Full Disclosure

By Rebecca Messman

Trinity Presbyterian Church, Herndon VA

March 15, 2020


Matthew 4:5-42

So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.

A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” 11 The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” 13 Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” 15 The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come back.” 17 The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!” 19 The woman said to him, “Sir, I see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” 21 Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. 24 God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” 25 The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.” 26 Jesus said to her, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, “What do you want?” or, “Why are you speaking with her?” 28 Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29 “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” 30 They left the city and were on their way to him.

31 Meanwhile the disciples were urging him, “Rabbi, eat something.” 32 But he said to them, “I have food to eat that you do not know about.” 33 So the disciples said to one another, “Surely no one has brought him something to eat?” 34 Jesus said to them, “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work. 35 Do you not say, ‘Four months more, then comes the harvest’? But I tell you, look around you, and see how the fields are ripe for harvesting. 36 The reaper is already receiving wages and is gathering fruit for eternal life, so that sower and reaper may rejoice together. 37 For here the saying holds true, ‘One sows and another reaps.’ 38 I sent you to reap that for which you did not labor. Others have labored, and you have entered into their labor.”

39 Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I have ever done.” 40 So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them; and he stayed there two days. 41 And many more believed because of his word. 42 They said to the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”

Let us pray. Lord in anxious times and in joyful times, when we hold people close as their next breath and when we are afraid to be close, grant us your wisdom. And Lord in my words, offered in this new format, may your people hear your timeless word. Amen. 


Social distancing. It’s a new term for us but the practice is ancient. Some of my friends are introverts. They have been preparing for days such as these their entire lives.

Today’s text has several forms of social distancing: Men, especially single men, should keep away from women. Jews should keep away from Samaritans. Those who are super religious should keep away from those with a checkered past. People should not trespass on other’s property. People who are thirsty should bring their own bucket to a well and people who are hungry should get their own food. And in general, people should mind their own business. And yet, Jesus, a man, a single man, a religious man, was at the well, property of the Samaritans since the ancient times, with a Samaritan woman, a woman with a checkered past. He was there with no bucket and no food and plenty of personal questions. 

Social distancing. It’s a societal side effect of epidemics that we pray slows the spread of disease but it threatens the connections we have with each other. When natural disasters come, people band together. People rush toward one another. We shovel each other’s snow, lend a chainsaw to remove trees from another’s driveway, and make sure elderly neighbors have food, heat and medicine when the lights go out. But with epidemics, our instinct is to rush away. And it’s urgent that we do not let compassion die during these times of contagious fear.

During the 1918 Spanish flu, 675,000 Americans died by flu, that’s more than 10x the number of Americans lost in battle during WWI. But when pleas came from health agencies for help caring for sick children, no one responded. The director wrote disdainfully, Hundreds of [people] … had delightful dreams of themselves in the roles of angels of mercy. … Nothing seems to rouse them now. … There are families in which every member is ill, in which the children are actually starving because there is no one to give them food. The death rate is so high, and they still hold back” (Brooks, 2020).

That might explain the puzzling cultural silence that shrouded the big flu. No plays were written. Few documentaries. It was like people did not like what the disease revealed about them. They emerged spiritually drained and ashamed. The story is told the tiny communion cups that began during those days, but that’s about it. We don’t have a common cup of wisdom to share. 

So, there are two points from today’s text that hold us accountable to what it means to follow Jesus in a time of social distancing. 

First, let’s fight the moral disease as well as the physical one. How do we do that? By nursing our connections. Jesus tended the places where society itself was wounded. The places burning with stigma and division. The places hot with contempt. The places feverish with scarcity. He went right there and doled out living water of compassion. And what happened then? It startled the society with generosity.

Notice: The woman in this story didn’t just give Jesus a small cup of water, she left her entire jar at the well. Compassion is also contagious. It’s important to remember that part. Our ministry right now might feel hamstrung. Our lives might feel rife with anxiety. We feel like there is nothing we can do. But we can’t forget what we do have. We have more ways to connect to each than ever before. We have networks of relationships in our pocket. We have money and information. We have this love in Christ that overpowers death. Church, we have jars of compassion and this text reminds us that when we use it, others will too. And we will witness miracles.

