Peace Be Upon Them

Another piece from my stint as a church reviewer with the Chicago Journal. I visited the center and wrote this a week or so after the attacks. My Islam knowledge came from the Internet and a book about salat. Find this and other church reviews/religious essays in my book Hilaretic.

Downtown Islamic Center
218 S. Wabash Ave, #500
J’uma Friday Afternoon Prayer (Salat) Service

Minarets are not apparent at the Downtown Islamic Center. Nothing, in fact, marks the building as extraordinary, or even as the site of a house of worship, much less a mosque. Throughout the city, churches and cathedrals stand at every other street corner, defiantly pointing their steeples skywards, declaring that the Windy City is largely composed of followers of Catholic and Baptist followers of the Nazarene. Chicago has mosques, but these reside in the city’s outlands. If you seek a mosque in the city’s heart, you must look closely, and upwards, several floors above the sidewalk.

The Downtown Islamic Center isn’t much to look at from the outside. Occupying one of the Loop’s many faceless office buildings, it lacks the exotic glory conjured up when one thinks of the word “mosque.” The building face is not gilded in gold, topped by onion domes and weather vane crescents, and tattooed in Arabic script. Arriving, in fact, it took an invigorating (i.e. exhausting) trip up five flights of stairs before I saw the barest symbols of Islam.

Wiping my sweaty brow with my sleeve with much shanty Irish class, I felt my usual sinking sensation of not knowing enough to avoid grievously offending the regular attendees and/or their ancestors and way of life. As a change, while in most houses of worship I feel only a slightly slippery sensation beneath my feet, here the ground wholly disappears.

Well, not entirely. Islam shares several common elements with Christianity and Judaism. Most of the stars of the Hebrew and Christian Bibles—Adam, Abraham, Moses, David, and Jesus—are respected as prophets of Allah, who, like YHWH, is the one true God with his attendant omnipotence, omniscience, and impeccable taste in worshippers. Where Muslims veer off, however, is in their ultimate respect to the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), deliverer of the Qur’an, the final word from God. Jesus is just all right with Muslims, but Muhammad (pbuh) is the loci of the faith.

As for other differences—among too many to list here—while the Five Pillars of Islam feature the usual edicts about leading a virtuous life through prayer and charitable works, Muslims are also beholden to visit Mecca at least once in their lives, fast during the month of Ramadan, and pray five times a day. Friday afternoon prayer, or jum’a, was the prayer service I was interested in most. Muslim prayer can be and usually is performed anywhere and alone, but the congregational jum’a service is an exception—though not by much. The Islamic prayer service or Salat is a series of prayers and movements set since Muhammad (pbuh) first dictated them. Watching these same activities—shared and performed for 1,400 years—re-enacted in the immediate vicinity by 100 men was nothing less than startling.

But as I was saying, all my previous Internet study escaped me in the general hubbub of the fifth floor. Most of the conversations I hear were in unidentifiable languages, though it’s safe to say Arabic, Indian, and Indonesian tongues wouldn’t be too hazardous a guess. The air was rich with the scent of cardamon, coriander, and other spices. Food—some sort of rice dish and pita bread—was ladled out in front of the book store in back. The crowd was lively, but I wouldn’t describe it as gaiety. More likely it was fellowship, the feeling of security and ease at being surrounded by your brethren.

Again, I’m lost, and the usual ease I have pinpointing shamans by their vestments was rendered useless in a room full of men in suits and business casual. I attempted to ask the first person I turned to, a woman waiting for the elevator, if she knew where the center’s office is located. Kill me for making the assumption that she’s a Center attendee, but her features have an Far Eastern cast, not so unexpected on a floor populated with visitors from Morocco to Timor. She stared at me uncomprehendingly as I spilled out my request, still out of breath. “Hello (pant) me religious writer (pant) who in charge (pant) here?” My sweaty visage won no hearts that day. She glares and fairly spat out an, “I’m sure I have no idea,” at me before turning and entering the newly arrived elevator. Au revoir, kindness of strangers.

