parking lot! And, hey, how can you NOT smile at a
high-school-sized, 5,000-member church that doesn’t even post its name out
front. All you’ll find there is a gaudy neon sign that almost seems to buzz
its message: “SINNERS ARE WELCOME HERE.” Inside, a 50-voice choir and seven-chair
band utterly overwhelm the senses for the first 25 minutes. “Get your praise
on; dance with me:” Hymn lyrics are projected from two large screens, one on
either side of the pulpit. Crane-operated TV cameras scan the rapt, dancing
crowd. And the music – the deep bass backbeat, the soaring, searing high
notes, the throngs of powerful voices: It all surges like a sustained
elevator rush, even as traffic-cop ushers herd a crush of eager late-comers
to empty seats. Sixty-somethings dressed to the nines;
young parents with bottle-sucking tots on their laps; dapper singles; beaming
teens: The electricity is palpable! At one point, I actually have to swallow
a lump in my throat – I’m that blown away, and I’m barely inside the door. I’m seated upfront-center next to a woman
named Vivian, who smiles at me like a long-lost relative as she claps to the
music, occasionally waving a hand upward. “We’re so glad you could join us
tonight,” she sways, shaking my hand – but it’s hard to hear her over the
music. Now she’s back with the spirit: “Amen!” And, later, many times, “Thank
you, Jesus!” Make no mistake about it, husband-and-wife
pastors Darrell and Pamela Hines OWN this congregation – Darrell goes solo
with a headset microphone tonight, while Pamela demurs in the wings. Impeccable in a dark green suit and
designer tie, Hines is calm and understated as he introduces tonight’s theme,
“It takes just as much faith to follow as it does to lead,” illustrated by
the story of Moses parting the Red Sea. By the time his 45-minute sermon is over,
Hines’ suit coat is off; sweat beads form on his forehead; and now he writhes
and shouts his message with full, hard-working zeal, pacing the stage and
aisles like a tiger. “You people aren’t hearing me,” he scoffs
at one point, pausing for effect. (“Yes, pastor,” nods Vivian.) “I SAID IT
TAKES! … JUST AS MUCH FAITH TO FOLLOW! … AS IT DOES TO LEAD!!!” He stops
again and glares, a stern, beloved leader. His eyes – once playful and mild –
now glow like hot red coals. Hines could be selling laundry soap; these
folks would find the spirit in it. And while the service doesn’t exactly
capture my soul, it sure takes it for one unforgettable ride. Rating: 4 Crosses (But only to give
the Hineses room to work on Sunday morning, when the full-house atmosphere
must be incredible.) Wednesday, December 4, 7:30 p.m. The Crescent Moon Is Rising Islamic Society of Milwaukee 4707 S. 13th St. ISLAMIC The dawn-to-dusk fast of Ramadan ends
tomorrow, and this service – the fifth prayer of the day for Milwaukee
Muslims – expects special devotion. “ALLLL-aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhuuu …
Akbar!” Sheik Amer Amin’s elongated chant –
proclaiming “God is Great” – calls the 200 or so worshippers to prayer in the
high-ceilinged, carpeted room. Dressed in everything from skull caps and
gallebeas (ankle-length dress shirts) to Packers jackets and blue jeans, they
all stand barefoot or in stocking feet in wall-to-wall rows. Some raise open
palms upward near their ears with closed eyes. Others pray almost inaudibly
to themselves while rocking slightly. A taut, chanted command, and now everybody
bends forward at the waist for several seconds until another command prompts
them to their knees, braced with their palms on the floor. Another chant brings the worshippers to
their feet, and the ritual is repeated – as it will be several times during
the hour-long service. At one point, Amin steps to a microphone,
where he notes that local Muslims have been keeping a keen ear to their
counterparts all over the globe recently, marking the progress of the moon. Ramadan officially ends the moment the new
crescent moon is visible – here, it was around 9 p.m. December 5. Meanwhile,
this exact ritual is being held at exactly the same local time for millions
of Muslims worldwide – Islam accounts for about 20% of the Earth’s
population. Those facts alone inspire awe. “This is a very religious time for us – I
would compare it roughly to the Christian holy time of Lent,” Brother Mushir
Hassan, a Brookfield physician, explains to a baffled stranger after the
service as smiling handshakes are exchanged all around. The standard
greeting: “A salaam a laikum” – “Peace to you.” The reply: “Walaikum salaam”
– “And to you, peace.” An outsider might feel clueless at this
one, but if you give it a chance, someone here is sure to take you under his
or her wing. And the service – particularly the mesmerizing sound of Amin’s
lilting, echoing chants – will linger for hours after you leave. Rating: 4 ½ crescent moons. |