In the days of the early church, a plague of dysentery racked the Roman empire. When people contracted dysentery, they were put out of their homes and left for dead. In the midst of this, Christians would take in those with dysentery, keep them warm and give them fluids–which is in fact the treatment for dysentery. It turned out to be the greatest evangelism effort of the early church. People thought it was a miracle. It was simply loving care, which is in fact its own miracle.

If every single one of us made a sincere phone call to someone in this church and one other person to express love, that would be 1300 startling connections. 

The second point is this: Stick around for the full story. Jesus stayed. Stayed beyond the easy quick first answer. Beyond the “socially safe” second answer where most of us dwell. Stayed until the bucket dropped all the way down into the deepest part of the story, stayed until he heard the splash of trust, the dawning of full disclosure, the place where humans feel what life and love are really about. 

This month has been hard for me, as you know. As mom has battled cancer and entered hospice care, I’ve been keenly aware of the fragile ones. Being fragile means you don’t have easy answers to basic questions. “How are you?” Well, I am somewhere between fine and horrible, thanks for asking. “Where are you now?” Gosh, I am physically here. I am emotionally in Danville. I’m all over the place. 

The Samaritan woman didn’t like being associated with a sad marriage history. And, at first I felt awkward being associated with something sad too. I always saw myself as a cheerful person. I did not know how to handle what author Kate Bowler calls “cocker spaniel face,” when people look at you like you have a big red sign on your face that says “sad.” But I’ve noticed the power of sticking around for the fuller story. I’ve started responding: “Thanks for asking about my mom. Have you been through something like this before?” I hear this splash of holiness with the stories that are shared. Usually the tears pool with the question itself. With the permission to mention exquisite details. “My dad always loved daffodils.” “When my mom died, I had a hard time with nights for about 18 months.” “That was why I left the church for about 8 years.” “That’s what made me come to this church for the first time, sat in that pew right there and cried.”

Some of you feel fragile around your health. Fragile around your job. Fragile around your family. And Jesus meets that fragility not by running away but welcoming it. By showing how freedom runs smack dab through it. When I get gummed up these days on simple questions, I remember Jesus turned fragility into freedom on a cosmic scale. It’s alchemy, that resides at the center of our faith, the alchemy of the cross and resurrection. And that means there is nothing to fear. There is only love.

So, church. Nurse the connections you have with all the tools you have. Stay in the longer story so you don’t miss the splash of real connection. While we might have some space between us these days, God is as close as breath.



Brooks, David (March 12, 2020).  Pandemics Kill Compassion Too. The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/12/opinion/pandemic-coronavirus-compassion.html?searchResultPosition=2








Home With Us

By Rebecca Messman

Burke Presbyterian Church

December 26, 2021


John 1:1-18

1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. 

10 He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. 11 He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. 12 But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

14 And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. 15 (John testified to him and cried out, “This was he of whom I said, ‘He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’”) 16 From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. 17 The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. 18 No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.


Let us pray. O Lord Uphold me, that I might uplift thee. Amen.


This is John’s Christmas story. Notice no manger scene, no shepherds, no wise people from the East, only light. A surprising light coming all the way from the beginning and crashing into human reality. The other Gospels provide the backstory, the characters, the plot like the rolling yellow narrative at the beginning of Star Wars. John is like the booming soundtrack that makes you hum along and pump your fist. 

I heard what sounded like two distinct voices in those opening words. The most prominent voice is like a boys’ choir singing in the rose glow of stained glass. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it. The flawless voices sing about the cosmic Christ. Light and life for all people and our classic failure to grasp it. 

But then comes the other voice, more of a raspy voice butting in, telling us the particulars of a guy named John. You see, says the voice, John was more of a witness to the light. This other voice is like a guy who can’t whisper too well, leaning over to his wife during the concert. Or like the Grandpa in Princess Bride, “Like I was saying, John did mention this, that he was outranked by this Jesus.” Undaunted, the chorus soars on, eyes fixed to heaven, ancient themes, grace upon grace, but then, the human, the flesh, the bone, the skin, the heart, the rasp, mingles right in there. 