Bumbling about, I seized hold of a friendly looking fellow. Sir, please, help a stranger on a strange floor. Who’s in charge here? Kindness of strangers recovered with this guy. He took me to the door of the wudu room, where the devout performed ritual ablutions—the hands, mouth, nostrils, arms, face, ears, and feet are washed—in preparation for prayer. There, a distinguished-looking chap in a suit and tie was chatting with two other men. Dr. Mohammed Kaiseruddin is his name, and I make sure I spell it right. He spells it out in slightly accented but perfectly clipped English. When I ask what his role is here he tells me he is the Center’s vice chairman. I give my church critic spiel, completing it with, “Now, how can I least offend everyone here?” Dr. Kaiseruddin appreciated that with a chuckle and led me to the main worship area. Before entering he asks me to remove my shoes and place them on a low shelf with 100 other pairs. I imagine shoe retrieval chaos later, then next worried my brown argyles weren’t the proper footwear choice today. Entering the service area, he indicates that non-Muslims usually sit in the chairs along the south
wall.

Dr. Kaiseruddin (yes, I do enjoy writing his name) gives me the itinerary. He, the imam—a man learned in the ways of Islam, not a priest—would lead the prayers, delivering a short sermon beforehand on current events. I was journalistically “lucky” that day. I already knew the service will be fraught with politico-social meaning; no doubt more so than it would have been before September 11. The center was a lively collection of individuals, enjoying their American freedom to worship God as they see fit, yes, but also posted with photocopies asking, “Have you been a victim of discrimination or police brutality? Call 1-800… ”

Another flyer is also available, titled “Duas (Supplications) for Fear. Recite Them When Leaving the House or Work or When Walking the Streets”

What to say when in fear of a people:
Translation: “O Allaah, protect me from them with what You choose.”
Transliteration: “Allahumma ikfineehim bima she’ata.”

Translation: “O Allaah, we place You before them and we take refuge in You
from their evil.”

Transliteration: “Allahumma Inna Naj’aluka Fi Nuhurihim, wa nauzu bika min
shururihi.”

Wonderful. How many Christian churches are packing prayer survival kits?

The worship area is triangular, pointing East, and is as sparse as a bingo hall sans chairs and tables. In mosques, images are considered blasphemous. Words are not, as evidenced by the red curlicued Arabic script that imprinted the walls. Assumedly, these are pronouncements from the Qur’an. The scarlet script dwarfed the black printed English transliterations beneath them. Arabic is the purest language of the Qur’an. English and other translated versions are considered only weak interpretations. The tiny black type wan’t accidental, and as much of a fan as I am of Romanesque lettering, the involute curvings of Arabic seem more elegantly illustrative of God’s penmanship. At the back of the room, a six-foot high wicker screen stood, cordoning off the rear. I figured it was a storage area. I was wrong, after a fashion.

Men filed into the room. Many men. Big men, small men—as a matter of fact all men—of various ages and races. Many faces would indeed be at home beneath a turban or keffiyeh, but the striking reality is that there’s more ethnic variety at the center than at most churches. The coffee blends of skin range from mocha to latte. The men filed in and lined up in about 20 horizontal rows, 20 men wide. Dr. Kaiseruddin told me the place would be packed, but I wasn’t really expecting it to be this packed. On an October Friday afternoon, the room teems like a Christmas Eve service.

Entering, the men followed a common procedure. First one faces east, toward Mecca, making a clear intention to pray. This is called a takbir, when one shuts out the outside world in order to devote oneself fully to prayer. Some stood, some sat—the mood was meditative and calm for all present.

“Es selamu aleikum,” Dr. Kaiseruddin offered greetings. Peace be on you.

“Aleikum es selamu.” And upon you peace, the sentiment is returned tout ensemble.

Don’t hold me to the spelling. Despite Internet research and my purchase of All About Salat at the Iqra’ Book Center on Devon Avenue, my poor head still spins about proper transcription. I discovered a ream of English variations on this single phrase. Es selamu aleikum, salaam aleekum, as-Salam-u-‘Alaikum… salaam ad infinitum… I should have contracted a National Public Radio pronunciation team for this review.

