Cubs turn their backs on Sandberg

It's another frustrating day in Cubville.

I seldom agree with what the Chicago Tribune writes about the Cubs, but this one is right on the mark. Ryno deserved better.

Tribune story

Chicago Tribune photo

Membership has its privileges

Groucho Marx reportedly said: “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”

When the church is being the church (and not a club), it will have us as members. Isn’t that outrageous?

I'm learning

A few things I’ve learned (so far) as a pastor:

• Speeding into Cornell at 10 o’clock at night is one way to meet the local police. Probably not the best way, however. But we had a nice conversation, I left with a warning, and he departed with a blessing. God is good.


• The children of the community aren’t the “church of the future.” They are the children of today, in need of love, guidance and nurture in this present moment just because.


• Where else besides the church can you find young, old, liberals, conservatives, extroverts, introverts, rich and poor side by side? It’s as if we had made a promise to each other: to have and to hold, for better or worse. Wait, we did make that promise.

Blink and you'll miss it

The 2002 Honda CR-V hits a milestone, September 2010.

P.S. As you can tell from the speedometer, I was not driving when I took this picture.

In and out of jail

The past month has begun a great journey, as I have been introduced to three wonderful congregations whose stories and lives I will be sharing as their new pastor.

Today comes word of a former seminary colleague who really has been on a journey. In fact, she's still there: in Arizona, where she was among 30 people arrested two days ago for an act of civil disobedience against Immigration Measure SB 1070. She's now out of jail and writing about it here.

Peace.

The shell of the once-great WGN

One of the great joys of my life has been listening to WGN Radio in Chicago. It was a station unduplicated across American airwaves. It sounds corny, but it was like having family and friends within reach of the dial, whatever the time of day:

Wally Phillips, Bob Collins and Spike O'Dell in the morning; Roy Leonard's celebrity interviews; Orion and Max with biz and farm reports; Larry Schreiner chasing cops; Steve Cochran chasing laughs; news, weather, traffic and sports from the likes of Lyle Dean, Wes Bleed, Dave Stewart, Andrea Darlas, Dick Sutliffe, Tom Peterson, Judy Pielach, Trooper Linc Hampton, Steve Bertrand, Leslie Keiling, Jack Brickhouse, Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau, Pat Hughes, Chuck Swirsky, David Kaplan, Dave Eanet.

There were truly one-of-a-kind shows: Kathy and Judy, and Extension 720 with Milt Rosenberg. And the quirky: Steve and Johnnie, the Al and/or Ed show, and "Chicago Ed" Schwartz. Paul Harvey was a hometown broadcaster at WGN. (I'm too young to remember Franklyn MacCormack's Meisterbrau Showcase.)

Not to mention broadcasts of Cubs baseball since 1948.

"The Voice of Chicago." "Live Coverage of Your Lifetime." "The radio home of millions throughout North America." "The sound that says Chicago."

This may sound like a paid ad. It isn't. It also may sound like an obituary. If WGN isn't already dead, it's on life support.

A new and grossly misdirected management has badly underestimated us listeners and rendered WGN just another blathering voice. John Williams is valiantly carrying on (while moonlighting at the Twin Cities' WCCO), and Uncle Milt is still illuminating the would-be intelligencia. But WGN once brought us warmth and wit; now it's just a conduit for politically opinionated outsiders who, at best, are vanilla and forgettable.

I suppose I shouldn't take a radio station's programming so personally. But WGN succeeded at capturing the ears and hearts of millions of us over the years.

Related:

• From Sunday's New York Times: "At some point, this will be a case study of how to dismantle a radio station"



• WGN Hell-Bent on Self-Destruction: several recent entries on this blog



• WGN Gold, the history of Chicago's WGN Radio 720

Just down the road ...

We toured the byways today near the churches I'll begin serving on July 1. These photos are about a half-mile down the road from one of the churches. John Wesley traveled from parish to parish on horseback. I think I should get a Chris-Craft. Or a kayak.

Class of 2010

Top photo by Jason Tetzloff

Welcome to Cicely

As I've imagined my first appointment as a full-time pastor, I've fancied living in Cicely: preaching at the village church on Sunday mornings, meeting people during the week at Ruth-Anne's store, grabbing breakfast at The Brick, driving into the country to see parishioners or take in the peace of woods and waters.

