By Bishop Sara (a lifelong viewer like you)
Friends, fellow seekers of awe and quietly narrated wisdom,
It is with a heavy, tote-bag-laden heart that I come to you today. The Corporation for Public Broadcasting is shutting its doors.
That sentence alone feels like a rip in the very fabric of the soft-spoken, intellectually curious, jazz-laced universe we’ve grown up in.
Raised by Big Bird and Bob Ross
I don’t know about you, but I was practically raised by Big Bird and Bob Ross.
Saturday evenings meant blanket forts and British comedy. My cooking is shaped by Pati, Julia, and all the amazing minds behind America’s Test Kitchen. I plan vacations based on Rick Steves’ adventures. I still learn astonishing things about the universe from NOVA, and about history from Ken Burns.
Most importantly, I learned that stories matter. That facts matter. That you can love a trolley and still grow up to be an emotionally mature adult who knows how to feed a fish.
NPR Taught Me How to Listen
Not just to the world, but to the pauses between sentences. The “um”s. The breath before someone speaks. The sound of real humans processing this tangled, glorious mess of life in real time.
Morning Edition was church. All Things Considered was therapy. Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me! was the closest I’ve ever come to enjoying a pop quiz.
And now — the silence threatens.
Mourning in the Cult of Brighter Days
We’ve all been through too many “unprecedented times.” But this? This feels like losing the national conscience in a tweed jacket. Like losing the grandma of media — the one who mailed you five dollars and a haiku, then taught you the names of all the birds in your backyard.
But in the Cult of Brighter Days, we don’t believe in final goodbyes. We believe in composting — in turning endings into fertile beginnings.
Even in this cultural grief, something can grow.
What We Do Now
We keep watching.
We dig through the archives like sacred scripture. We read books. We share Mister Rogers memes unironically. We take our kids on awe walks, explain the world with wonder, and tell the local stories — the weird, deeply nerdy ones that don’t sell but matter.
And when we gather — online, around campfires, or in living rooms lit by lava lamps and mismatched string lights — we tell the truth:
That knowledge belongs to everyone. That kindness is power. That it’s okay to cry when you hear the NewsHour theme, and still get excited at the sound of a certain red monster’s giggle.
The Next Generation is Already Recording
We will make public media again.
Maybe not the same way. Maybe not on TV. But in podcasts, zines, garage studios, backyard puppet theaters, and community radio stations where the signal cuts out every time a hawk flies overhead.
Because storytelling is sacred. And it’s not going away.
So Yes, Mourn — Then Rise
Wear black if you must. Light a candle for Car Talk. Raise a glass to Gwen Ifill.
But then — rise.
Because somewhere out there, in a basement or a Zoom call or a tiny classroom filled with pipe cleaners and paper towel tubes, the next generation of public broadcasting is already quietly pressing record.
And when the world needs him most, Elmo will ride again.
