Dangerous Disappointment
Dear Sibling Rivals:
What do we do when our sacrifice is disregarded? When the work of our hands, the sweat of our brow, our calculation, labor and execution are ignored, how do we respond? The question becomes even more intense when we see others respected, regarded and rewarded for their work. To us the adulation, the mobility, the affirmation received by others seems unwarranted. That their effort leads to still waters and green pastures of success angers us, while we remain in the valley of the shadows, stumbling along an ever more treacherous path.
The human response, the one easily at hand, is to flip the script, rewriting our circumstance as a competition rather than a challenge. We reject accountability for our vineyard; no longer asking how to create fruitfulness from the arid soil, we channel the energy of disappointment into competitive rage, perceiving the other more successful laborers to be privileged cheaters. Their success becomes proof of their immorality, and our indignation becomes βrighteousβ. What began as comparison escalates to combat.
Thatβs the ancient story of Cain and Abel, the farmer and the rancher. Both sacrificing to the same God, Abelβs offering garners attention, Cainβs no second glance.
Cainβs disappointment, however, receives divine regard. God inquires regarding Cainβs anger, his crestfallen face. While Abelβs sacrifice received honorable mention, he had no appointment with the Holy One. Cainβs disappointment, on the other hand, receives Godβs full attention, more notice than did Abelβs sacrifice. God encourages Cain to return to his work. If Cain does well, God guarantees acceptance, not of the sacrifice, but of Cain.
We become Cain when we fail to recognize Godβs presence in our disappointment. Consolation feels patronizing. We would rather eliminate the competition than acknowledge that it was never a contest.
Cain has ceased to care about his own work. He cannot see the problem as his performance, nor is it Godβs regard. For Cain the problem is Abel β a problem Cain determines to resolve.
Twisted by anger, Cain determines it must be about the blood; Abel did, after all, sacrifice flesh. So, Cain returns to his field, not to follow Godβs advice regarding labor and dignity, but to offer the blood-sacrifice of his brother on the altar of insatiable disappointment.
Watching the dangers of disappointment, I remain,
With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor
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:
Iβve 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 FrΓ¨res, LimitΓ©e, of Saint-Hyacinthe, QuΓ©bec, 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, Iβm right there with them!)
The guestβs question was a harmless one; he asked if there were very many organists left who could play such an instrument. I concurred that itβs difficult
Dear Resurrection Researchers:
With another Resurrection Sunday behind us, while Iβm nibbling on Robinβs Eggs (my favorite Easter confection gifted to me in tremendous quantity by a good friend), I thought I would muse today about what just happened. Through the centuries, theologians have come up with a variety of descriptions for the reasons and efficacy of Christβs death and resurrection; some may be familiar, others esoteric. These descriptive schemas are known as doctrines of the atonement. The one thing they hold in common is the centrality of Good Friday and Easter Sunday as the defining moment of Christianity. I hope you donβt find
Dear Skeptical Scholars:
A few weeks ago, I wrote a musing which referenced the Omaha Gospel Tabernacle, the congregation of my childhood. Over the decades they have morphed from a series of evangelistic tent-revival meetings into a more respectable and permanently housed congregation rebranded as Christ Community Church. I was looking for reference to the first radio broadcast produced by founding pastor R.R. Brown, when radio was the hot new communication tool. I knew that in the 1970s they had received an award for being the longest consecutive radio broadcast from the same station (WOW). Armed with this information, I typed my query into AI-equipped Google. From my prompt I was informed that the Omaha Gospel Tabernacle was founded in Zion, Illinois,
Dear Listening Friends:
From the age of 13, my mother attended the same church until she was the longest continuous member, with nearly 85 years on the rolls. When she first attended, her aunt, my Great-Aunt Betty, was the church secretary to the founding pastor, the Reverend Dr. R.R. Brown. A fiery preacher in the style of Billy Sunday, Dr. Brown was an early radio preacher
Dear Answer Seekers:
As I write this morning, a streaming news program is blaring in the background with pundits bloviating their opinions regarding the United States and Israelβs decision to bomb Iran.