Fiction has become reality: I've been appointed to Cicely!

You might remember Cicely, Alaska, as the home of Northern Exposure, the warmly quirky television show of the 1990s that is one of my all-time favorites. In real life, I have just been appointed to serve the United Methodist Churches of Anson, Holcombe and Jim Falls. The three parishes lie roughly along the Chippewa River as it meanders southward through Chippewa County -- past two state parks, county forest, farmland and small towns. Not far south are the cities of Chippewa Falls and Eau Claire.

The congregations love their current pastor, and she loves them. She will leave for a new appointment on July 1, when I will come into their communities as an outsider. I respect their grieving, the difficult task of letting go and facing uncertainty.

I don't know who I'll meet there: the town doctor who moved there from the big city, the widow who owns the corner store, the orphaned American Indian whom the village raised, the master chef who lives in a log cabin, maybe even the philosphical ex-felon who lives the intellectual life and rides a Harley.

They will be real people with real stories. Someday, with God's blessing, we will share our stories. For now, mine is to honor theirs. Meantime, I'll be at The Brick, cup of coffee in hand, grateful to be in their midst.

Photo: Northern Exposure's "Cicely, Alaska" (actually Roslyn, Wash.). Photo by Sue Frause, Seattle Travel Examiner.

Out of ashes

The gunshots rang out at 4:16 in the morning. I remember the exact time, because the minute I was startled awake I looked at the clock. But I really wasn’t sure about the shots. One pop after another. Even in my fog, I thought, “Why would someone be hunting in February? And why in the middle of the night?”

The pops continued, almost rhythmically – pop, pop, pop. I noticed a glow outside my bedroom window. I got out of bed, and stumbled in slow motion to look outside, as if I were sleepwalking.

I stared for what seemed like several minutes, frozen, not shaken into action as I should have been. The barn – not 40 yards from my sleeping quarters – was ablaze, flames shooting out of the roof. Miniature explosions – probably from jugs of chemicals – punctuated the night. The metal siding that covered one side of the 100-year-old, red, wooden barn was peeling off like candle wax, flames whipping every which way. It was like I had been transported to the Cineplex, and I was watching this inferno on the large screen.

I should have been running, picking up the phone, doing something. I was transfixed. It was horror and it was theater at the same time. I finally made my legs move, grabbed jeans and a sweatshirt and a parka and found my cell phone, but the first volunteer firefighters were pulling up as I dialed.

Outside, in subzero night, I learned what “surreal” looks and feels and smells like. What to do? Nothing. There is no picture here of the burning barn, because I couldn’t even think to do that.

No one was hurt. Even the three barn cats got to safety. What was lost were two Bobcat tractors, a quarter-ton pickup truck, a 40-foot-motorhome, a brand-new snowmobile, and Dean’s livelihood.

Dean, the owner of the farm where I rent an outbuilding, is the proprietor of a swimming pool and home-heating business that he ran out of the old barn. He stood next to the firefighters and looked helpless – the only time I’d seen him so before or since. His own home, 50 yards the other direction, was in no danger, nor was my hovel, but his business was lost.

Outside, he said stoically, “This isn’t a good night, Steve.”

Inside, an hour later, as his wife made coffee for some of us who stood around trying to lend support, Dean disappeared around the corner and sobbed.

Unlike the death of a living being, whose remains are carried away and tended to, the bed of this fire lay bare and smoldering for days. The stench of smoke entered the houses and cars, and soot was frozen into the ground to await a spring thaw that was weeks away.

But today, that thaw has arrived. Piles of twisted metal have been hauled away. The air smells clear again. Dean has survived through the second stage of his grief: dealing with insurance companies – he spared no colorful vocabulary in telling me, his pastor friend, about how he was robbed.

He found a Wick Building for free elsewhere in the county, disassembled it, reassembled it on the farm, and is converting it into his new office and warehouse – by adding windows, insulation, plumbing and electrical.

He’s back on his Bobcat 14 hours a day.

The future isn’t clear, his business plan is in disarray, his losses are known only to him, but he has purpose again. He suffered, but he didn’t wallow. He’s doing what he’s always done: work hard, be kind to other people, and make use of every moment of available daylight.

I saw him the other day, which happened to be Good Friday, and he was smiling again. I hope he’ll be smiling on Easter, too.