It is supposed to be that way. This interplay between the epic and the ordinary. For it to be a real Christmas, when the timeless word is made into actual flesh, we should let the choirs sing, but we should also hear the custodian run the vacuum. We should hear the toilet flush. The tears and sniffles of real life aren’t to be edited out. Christmas is not some sanitized experience that only occurs when the choir hits the perfect high note and when the poinsettias are just right and the living room is ready for guests. Christmas is the word made flesh. It’s the cosmic creator becoming known, in actual human lives, the light of the world breaking in even when folks bump into each other or test positive for Covid or can’t hang that particular ornament this year because it’s just too hard. Home with us. 

God with us in our real home, not the one we just vacuumed. God with us in our humanness, including those habits we thought we’d outgrown. The tears in the car. The rage we carry so often these days that it’s like a little tissue in our pocket, right there by the car keys. God with us in the desperate prayer at night. With us in the staring at the ceiling. With us when our seemingly normal life was interrupted by cancer, by the layoff, by this wild idea, by the politics of the day, by this looming divorce, this scandal, this unexpected pregnancy in a world that wants babies to come in a certain way. That’s when we find ourselves like all the actual Christmas characters, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, the magi. God making a home with us even when our plans fell through and even when the inn is full and even when the star takes us out of our comfort zone. This message is perfect for the Sunday after Christmas. John tells us that light of Christ finds us even when we don’t have candles in our hands to receive it.

One of my all-time favorite books is All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. It’s the story of a blind French girl and a white-haired German boy whose lives intersect amidst the devastation of World War II. In the story, secret radio transmissions are sent into the air, overheard on a makeshift radio by children growing up in the rubble and thick fear of war. One of these released messages was a voice saying this, “What do we call visible light? We call it color. But the electromagnetic spectrum runs to zero in one direction and infinity in the other, so really, children, mathematically, all of light is invisible.” What a powerful word to hear in their home battered by war.

John’s Gospel says as much. A lot of people will miss or reject this Christ light, including us sometimes. That does not mean that there is less light though. It just means we can get very narrow in what we think counts as God’s presence.

A few years ago, I was a tired pastor mom. I had been trying to do Christmas. Errands. Gifts. Logistics. And from the backseat, Davis, who was about 5 years old, said,  “Mommy, Christmas is a feeling in your heart. It’s wow. It’s woah. It’s for everyone.” It was like he was speaking out of an ancient hymnal. Then, don’t you know that rather than sitting in the unbridled beauty of a kindergartener talking about God, I launched into an explanation, a mom-a-logue. “Yes. Jesus is a human and divine, God’s only son, he taught and saved us and it’s called the in-car-nation.” The voice from the back seat stopped. Darn. I blew it. The bird of peace takes cover if it senses someone is trying to put it in a cage. I took a deep breath and laughed at myself and my little traveling lecture series, teaching in-car-nation to someone who had already felt it in-the-car-seat. But thankfully, that light was there for me too. Sometimes that Christ light is pure enlightenment but other times, it is the grace to lighten up. The light is full of grace and truth. So relaxed my shoulders and said, “Hey buddy, have you been feeling Christmas in your heart?” “Yes, it’s super big this year.”  

The light that catches us off guard from the backseat when we were least expecting it. The ancient chorus that meets our raspy voices. The light that is in our actual life, not just the one on the Christmas card. The light that is for all people, not just the ones who seem to have it all together. Maybe you don’t see it with your eyes but you feel it. The light is the lightening up of a world that is so darn clenched we are one giant fist. The light is the lightening of the load for those who carrying way too much. The light is experiencing delight as often as you can. 