The muezzin (or crier) performs the Adhan, or call to Salat (prayer). The Adhan is that keening cry so beloved of Hollywood when a film is set in the Middle East. Usually, the muezzin stands at the top of a minaret, puts his fingers to his ears, and declares the following:

Allah is the greatest! Allah is the greatest!
Allah is the greatest! Allah is the greatest!
I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but Allah.
I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but Allah.
I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah’s Messenger.
I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah’s Messenger.
Hasten to Salat. Hasten to Salat.
Hasten to success. Hasten to success.
Allah is the greatest! Allah is the greatest!
There is none worthy of worship but Allah.

All in Arabic, naturally. For Muslims, reciting the Qur’an or prayers in any other language is as respectful as delivering the Bible or Torah in Pig Latin.

Our muezzin was not perched on high. Rather he stood up front and to the left. His voice has a tired gentleness to it, not the piercing wail most Americans are familiar with. Of course, he wasn’t trying to shout it across a city. According to All About Salat, this is followed with a second call, the Iqamah, which is much the same as the above call, save with the addition of the phrase, “Salat has just begun. Salat has just begun.”

And so it did. Fortunately, for me, it is during this part of Salat that the imam is permitted to use the local lingo. The sermon is always delivered in two parts. As mentioned above, in the first half, the imam usually discusses community issues. A bare month after September 11, however, thrust any discussion into the national context.

While Dr. Kaiseruddin spoke, bombs were vaporizing Afghanistan’s rubble, anthrax was spreading like powdered sugar on French Toast, and the FBI 20 most-wanted terrorists list wallpapered post offices nationwide. Dr. Kaiseruddin focused on this last event. He’s wrestled with it, it seems, and his clipped words sound somewhat blunted.

*****

Dr. Kaiseruddin sermonized on the demands put upon the Muslim community in recent months, commenting on the depressing nature of seeing the nation’s most-wanted men and realizing how very much they resemble your friends, your neighbors, and yourself. Dr. Kaiseruddin, however, sees this as a call for, in his words, maturity from the Muslim community. He asks those present to put themselves in the position of persons of other faiths. How must they feel when they see these faces? Still, this is not a call to be apologetic.

He raised the ghosts of history, comparing previous Muslim-American trials with today. During the Gulf War, during the Iranian hostage crisis, how many U of C professors were invited by TV’s talking heads to provide the Muslim-American perspective?

“Those who have watched these crises will see a difference in how the Muslim community is standing up,” Dr. Kaiseruddin posits. “This time our community has shown maturity. A Muslim perspective is being presented. Our society has earned credibility, and can talk with knowledge about Islam, and are being invited to do so.”

Still, I flinched as Dr. Kaiseruddin raised a point that would make our beloved Attorney General’s incarceration trigger finger twitch: what if America was the weak country and Afghanistan the strong one? Would America have taken the same action? Above all, Dr. K. pleaded, Muslims must evolve. We can hold different opinions, but we must not shout each other down.

“We hold fast to the Qur’an…this will not change.” Dr. Kaiseruddin brought it all home, asking that Allah “Give us steadfastness in our practices and in our interactions with other faiths.”

The imam calls the men to prayer. As one they sit with their palms up, meditative.

A cell phone rang twice, surely a makrooh (undesirable act) during Salat. The phone is quickly squelched. Some makroohs are ecumenical.

Again. The imam calls the men to prayer. Arabic. Dammit, more Arabic. I enjoy the language very much, thank you, with its soft tumble of vowels, but I feel I’m missing the heft and weight of the intentions. Weirdly, I catch a few words. To my culturally illiterate embarrassment I decide it’s due to my hobby of collecting Shriner regalia, owing to the parading fat men in red fezzes’ practice of cribbing Muslim trappings.

