It Takes a Congregation to Raise a Parent
Dear Parent Helpers:
I had great parents. I’m not sure they started out that way, but as the youngest of five, by the time I came along they’d had plenty of opportunities to work the kinks out of their model; and with four relatively well-adjusted older siblings, they figured if in some way they failed with me, their average was still pretty good. There were two overlapping foci in the ellipses of our upbringing. One was the family dinner table where, following the meal, my father read from the Bible and one of us would read the prayer requests from church and offer prayer. The other focus of our attention was, of course, church. My parents were heavily involved. They had met in the choir, both taught Sunday school for many years, and my father attended the weekly Saturday morning men’s study group and prayer meeting; the Kroghs were at the church pretty much every time it was unlocked.
But the strength of my mom and dad’s parenting was not cult-like installation of religious values; it was a dedication to community. They recognized how parenting isn’t an individualized or even a mixed-doubles activity. Good parenting requires teamwork, and the network of church relationships created a phalanx of like-minded reinforcement. Church youth group was far more than a series of safe activities for hormone-juiced teenagers; it was a time when parents could strategize and encourage one another while the kids were otherwise occupied. During youth group many parents would go out for dinner or coffee and decompress.
Youth group was also a place where kids could interact with attentive adults who were not their parents. To be taken seriously by adults who had no obligation to care but still gave their time and energy to our social and spiritual formation was a powerful experience. To this day I can recall great conversations I had with youth advisors dedicated to my growth and maturity. It wasn’t the content that mattered; it was the connection.
This past week FPCLG received the resignation of Youth Director Lisa Nadle. After eight years of TUXIS nights and mission trips, Lisa is pursuing some new professional opportunities. Her leadership and dedication will be missed, but our youth programming will continue. So, this Monday, I’m asking you to muse. The strength of our TUXIS group and youth ministry does not rest on the shoulders of an individual staff member; it is a shared project. Is it possible that you have something to offer our teens? Are you being called to assist parents with the awesome task of growing youth into adults who are Christian and strong? Perhaps, as part of this year’s pledging process, you may be committing more than financial support...perhaps your pledge will involve time and attention to our community of faith. Our parents need you.
What matters isn't those who planted or watered, but God who made the plants grow. Those who plant are just as important as those who water. (1 Corinthians 3.7-8)
Extremely grateful that my parents had help, I remain,
With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor
Dear Documentary Devourers:
I watched the first installment of Ken Burns’ The American Revolution last night. I was looking forward to it since I’m a big fan of his previous documentaries. It had been a long Sunday, so perhaps my review should be taken with a grain of sleepy salt, but I did not find it riveting. Burns’ technique of tightly focused slow pans of images is his trademark, used brilliantly in his magnum opus, The Civil War, 35 years ago (gosh, I’m old). I discovered—while attempting to make a video documentary on the history of FPCLG from our own archives—that it’s not an easy style to master. (The fact that you’ve never seen it is an indication of how bad I am at reproducing the style.) The slow-moving video treatment of Revolutionary War paintings and portraits lacked the same visual power when focused on Civil War photographs. I found myself thinking more about how oil paintings crack and gloss through the decades than about the smug lack of understanding captured by the artist in the eyes of British General Thomas Gage. I did find some of the educational links on the PBS website helpful and realized this was more than a documentary film. It is a complexly layered masterpiece
Dear Pledging People:
Well, once a year or so it’s time for the pastor to write a newsletter article focusing on pledging for the coming year. Those who have become familiar with my musings know just how ambivalent I am regarding this task. I think it naïve to presume that a few paragraphs from the pastor will unlock the floodgates of your generosity, but there’s a rhythm to the seasons, and the calendar reminds us that November 16 is Commitment Sunday, the day we ask for the annual return of pledges for the coming year (although we’ll happily receive pledge cards for 2026 well into the spring).
I’ve consulted some websites that assure me their helpful templates and guidance will assist me in drafting the 'perfect ask'. So, with full transparency (recommendation number 8), here’s my pledge drive letter, using all 12 surefire steps.
Dear Fellow Time Travelers:
On the eve of turning 65, I believe I’m a bit younger than I thought I would be at this age. On the other hand, I remember my dad saying that when he was a kid, he wondered why old people walked the way they did. Then he got older and found out your gait shifts because things hurt. I think about that every time I see a video of me walking—I shift from side to side like an elderly penguin. Sometimes on my longer walks I try to refine my stride to appear younger, shifting my hunching back upward, attempting to recall the full six-foot measure recorded on my driver’s license.