I remember during John McCainβs campaign against Barack Obama in 2008, he made a particularly controversial joke during a mic check at a rally; he was castigated as reckless for singing, βBomb Bomb Bomb, Bomb Bomb Iran.β I also remember, in subsequent elections, so many candidates accusing their opponents of fostering
Dear Lenten Travelers:
Beginning this Wednesday and for the following four weeks, we will celebrate Communion in the Ashland Chapel at 6:30 p.m. and then retire to the Parlor for a study series on the politics of first century Palestine. I realize the topic may seem
Dear Fellow Failures:
Weβre only a little more than a week from Ash Wednesday, which means Lent is just around the corner! I know that makes me sound a little too excited for observing a season when we are commended to reflect upon our mortality and sinfulness, but this Calvinist is always delighted to wallow in the total depravity of the human condition.
Total depravity is that doctrine of Calvinism that teaches about our permanent state of wretchednessβwe are born into
Dear Fellow Gamers:
This past week Iβve been reading (listening to) a book commended at the conclusion of an Ezra Klein podcast, a space where he asks every guest to recommend three. This particular suggestion, The Score: How to Stop Playing Somebody Elseβs Game by C. Thi Nguyen, is a playful mashup of cooking technique, game theory and organizational philosophy. Previously a food writer, Nguyen has brokered his personal obsessions with international cuisine, rock climbing and
Dear Winter Rushers:
The last few days of snow have reminded me of winter days over fifty years ago, racing on my Flexible Flyer from the top of the Field Club reservoir down into the gully below. In the summer it was the 10th tee of a private golf course; but in the winter, it was one of the best sledding hills in Omaha. Under the hill was a 25-million-gallon concrete container completed in 1954 by the Metropolitan Utilities District (MUD) to hold water from the Missouri and Platte Rivers. Founded in 1900 as the Omaha Cricket Association, the cricket club quickly transformed into a private golf course. By the early 1950s, memberships had declined, so the country club was all too willing to take $35,000
Dear Fellow Dreamers:
Yesterday I was honored to provide the keynote address for the La Grange Ministerium's annual Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Prayer Breakfast. My remarks were double the length of an average sermon, so I will not print them in their entirety. I offer this summary.
In my remarks I mused on how, not long ago, we believed we were nearing a post-racial America. We had an African American president; women were finally busting through the glass ceiling, making almost as much as their male counterparts. We had gay friends who could finally legally marry, and we were ushering in a new world that welcomed gender fluidity. All we had to do was show up, deposit our tax dollars and campaign contributions
Dear Trusting Travelers:
As you know, Iβve done a little traveling over the past few months, and although I was supposed to be very afraid about flying during the government shutdown, I blocked from my mind everything Iβve learned about commercial pilots from Lance and settled into a series of relaxing, non-eventful flights. Of far greater terror have been the trips to and from the airport. First, a shout-out to Dan Rusk, who has most graciously dropped me off and picked me up from airports. These rides have been without incident, except for the one that involved his transporting garden compost in the back of his Teslaβthe lingering earthy odor that permeated my suitcase is dissipating, and being profiled as a serial killer by TSA for the next few flights did break up the humdrum drudgery of air travel. Iβve also gotten way better at holding up my pants without a belt while walking through the metal
Dear Fellow News Junkies:
Some recent items in the media have revealed to me that I have a problem: politics has taken inappropriate residence in my head and heart.
A series of events taking place thousands of miles away from me, perpetrated by people Iβve never met, executing actions completely out of my control, have affected my demeanor, my energy, even my ability to concentrate on routine activities of daily life. This should not be acceptable. But like an addict believing the only resolution to feelings of withdrawal is another fix from the addictive substance, I am driven to doomscroll and double down on my helplessness. Of course, the purveyors of the addictive information are more than willing to leave little breadcrumbs of clickbait, driving me even deeper into a spiral of illusion. I jump back to my newsfeed to read one more update. If only I could discover the missing piece of data, an interview, a smoking gun, proof granting me that βgotchaβ moment of satisfaction, then I could regain control over my life
Dear Christmas Celebrators:
Closing out the Christmas season and its twelve days, I want to take one quick look as to how the church determined that December 25 was the magical day of Christβs birth. Like so many who had taken high school Latin, I was taught that the Christian community was bummed out during winter solstice because the Romans celebrated the occasion with bacchanalian debauchery in a festival called Saturnalia. The party was named for and recognized Saturn, god of agriculture, wealth and the mythical "Golden Age" and called for gift giving, singing, drinkingβpretty much everything we associate with a 1950s office party. Christians, it was
Dear Christmas Dreamers:
Christmas memories are as ethereal as frost etchings on a windowpane. We remember them as beautiful, and because of that unusual bonding angle of frozen water, we recall their six-pointed fractal symmetry; but the specifics of any particular pattern melts from our memory, and we are left with more of a feeling than a retraceable image. Such are my recollections of Nicholas Rudall, Classics professor at the University of Chicago, who in his spare time transformed the Court Theater from an outdoor summer drama club into one of the most influential artistic organizations in Chicago.