So intent on my notes was I, it wasn’t until I looked up that I saw I was the only man sitting down. Already, to my mind, a noticeable Christer, I quickly bolted up, obtrusively trying to look unobtrusive. No one noticed. As I scan about to make sure of it, the screen’s true purpose hit me. Looking over my shoulder I saw the other half of the Muslim community. I couldn’t make out faces. This is due more to the screen than the hijab worn by many of the women. To summarize, hijab is the covering clothing dictated by the Qur’an. Hijab can consist of a dupatta—the ubiquitous head and torso shawl; a niqab—a facial veil that leaves an opening for the eyes; or the chaddor or burqah—the full-body covering endorsed by the Taliban. Most of the women here wear dupattas, looking voguish in combination with power suits or traditional jilbabs—robes that cover all but the head and hands. Women usually pray at home, but all are welcome to Salat. My understanding is that the men and women are separated to prevent distraction during the service. It’s didn’t working for me. I was transfixed by the image of these exotically plumaged birds in their wicker cage.

The service continued, and the responses to the imam’s prayers were decidedly powerful. In most Christian churches, the sopranos hold sway. Here elongated male vocal cords create a sound that is deep, low, and bumpy, like boulders rumbling down a hill. The ladies were not heard over this bulldozer grumbling.

The men suddenly shocked me into staring eastwards as, shoulder to shoulder, they stood as one. Another prayer was liltingly read. One hundred men bowed (ruku), stood with their arms at their sides (quiyam), then fell and pressed their foreheads, noses, hands, knees, and toes to the floor (sujud). Please understand what an astonishing sight this is—as smooth as a ripple through a sheet snapped over a mattress, and with just as much noise. The coordination of movements is intentional. As little disruption as possible must be made during Salat. Chatting, eating, laughing, fidgeting, the wandering of one’s gaze—any of these can void  the Salat and its accordant blessings. Music is absent, save for the musicality of the readings. Compositionally, it is the most stripped-down service I’ve attended yet. Body, mind, word, and soul work in harmony, with no extraneous doohickeys.

The recitation continued with its plaintive sound, until Dr. K. capped it off with an “Allahu akbar” (God is the greatest). A few whispered prayers were heard, and all were encouraged to address the fellow on your left and right with a final blessing. “Es selamu aleikum,” said an Indonesian-looking fellow sitting below and to my right. “Thanks, you too,” I reflexively reply. He didn’t notice. Maybe he would have if I said, “Right back atcha.” Even as the 100 file out, it was uncommonly calm and quiet. Cathedral silence is different. Cathedral silence is ponderous, the weight of the surrounding marble and statuary pressing down on anyone damn fool enough to open their mouth. A respectful silence pervades the room, which effervesces into happy babble upon exiting to the shoe vestibule.

I dashed through the shoe room and retrieved my footwear. The women likewise failed to linger, the anteroom the testosteroney province of the men, men, men, men. Feeling less than manly myself, I slipped on my Skechers and exeunt, almost late for work.

My Deeply Held Beliefs Say Go to Hell

Oh…you want to use my services? Yeahhhhh, that’s a problem. Look you seem nice and all, but I just can’t do it, because what you…do…and are…is…frowned upon by my religion. But I have an excellent reason for discrim…uh, declining to serve you.

See, my ancestors chose to follow an abridged version of a religion practiced by a desert tribe millennia ago. This tribe had a direct line to the Almighty through a handful of guys who SWORE they spoke directly with the Creator of the Universe, and that He ordered the tribe to do everything these emissaries told them to do, or else He’d smite them.

Which he did, repeatedly, the emissaries claimed whenever things got bad. Sometimes he came through with food and water and protection—they said—but mostly he yelled at them through the emissaries. He was mad they weren’t following his orders to the letter. Whenever they complained, he’d get P.O.ed and let them get sick or suffer or die or be conquered by the other tribes who THEY were trying to conquer. Now, isn’t that a beautiful story?

Anyway, the emissaries presented a TON of laws to the tribe, and you had to follow them or else bad stuff would happen. A few of the good ones were terrific, pretty much stated not to hurt or kill anyone. Good thing the Creator of the Universe told them that.

Much later, some other guy who, and this is my favorite part, hinted that he was the SON of the Creator of the Universe took that tribe’s tenets and added a bunch of new stuff. He didn’t really dump the old rules, but he didn’t stress some as much as others. For example, he said everyone should love and respect each other. He also said that he’d set families against one another, and that he’d die and come back again to judge the living and the dead, sending the ones who displeased him to a horrible flaming underworld. Maybe. I mean, that’s the general consensus about what he said.