A decade or so ago, when I moved into my current office, I carried
Dear Fellow Codgers,
Well, we got our new street [see last week’s musing here]. It’s smooth and neatly black-topped with new crosswalk lines cleanly heat-fused into the asphalt. I even got a call from the alderman’s office letting me know they had learned the start date for the project—while it was being done. I also got a text message from my oldest sister who had read last week’s Musing and informed me I was way too young to be such a grumpy old man (older sisters are really good at pointing out the obvious).
So, I’ve changed my disposition in preparation for my birthday. I’ve decided to become that kindly old guy on the block who compliments
Dear Partners in Powerlessness:
The loss of control is never fun. Despite what I preach and affirm to believe each Sunday, the affirmation that God is in control and “though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult (Psalm 46.2b-3), God is [my] refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, [I] will not fear (Psalm 46.1-2a)”...still, I’m really bad at being powerless.
My little stretch of street in Chicago, 110th Street between Campbell and Rockwell, was graded in preparation for resurfacing about three weeks ago. Orange signs affixed with stretch-wrap announced a temporary closure, the dates and times filled in, handwritten with a Sharpie (seemingly the new marker of administrative certainty) in print so small that one needed to get
Dear Good People of La Grange, IL/TN:
Last week I spent a few days in Memphis, TN, visiting my friend The Reverend Dr. R. Milton Winter (retired), a former colleague of the Fourth Presbyterian Church of Chicago. We spent one evening with Steven Smith, Director of Finance & Operations of Calvary Episcopal Church, Memphis. His residence is Tiarra, the former home of Franklin D. Cossitt, founder of La Grange, IL, and former resident of La Grange, TN. We also visited Immanuel Episcopal Church in La Grange, TN, a house of worship significantly more modest than Emmanuel Episcopal Church in La Grange, IL, but a tidy space appropriately appointed and substantially restored in 1977.
Immanuel Church (it is unclear why Cossitt spelled Emmanuel
Dear Dreaming Ones:
I received a phone call yesterday from an old friend in a near panic because a former neighbor had been picked up by ICE. This wasn’t some landscaper or shelter-abiding, drug-dealing day-labor roofer; this was a homeowner, father of an intact family with high school age kids. He had, until recently, been a dreamer—someone who came to this country as a small child with his parents who entered the country without appropriate documentation. As an adult, he was processing his immigration paperwork with an attorney through the proper channels. His immigration status was pending in a sea
Dear Atoning Congregation:
This time of year, I am reminded of a few stray and somewhat strange phone calls I received from classmates while in high school. As I’ve mentioned before, Omaha Central High School included in its attendance district the Orthodox Jewish Synagogue, Beth Israel, now located further west. As a result, I attended with a significant number of Jewish classmates who, during Rosh Hashanah, the days of atonement, were commended by their rabbi to
Dear Blessed Peacemakers:
With the assassination this past week of conservative pundit and Turning Point founder Charlie Kirk, our national anxiety is now on full display. I’ve been most impressed at the race between commentators to sound both compassionate and critical, with some losing their jobs within hours of trying to unpack blame and/or culpability on live TV for a heinous murder. It appears, as of writing today’s musing (a disclaimer necessitated by the firehose of information both vetted and made up, which may or may not render me dated, misinformed or perhaps unemployed by the time you read this), that Mr. Kirk was shot by an individual acting alone. What baffles me is how
Dear Fellow Star-shifters:
Let me begin with a disclaimer: I’m not the least bit interested in astrology. With all due respect for the amazing author and humanitarian John Green, I do not blame the stars for unfortunate events. That being the case, I was still a little startled by a NYTimes article this morning explaining how the astrological constellations relative to the earth’s orbit around the sun have shifted over the past two millennia. (Apologies if the article remains behind a paywall—it’s not worth a subscription.) So, imagine my chagrin when I discovered today that I was not a Scorpio, but in modern reality I am a Libra. I don’t even know what that means. But for a brief moment during breakfast, I felt like a guest of Henry Louis Gates Jr. learning that my great-grandfather was a
Dear Indulgence Seekers:
Stepping back from the counter with comically massive servings of premium ice cream billowing above our small disposable bowls, the two of us stood poking plastic spoons into four carefully curated flavors, capping off an end-of-summer New England evening. Watching the steady flow of customers stroll from car to serving window and back again, cones and cups brimming with creamy deliciousness, we couldn’t help but notice a short elderly woman carefully balancing two servings substantially larger than our own. Her order nearly eclipsed her head as she returned to her car with a massive
Dear Re-visitors:
I received a call yesterday from my sister in Canada. She had just listened to my sermon, in which I recalled how shabbily I had treated Joe, a neighbor whom my mother wanted me to befriend. Jill claimed she could not remember Joe, but after I reminded her of Joe’s sister, who was closer to her in age, she recalled, “Oh, that’s right. They were the family where the mom only wore a slip.” I remembered that too as she niched the characters back into memory. I couldn’t fault her recall; her relationship with that family never involved a trip to the church’s boiler room. My memory was more indelibly scarred than hers.
