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 Fellow Mourners:
Recently, I have been musing on the work of Peter Homans (d. 2009), Professor of Religion and Psychology at the University of Chicago Divinity School. In his seminal book, The Ability to Mourn: Disillusionment and the Social Origins of Psychoanalysis (University of Chicago Press, 1989), Homans argued that psychoanalysis emerged in response to the loss of shared religious symbols brought about by industrialization. Freud, Jung and others turned their grief
Dear Luddite Siblings:
For the past few weeks, I’ve been musing about Ned Ludd, the hot-tempered weaver from Anstey, England. According to legend, Ludd was a Nottingham textile worker who, in 1779, became so enraged by the introduction of the automated knitting machine that he smashed several of them to defend his craft. The story was not recorded until 1811 in a Nottingham paper; this long delay and the identification of Ned’s home as Sherwood Forest (Robin Hood reference?) resulted in dismissing
Dear Children of the fall:
With Labor Day behind us, we are unofficially in autumn. “Unofficially,” because astronomical fall begins when Earth’s tilt aligns the sun directly over the equator on its southward journey toward the winter solstice. This year, that happens on September 22 at 7:05 p.m. CDT. The first days of autumn and spring are called equinoxes—literally, “equal night”—which sounds like a neat division of 12 hours of daylight and 12 hours of darkness. Nature, however, has not consulted the sunrise/sunset tables. On the first day of autumn, daylight lasts about nine minutes too long because Earth’s atmosphere refracts the sun’s rays. The tidier balance arrives on September 26. Meanwhile, meteorological fall began September 1, because weather forecasters prefer their seasons in convenient three-month boxes.
These competing autumns have led me to wonder what it means to call anything true with precision. I realize, no one asked, but
Dear Legend Lovers:
With the passing of Dolly Parton last Tuesday, newsfeeds exploded with nostalgia acknowledging her magnificent blend of simple country style, relentlessly graceful inclusion and deeply shrewd business sense. Her ability to steer her brand through the maze of conservative and liberal adoration was astounding, reflected in the current hyper-antagonisms over who holds the right to claim her legacy.
One can scarcely imagine any individual receiving both the current administration’s half-mast flag order and a glowing online eulogy by Jane Fonda. Praised by online
Dear Champions for Children:
I just saw the obligatory back-to-school interviews on the morning news with students both smiling and shy queuing up to return to classrooms for another academic year. As always, the story ended with remarks about new backpacks and new beginnings. Then the bell rang and the kids filed in, never to be heard from again this year unless their facility becomes the site of some tragic mishap or violent crime. The cycle is a reminder of the medieval English proverb, “A mayde schuld be seen, but
Dear Mission Minded:
Last Monday, I reflected on the unintended colonialism of the missionaries who influenced my youth. I drew a wandering line from their condescending cultural attitudes to today’s supporters of immigrant deportation. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the comparison was wrong. The missionaries who came
Dear Mission-Minded Members:
When I was a kid in church listening to missionary speakers describe peoples on other continents lost in darkened corners of the world, I was enrapt. It was as if the colorful photographs of our National Geographic had come alive. Ours was the task to release their very souls. Through our generosity we could bring light and life to their tragic, primitive ways. Theirs was an exotic but frightful world languishing in the absence of Western bureaucracy and decent footwear; and by our Christianly gifts we could bring them the wondrous jewels of literacy, first aid and, for Christ’s sake, covered breasts.
Now, decades later, the condescending paternalism
Dear Evangelicals:
One problem with language is how meanings drift. A word means one thing in its context and then over time takes on a new and sometimes opposite meaning. My favorite example is disgruntled. The prefix ‘dis-’ currently means to intensify the reverse; so, disrespect means the intense opposite of respect. But with the word disgruntled, the prefix demonstrates an old middle English form of the prefix ‘dis-’, meaning to completely or fully permeate. Disgruntled means to be completely permeated with complaint; the ‘dis-’ intensifies the ‘gruntledness’.