Anyway, he died, and CAME BACK. Wow! That’s a guy you want to know, right?

Certainly, well, his friends said it SORT OF looked like him, but not totally. Except for when he did. He hung out for a while and then flew off to this place no one can see where everyone is happy all the time…even though you’re hanging out with that terrifying Creator of the Universe dude who, uh, once killed everyone on earth at the time with a massive flood, because they were evil. The kids too. Evil kids? Sure. Hey, you don’t argue with a guy like that. He must know what he’s doing.

So, the Son of the Creator of the Universe left his followers, and they spread the word about his lessons across the Ancient World. Then this other guy who’d never met him, took all his words and restructured everything to appeal to the Italians who currently ran most of the known world. He underscored some of the older rules again too–which the son never mentioned, actually… Anyway, this new guy became the Son of the Creator of the Universe’s chief PR flack, after he’d spent some time trying to stop the Son’s religion by slaughtering his friends and followers for blasphemy.

No, no! The Son of the Creator of the Universe’s original followers were totally cool with that.

Man oh man, then it took off! Suddenly, the Italians and scads of other people across the Empire were worshiping this poor carpenter. Especially when they were assured they’d go to that happy afterlife place I mentioned.

What?

Well, yes, there were people across the world who’d never heard of this religion or this particular Creator of the Universe, or the emissaries, or the Son of the Creator, or any of the laws…and, well, to their surprise, I heard they all died and went to that horrible flaming underworld to suffer forever, because…

It’s just a shame, really. They should have known better.

But let me get to my main point. Remember when I mentioned my ancestors? Well, somebody told them about this religion and they signed up…or they were forced to convert under pain of death. Either way, they were in, and since then everyone in my family has been told what I just told you, and we’ve accepted it as is, no questions asked. Because really, how COULD you question it? Answer: you can’t. You just can’t.

My ancestors and everyone since took to heart the laws prescribed by the desert tribe and the Son of the Creator in a book that compiles a couple dozen scrolls written in several different languages and eras, after discarding a few other texts that seemed iffy. The book has been edited and re-edited over the last 2,000 years by heretics and firebrands and tyrants and madmen and other men and women who wanted to amass power and wealth by showing the proper interpretation of the words of the Creator of the Universe who no one had spoken with directly for a thousand or so years. But the awesome thing is, it’s still true. Every last syllable. It’s been changed and altered and sifted and translated, but it’s still the same book endorsed by the Creator of the Universe. And you can’t deny that, right?

Anyway, I follow EACH AND EVERY law outlined by this book. Except the odd commandment about clothing or food or menstrual cycles or slavery or…well, okay, there’s quite a few I don’t follow because they don’t mesh well with my modern life and they’re too hard to follow. Sure, some folks still follow ALL the rules, but they’re wrong, because they didn’t listen to the guy who said he was the Son of the Creator of the Universe. Nope, they listened to the guys who said they were his emissaries. CRAZY, huh? SOME people.

As it turns out though, because I believe in all the rules and laws in this book, I also believe some modern laws can’t be followed, because they interfere with my selective reading…Um, I mean my deeply held beliefs.

Now, even though what I’m doing to you might RESEMBLE the discrimination practiced on other groups of people throughout history, it’s really not the same, because… well, like I said. I follow a few specific rules laid down by a bunch of guys who, several thousand years ago, told an isolated desert tribe that the Creator of the Universe put them in charge of everyone and that if they didn’t listen up and do what they said, they’d be slaughtered or punished horribly in the terrible place of torture no one has ever really seen that the Son of the Creator of the Universe may have suggested exists.

Anyway, that’s why I’m refusing to help you with your wedding.

So, honor my freedom of religion, even when it interferes with all the other rights you’re due. You better, because the super-powered Son of the Creator of the Universe will return some day, prove I’m right, and sentence you to an eternity of pain because you tried to get married. Face it, buddy, the facts are on my side.

