Wards of Powerlessness

Written By Jonathan Krogh

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 eighteen inches from the sign to see the dates and times restricting parking. 6:00 AM to 2:00 PM were the times filled with a start date and end date marking the duration of restrictions to four days. A little hassle, but the promise of smooth asphalt bedecking the road in front of my abode seemed worth the inconvenience. Like I said, that was three weeks ago.

As promised, within a day and a half after the warning posters were placed, the massive truck came to the front of my house, pummeling the street surface into graveled submission; the project had begun. It was followed by dump trucks and street sweepers, which hauled away the debris with uncharacteristic efficiency. I along with my neighbors assumed the following day would bring the concrete trucks pouring new footings around the manhole covers, followed by the asphalt spreaders and steamrollers, likely within the next day or two. At the end of the following week, the concrete was poured, and sawhorses created a slalom course on our little street while the cement cured. The next day the sawhorses were removed, and the warning signs came down. And that is the last we’ve seen of the Chicago Department of Transportation.

From one end of the block to the other, from curb to curb, we have a little taste of Gaza right in our own neighborhood. (I realize that may be an extremely insensitive analogy, but this is my musing about my bad attitude while experiencing my powerlessness.) This morning, in frustration I called my alderman’s office to see when the street would be completed. After a lengthy introduction congratulating me for living on a street that was getting resurfaced—I didn’t know how lucky I was—the aldermanic staffer began to explain the process of street repair as if reading from a children’s book about big trucks. She was a bit annoyed when I told her she wasn’t answering my question as to when it would be finished; she said she was answering my question by letting me know it was a very complicated project. She then explained that the city had many construction priorities on its calendar, and emergencies and weather made things very complicated in Chicago. She then transferred my call to another staffer who took my number and said they would contact me after contacting the city. I have subsequently received a call from another aldermanic staffer, who left a voicemail that re-explained the complexity of the project that involves many different kinds of trucks and equipment along with various highly specialized crews. She also reiterated how issues of emergencies, equipment and crew assignments and product availability complicated the city’s ability to predict each phase of the project. She told me I could call her back if I wanted, but they were waiting to hear back from the city and it was almost impossible for anyone to give me a time range for completion.

Of course, my bad attitude has nothing to do with urban infrastructure or inefficiency, and everything to do with my inability to endure the smallest lack of control. My little piece of the earth has changed, my potholes have been shaken into the heart of the sea, the street-sweeping waters roared and foamed, and though the street trembled with its tumult, I am not at peace. It’s petty, I’m petty and there’s obvious displacement deep in my soul at my helplessness. I am tempted to project my emotional shame onto aldermanic staff and city employees—that is, after all, why we pay them.

Ready to pick up the phone and spend the rest of the day haranguing city employees for no productive good, I recall that the 10th verse of Psalm 46 contains the familiar words, “Be still, and know that I am God!” When confronted with powerlessness, I confess how quickly I devolve into being a shallow angry white guy who has lost his grip on presumed privilege. I am reminded again that I have spiritual work to do.

Figuring I should take a little breather before calling the support line regarding some questions about medical billing, I remain, 

With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor

Jonathan Krogh
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Crossing the Line Now and Then