This drift of meaning seems to have happened with the word ‘evangelical’. Rooted
Dear Beautiful Friends:
Let’s start today with an observation about Genesis 1-3. It is not an account of the historic act of creation (i.e. it’s not a science lesson any more than the Big Bang Theory is a theology tutorial). Genesis offers insight into how the ancients understood their ideal connection to creation, God and one another. It also explains why they found these relationships so fractured. Careful reading of their texts may provide us with some useful
Dear Pensive Parishioners,
Simple elements sometimes capture majestic understanding. Julian of Norwich (1343-1416), the mystic who authored the oldest English texts attributed to a woman, is famous for her meditation on a hazelnut. She observed that this small and insignificant object existed because “God created it, God loves it, and God protects it” (Revelations of Divine Love, 1390-1410). Dame Julian perceived
Dear Merchants of Mortality:
According to my reconnaissance, Halloween decorations are already in HomeGoods, 111 days in advance. I understand why they might be pushing Halloween candy this early. I can get through four or five bags of mini-Snickers between now and October 31; that’s just good marketing. I also understand the brilliance of counting on shoppers to impulsively buy unique specialty items early, forget where they’ve stored them
Dear Surprised Patriots:
Fifty years ago, the Omaha zoo celebrated the birth of a baby buffalo named Teenial in honor of the nation’s 200th birthday. (Get it? Bison---) It was the kind of playful joke that suggested a national ease with patriotism.
Patriotic imagery seemed to be everywhere. Burger King printed coupons with biographies of Revolutionary heroes. Marcel toilet paper
Dear Worst of the Worst:
I have mentioned the great advice I received from older clergy mentors early in my career. Yesterday I remembered Claude Lewis, the late founder and pastor of Bethel Prayer Tabernacle in Roseland, who once remarked, “Ministry is what you end up doing when you’re trying to be the Preacher.” I won’t go into detail about why I recalled this sage observation from the departed brother Claude, but it’s happened again. I have a great pastoral plan, a program, an event, a presentation, a spellbinding sermon—and then people arrive. In the immortal words of Jerry Seinfeld, “People, they’re the worst!”
As usual, my sermon research took several turns as I prepared yesterday’s message. I only have 12–14 minutes
Dear Timid Text Translators,
In preparing my sermon yesterday I noted that Jesus quoted Hosea in the Gospel of Matthew, appealing to God's enduring desire for something deeper than religious performance. When chastising the Pharisees, perhaps Jesus’s favorite hobby, he said, “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.” (Mt 9:13)
What I did not include in my sermon turned out to be one of those rabbit holes of research too boring for the pulpit. Fortunately, I have these ‘Monday Musings’ to bore you on a weekday. My problem was textual. When Jesus said “mercy, not sacrifice,” the word in the Greek Text from Matthew is ἔλεος (el'-eh-os) which normally translated
Dear Document Drafters:
This past week I worked with a small committee of La Grange Area Ministerium members on a statement arising from concerns expressed during our monthly gatherings. The content of the declaration will be forthcoming, but this morning I am musing regarding the process.
Drafting anything with a committee is difficult. We all want to say something, but how that something is articulated is quickly bogged down with
Dear Pet Pleasers:
I was disappointed to discover that the cute videos of shelter dogs selecting their owners turned out to be AI generated. Now I can’t watch them. Before I knew they were ‘fakes’ I thought they were adorable. Although I had become suspicious when a husky tried to jump in the lap of an elderly woman in a wheelchair. Huskies are sort of the jerks of the dog park. But I still wanted to believe. And I did. Until I checked and found out they were indeed artificial fabrications. Now some of the accounts are being suspended because the creators were soliciting real cash to fund the care of digital dogs. Oddly, I feel sad for the pups.
This wander down AI-generated content got me thinking
Dear Remembering Ones:
Yesterday was a wonderful celebration of our 2026 Confirmation Class as Kaia and Claire offered their faith statements, presiding over the worship service with wisdom and grace. Classmate James, who had a prior commitment yesterday, will be received into membership at FPCLG at a later date; he will be confirmed in worship at Riverside Presbyterian Church next week along with Riverside Confirmation classmate, Gavin.
Sunday was also the occasion to celebrate my first full decade of ministry with FPCLG. This was a surprise and an event for which I am most grateful and will remember for years to come. I greatly appreciated the kind words, the magnificent commemorative etched-glass sculpture and, of course, the beautiful slide presentation recalling
Dear Organ Donors:
I’ve got an algorithm problem. That sounds like a condition that may require a cardiologist, and perhaps it should, because my algorithms are hurting my heart. After the Paul Johnson benefit concert at Emmanuel Episcopal Church yesterday, one of the attendees asked me about the pipe organ. The congregation of Emmanuel is rightfully proud of their 1970 Casavant Frères, Limitée, of Saint-Hyacinthe, Québec, Canada, Opus 3062, a 3-manual, 46-stop, 63-rank, electro-pneumatic action organ, with the 2024 addition of a full antiphon. (When someone else wants to geek out on pipe organs, I’m right there with them!)
The guest’s question was a harmless one; he asked if there were very many organists left who could play such an instrument. I concurred that it’s difficult