And remember, the Son of the Creator of the Universe loves you! And so do I!

Get out.

A Mighty Bastard Is Your God

Whenever a GOP idiot says God approves of something reprehensible, try to imagine the following exchange happening with a co-worker.

God (in the Next Cube): Say, Brad, what’s wrong?

Brad: (Crestfallen) My… teenage daughter was… raped last night.

God: Tsk. Oh, that’s a shame. (Scratches head) Say, was she dressed like a whore? That might have done it.

Brad: What? How could you ask such a question?

God: (Starts squeezing a pair of exercise grips) Come on, Brad, let’s face facts. Was she wearing a short skirt and lipstick? Was she in jeggings? Could the guy see her naughty pillows? Was her hair, you know, exposed? How exactly did she instill lust in the poor guy?

Brad: (Aghast) How can you say that? What kind of unfeeling, thoughtless, hateful bastard would suggest a young woman was responsible for her own rape?

God: (Shrugs) I’m not seeing the issue here. How does saying the little tramp was inviting ravishment by dressing wantonly seem “unfeeling and thoughtless”? (God makes air quotes with his fingers)

Brad: WHAT!?! Are you insane!?! She’s physically and psychologically scarred because the son of a bitch couldn’t control his own urges! Worse yet, she’s pregnant!

God: (Smiles brightly) What!?! Awesome, Brad! A grandchild for you! Mazel tov!

Brad: (Punches God’s lights out.)

Where West Side Story Meets Dawn of the Dead

Note: I’m currently working on a Gapers Block piece about the Portage Theater and efforts to prevent its purchase by the Chicago Tabernacle Church. Some passages and sentiments may carry over to that article, but the GB article will be more history-heavy. Just FYI.

Monday night I attended the Save the Portage Theater rally. Appropriately, it was held at the theater itself. I’ve visited the Portage twice, first to take my son to a mini-comicon (where we took a picture with chubby, purplish Batman—a photo I hope he cherishes in his later years), and the second time to see Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein with my friend Pat. Both experiences were a tad cheesy, yes, but rare and sweetly enjoyable owing to their surroundings: a classic, old-school movie palace. But experiences like will be harder to come by, if a certain church buys the place, modifies it, and declares an end to the variety of programming the Portage offers to the community.

The Portage has been around in one form or another since 1920, starting out as a nickelodeon before being purchased by the Balaban and Katz theater chain in the forties. Originally designed to reflect the poufy Beaux Arts design favored at the time, Balaban and Katz brought a sleek, spare Art Deco influence to the marquee and interior. Palatial doesn’t begin to describe it. Dream-like comes closer.

I arrived early, signed in at the reception tables, and—after bumping into my father in law, a transplanted Irving Parker—walked into the auditorium. As before, and despite what the potential owners might think, the place is glorious. The auditorium is dark and cavernous, but also lush, golden, and warm. As with most buildings its age and older, you can practically touch the history and life of the place. I could easily imagine the audiences filling the seats for everything from early silent movies to 70s Kung-fu flicks to modern art-house fare.

The evening was pleasant, informative, and ably led by Old Irving Park Association Vice President Anna Sobor. I believe I met Ms. Sobor a couple of years ago, when I conducted tours of my church during the annual Old Irving Park House Walk. But before she walked onstage and got things rolling, we enjoyed the organ-playing of Mr. Dennis Wolkowicz, motivating force behind the theater’s restoration. As he ran through a familiar (and not so familiar) back catalog of songs on the theater’s original Kimball organ—placed on mechanical riser to awesomely cool effect—the place filled up with hipsters, senior citizens, Chicago neighborhood types, and members of the local cultural aristocracy. A lot of bearded guys with big guts were present too. I think I recognized them from the comic show and horror fests. In the dimness and darkness I could see a hundred blogs, tweets, and updates being typed out as one.

Not every seat was filled, but at least half were. For a 1,300-seat theater that’s not bad. Illuminated thank-yous were projected on the screen, especially to preservationist ringleaders like alderman John Arena, the Portage Park Neighborhood Association, the Six Corners Association, and others. Digital cameras flashed  every which way, and, appropriately, amateur and professional cinematographers shot electronic footage of the proceedings with their cameras and iPhones.