Rudall was a Welshman, and every December he would recite A Childβs Christmas in Wales in Ida Noyes Hall as a fundraiser for the Court. I heard his program many times while living in Hyde Park, and each performance felt as if Dylan Thomas
Greetings Light Bearers:
Hanukkah (or Chanukah) has begun, and Christmas isnβt very far away. Even Chicagoβs weather has helped these past few days as we have experienced a very bleak midwinter, a carol that mentions snow no fewer than five times in the first verse. (For those who think modern praise music is too repetitious, consider that the word βHallelujahβ is sung 16 times in Handelβs Chorus, not counting contrapuntal hallelujahs throughout all four parts.)
The world has hushed this year with a terrorist attack against Australian Jews celebrating the first night of Hanukkah with a trip to the beach. The absurdity of violence has shaken the Australian public, as this is their first mass shooting since the Port Arthur violent attack in 1996. For us Americans it merely disappears into our barrage of rapid-fire
Dear Christian Soldiers:
When the current administration lost its stuff over the suggestion that American soldiers were not only free to disobey illegal orders but were required by military code to do so, their reaction became a crystallizing moment of clarity for me.
My own Christian journey was forged in the incubator of the religious right. Its expression in my youth was detached and distrusting of politics. The key to a radically successful life was obedience to what God intended for each of us, and I was taught that governmental authorities could never possess the tools of righteousness. In fact, we made fun of mainline denominations because of their acquiescence to civil religion with their scout troops in their church basements, candidate forums in their social halls and anti-war protests in the streets. We taught that Christians made better citizens precisely because our allegiance was to righteousness, not politics. We believed
Dear Energy Savers:
Weβre at the precipice of the Advent Season, which most years begins on the Sunday following Thanksgiving. I say most years, because Advent begins on the fourth Sunday before Christmas, which means anywhere between November 27 and December 3, whereas Thanksgiving is always the fourth Thursday, which means anytime from November 22 to November 28. In months with five Thursdays, Advent is the second Sunday after Thanksgiving. But the relationship between Thanksgiving and Advent is not where my mind is musing today.
My concern this Monday is emotional waste, which I think accounts for what is popularly called compassion fatigue. Now emotional things like compassion are not zero-sum commodities, but time and personal resources are, so while you can expand your capacity for compassion, you donβt suddenly have
Dear Documentary Devourers:
I watched the first installment of Ken Burnsβ The American Revolution last night. I was looking forward to it since Iβm 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. Burnsβ technique of tightly focused slow pans of images is his trademark, used brilliantly in his magnum opus, The Civil War, 35 years ago (gosh, Iβm old). I discoveredβwhile attempting to make a video documentary on the history of FPCLG from our own archivesβthat itβs not an easy style to master. (The fact that youβve 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 itβs 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 naΓ―ve to presume that a few paragraphs from the pastor will unlock the floodgates of your generosity, but thereβs 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 weβll happily receive pledge cards for 2026 well into the spring).
Iβve 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), hereβs my pledge drive letter, using all 12 surefire steps.
Dear Fellow Time Travelers:
On the eve of turning 65, I believe Iβm 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 walkingβI 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 driverβs 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 weekβs musing here]. Itβs smooth and neatly black-topped with new crosswalk lines cleanly heat-fused into the asphalt. I even got a call from the aldermanβs office letting me know they had learned the start date for the projectβwhile it was being done. I also got a text message from my oldest sister who had read last weekβs 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, Iβve changed my disposition in preparation for my birthday. Iβve 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 βthough 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)β...still, Iβm 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 wasnβt 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 dreamerβsomeone 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 Iβve 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. Iβve 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 todayβs 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