“You can’t go home again”—not only a reminder of the dangers of nostalgia, but also
Dear Fellow Primates:
Today is July 21st and marks the 100th anniversary of the conclusion of the Scopes trial, in which substitute high school teacher John T. Scopes was charged with violating the Butler Act in Tennessee by teaching evolution in a biology class in Dayton, Tennessee. Most of us are familiar with the trial through the lens of Jerome Lawrence and Robert Lee’s play Inherit the Wind, the movie version of which came out in 1960 with Spencer Tracy and Gene Kelly. While neither the play nor the movie
Dear Fellow Fabulists:
Lately, I’ve been musing over a quote by Anne Lamott: “I may not be much, but I’m all I think about.” What stays with me are the many lies I tell myself just to make my own story more tolerable—or at least more interesting. I find myself bending timelines and tweaking details to keep myself at the hero of every tale. What’s troubling is how these subtle edits help me avoid honest moments of real powerlessness.
Of course, that first paragraph is itself an example of my tendency to stay wrapped up in self-focus. Even my attempts at confession can become performances—chances to shine as humbly noble, like the friend who says something self-deprecating just to hear others cry, “No, don’t say that—
Dear Curated Consumers:
I was talking the other day with Tom Stapleton about comedy videos. I mentioned that it seemed comics were becoming smuttier, evoking nervous laughter rather than real humor. Tom didn’t seem to be aware of the trend, saying most of the comics he was finding were thoughtful, not derogatory and, for the most part, clean. Perplexed, and perhaps a little embarrassed, I realized the difference between my experience and his could be understood by the impact of social media. Tom is not a big consumer of algorithmic feeds; most of the stuff he gets is from friends who send him clips through text messages. They know Tom’s taste leans towards drunk Irishmen stories, which may be a tad bawdy but seldom sexually offensive. On the other hand, I rely more heavily on sources curated by Meta, which means every time I listen to a comic to be appalled by their lewd content, my feed queues up a dozen more
Dear Credibility Borrowers:
Many years ago, I was given a tour of Richmond, VA, curated by my friend The Reverend R. Milton Winter, PhD, an avid historian of the American south. Among the many landmarks and historic sites he shared was a brief visit to St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. During the Civil War (or locally known as the War between the States), St. Paul’s had become known as the Cathedral of the Confederacy. This was nearly forty years ago, so the sanctuary still contained a commemoration of Jefferson Davis’ family pew draped with the 1865 flag of the Confederacy. This particular flag was the last of the Confederate flags, white with a wide red vertical stripe on the right end and, in the upper lefthand corner, thirteen white stars inside the blue diagonal cross contained in a red square. (This corner portion of the flag is now associated with Confederate sympathizers, but by itself it was never the Confederate flag;
I’ve been thinking a bit these past weeks about grief—the word, the experience, the process. A social worker acquaintance of mine commented that I must be very busy with my “grief work”. It struck my ears as odd to suggest that grief was some task akin to taking out the garbage or clearing outdoor pots for summer flowers. Approaching grief as a work project makes it feel like something I should put on my Things to Do Today calendar, somewhere between paying bills and shopping for dinner…
The Apostle Paul wrote about the irony that God has entrusted the eternal gospel of grace to be carried in fragile, dust-resourced human bodies. He reminded the faithful that they should find no surprise in human frailty or mortality; we are but earthenware. The rich value is found not in the materiality of we are, but in the good news we are gifted to carry.