In closing, Mr. Wolkowicz led the audience in a muted version of “The Star Spangled Banner.” I got the feeling not everyone learned the lyrics in Boy Scouts, like I did. Still, all respectfully rose up, and made a game effort to be melodically patriotic. After all, that was the reason why we were there. We’re Americans, dammit, and we’re mad as hell someone’s trying to take our stuff. Rise up, my darlings, rise up. You have nothing to lose but your theater chains.

Mr. Wolkowicz concluded his set, but was informed that folks were still signing up outside. So, he returned to the keys, and vamped out a little “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” On the northwest side, the audience clearly root-root-roots for the Cubs.

A little perspective on the size of the stage and screen.

At last, Ms. Sobor took the stage, and thanked Mr. Wolkowicz and all dignitaries present. Alderman John Arena—prime instigator of the Portage campaign—was present, looking casually fashionable in a windbreaker and “SAVE THE PORTAGE” t-shirt. His colleague Alderman Tim Cullerton of the 38th ward sat nearby, appearing firmly entrenched in his suit and tie.

Ms. Sobor wasted no time, asking the audience to keep a civil tongue, and stressing that the biggest goal of the campaign was to support local businesses and let them know they’re being “patronized” by Portage supporters. As I later learned, the Chicago Tabernacle folks have given similar instructions to their throng—as a tax-free group I assume they’re attempting to sound financially lucrative. Sobor then introduced Arena, who, if the applause was any indication, needn’t worry about several hundred votes in 2016.


The man is a decent speaker, and he reminded me that one of the reasons I voted for him is his approach to pragmatic preservation. Protecting pretty buildings is fine, but they need a reason to exist and a healthy local economy to persist. The folks behind the Portage’s restoration have done as much, and the theater is viewed as an anchor for the Six Corners shopping district. Once upon a time, this was the greatest and busiest place to shop, eat, drink, and see a flick outside the Loop. For the past several years, before he was even an alderman, Arena and others have tried to give the slightly shabby Six Corners a economic shot in the arm. Thus far things have been looking up.

Then the Chicago Tabernacle Church approached him last September, asking for his support as they sought to buy the theater and convert it into a church. Arena asked for a write-up of their intentions for the property, and what they presented to the zoning board was (in my words) horrifying.

CTC’s plans included removing the snazzy marquee outside (not sure if this includes the original terra cotta PORTAGE PARK THEATER marquee out front as well as the flashy electric one; I hope not), get rid of the businesses currently occupying the storefronts, and convert the auditorium and apartments inside into classrooms. Arena said um, no thank you, but welcomed them to the area and suggested several local properties that would better suit their and the community’s purposes. The church’s subsequent lack of response showed they weren’t interested, and have proceeded to push for ownership of the building and their proposed changes.

Despite public outcry, the CTC folks are displaying a, in my opinion, weird obsessiveness about purchasing the building, and a predictable disinterest in allowing the place to be used for the silent, classic, and (naturally) horror film festivals already taking place there. Speaking in a Tribune article about the Portage kerfuffle, church leader Al Toledo offered the following bit of aesthetic blindness:

“We happen to have a choir that people come listen to. We do a number of dramatic presentations. We have an Easter presentation coming up. So we have art that we bring forth as well, and I don’t think that should be minimized.”

Minimized? Not really. More like irrelevant. Chicago is surfeit with churches, religious choirs, and Easter presentations, but lacking in classic movie palaces and independent film venues. Eleven churches of varying sizes are within walking distance of the Six Corners district; but only two movie theaters (including the newly restored Patio Theater, which continues to exist by the skin of its teeth) currently operate thereabouts. Whether the 11 churches (not to mention the nearby Islamic center and Buddhist temple) are the right kind of churches according to Mr. Toledo… Well, let’s not touch that point just yet. Fans of the theater have been called on to grit their teeth and echo alderman Arena’s point that the church is welcome to the community (because, sure, we could always use more tax-free soul-winners who believe the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could come galloping down Milwaukee Ave. at any moment), and thus far everyone’s played nice. Thus far.

Back to the rally… Arena made the solid point that preserving the Portage is all  about economic recovery. Four restaurant proposals have been made for the area, but not a one would be able to get a liquor license if the church opened shop at the theater. So, it’s not just a matter of keeping the nerd cinephiles from their celluloid fantasies, or even about protecting an, admittedly, gaudy old queen of a theater from being ravished and violated. It’s about money. A short-term windfall for the theater’s current owners won’t translate into income for Portage Park, the surrounding neighborhoods, or Chicago in general. Church folks have promised to buy stuff at the local businesses, but that remains to be seen. Will the church-goers bussed in to the church really be picking up their groceries at Jewel and their steel-toed boots at Rasenicks? Hmmmm…

When Arena finished speaking, Ms. Sobor took over again. Prepared to deliver a PowerPoint presentation, equipment failure spared the audience from the sight of hastily created pie charts. Thinking on her feet, Sobor provided all the necessary URLs and procedures for making your voice heard. Why, here’s that very information:

The Save the Portage Theater site.

Save the Portage Theater Facebook page.

Alderman Arena’ post on Everyblock.

Arena’s site.

Periodically, a few of the burly bearded fellows emitted approving howls of “Wooooooooo!” whenever they found favor with Ms. Sobor’s statements, and one seeming non sequitur about “No Brooklyn theaters!” This was answered by Ms. Sobor with another curious statement about Irving Park being founded by four New York carpetbaggers. Hah? No illumination was provided, but I later discovered that the Tabernacle folks have done this before, to the former Lowes Metropolitan in Brooklyn, NY. Before and after restoration photos on the net aren’t heartening:


Our next to last speaker was Mike Edwards, creator of the Save the Portage Facebook page, who provided the quote of the night: “Where else can you see West Side Story one week and Dawn of the Dead the next?” Edwards led the gathering in a mass cell phone contact list updating, providing the number for the Chicago Zoning Board of Appeals: (312) 744-5822

Again, that’s (312) 744-5822.


Dennis Wolkowicz, the organist and one of the prime movers on the restoration of the theater several years ago, closed the meeting, dubbing it a “community explosion.” He shared a bit of Portage trivia, explaining that back in the 80s the theater was sliced down the middle by a wall that’s since been removed. The seats reflected a curious  and unwitting division of political proportions by having red seats on one side and blue ones on the other. This was rectified when director Michael Mann shot Public Enemies with Johnny Depp there in 2008, using the theater as a stand-in for the Biograph Theater on Lincoln Ave. Red and blue seats wouldn’t do, so the film company sprang for blue cushions across the board. No comment.

The meeting closed with reminders that letters to the ZBA could be returned in the lobby, and that various spokespersons would be available for interviews. I needed to get home, and after running into a workmate and my church’s pastor,  I headed out to spread the word. I hope you do likewise, dear reader. Check out the above links and take action.

Come on. I’ve got kids who need to see Frankenstein on the big screen!

I Have a Book

Way back in the ‘oughts, I wrote a series of articles for the Chicago Journal that were, for lack of a better term, “church reviews.” I’d visit local places of worship during services and evaluate them according to entertainment value, sanctity, and whatever else occurred to me. At the same time I’d do a little research on the faith du jour, respectfully exploring their histories and whatnot. I’m still quite proud of my stint as a church reviewer. I wrote some fine, funny stuff, if I do say so myself. And I do. I should be careful. Pride is what did Satan in.

Be that as it may, I compiled all my church reviews, along with a few religious writings I did for other zines and magazines (tongue usually lodged firmly in cheek) into a book called Hilaretic (many thanks to my talented friend Kathy for doing the layout and cover). Hilaretic is now available for purchase on Lulu.com. Stop by my author profile page to buy a copy!

World With End, Amen

Received one of these today on Michigan Avenue from one of those folks who think that if God isn’t always vying for mass world death, He’s just not doing His job. There’s got to be some money behind this group though. They had five trucks decorated like the one below.