The other day on a run I saw a dog with a log in his mouth. He looked so darn proud. And I felt delight. Then, I saw a sunrise that stopped me in my tracks. All the gradations of light that I know exist but God had to paint them on the sky for it to sink in. Delight. Then, I saw a runner tethered to another runner who was wearing a vest that said BLIND and I thought now if that isn’t the Kingdom of God, I don’t know what is. That light is all around us. All the time. At home with us.

Leonard Bernstein penned a musical called Mass that was the first musical performed at the Kennedy Center, in 1971. It’s about a big kind of Christmas – here’s part of it:

You can lock up the bold men

Go and lock up your bold men

And hold them in tow,

You can stifle all adventure

For a century or so.

Smother hope before it’s risen.

Watch it wizen like a gourd,

But you cannot imprison

The Word of the Lord. . . .

For the Word

For the Word was at the birth of the beginning

It made the heavens and the earth and set them spinning,

And for several million years

It’s endured all our forums and fine ideas

It’s been rough 

It’s been rough 

but it appears to be winning! . . .

For the Word

For the Word created mud and got it going

It filled our empty brains with blood and set it flowing

And for thousands of regimes

It’s endured all our follies and fancy schemes.

It’s been tough,

It’s been tough, and yet it seems to be growing!

O you people of power,

O you people of power, your hour is now.

You may seem to rule forever, but you never do somehow.

So we wait in silent treason until reason is restored

And we wait for the season of the Word of the Lord.

We await the season of the Word of the Lord

We wait … 

we wait for the Word of the Lord . . 


The light of Christ is home with us. Our homes as they actually are. The light of Christ is not just enlightenment, it is lightening up, lightening the load of others, and experiencing delight in the world. The light of Christ is there when we see it and when we can’t. It is super big this year, and it seems to be growing. 

Invited Home

By Rebecca Messman

Burke Presbyterian Church

December 24, 2021


Luke 2:1-20

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. 10 But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: 11 to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. 12 This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” 13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying,

14 “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
    and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” 

15 When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” 16 So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. 17 When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; 18 and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. 19 But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. 20 The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

Oh Lord, uphold me that I might uplift thee. Amen.


In those days, Caesar had issued a decree that all the world be registered. I know first hand that when fear whispers in your ear, “you are losing control, things are out of hand,” anxiety always suggests making a wildly ambitious list. I think that is what was happening with Caesar.

In those days, the headlines did not care about religious minorities or pregnant women or really women at all. The headlines and anxious decrees did not care about Joseph’s carpentry business in Nazareth. His income would have to stop to travel to this registration. There was no such thing as tele-woodworking. And of course, travel was risky. Illness was rampant. Pregnancy could be deadly. Fears once global then got deeply personal. I know first-hand how fear works its way into the body and the mind. That is when it can override a human’s best qualities. Reason, generosity, justice, patience… fear can tackle them all if it is allowed in the body and the mind.

In those days, the local headlines in Nazareth would have been the scandal surrounding Joseph, an upstanding man in the community whose young fiancée was noticeably pregnant. I imagine the comment section would have been full of vitriol and snark: “Tell me again how this baby is somehow holy?” “He should be kicked out of the synagogue immediately!” “So embarrassing. That woman should be stoned.” Fear loves shame and rumors and blame. Fear has the pointiest of fingers.

In those days, shepherds were the hidden nameless labor force that sustained a hungry population. They did not own the assets under their care. They were merely a jingle or a bleat in the soundscape of a world that just expected them to be silent and work at night. They had none of the power but shouldered all of the risk. One wolf. One sheep that nibbled itself lost. They’d be let go. I suspect we all know how much fear loves silence and darkness and powerlessness and waiting. 

In those days, fear was the headline and fear followed people home and fear divided families and fear made some people very loud and other people silent. Fear and its siblings paranoia and anxiety were the true governors and the Bible reminds us that everyone was expected to move according to their decrees.

But another plan was being hatched in the fearless heart of God. God had seen sparrows and lilies live joyfully on the earth. Dolphins and prairie dogs needed no intervention to find a playful existence. And yet, from the very beginning, God had seen fear on faces of Adam and Eve even in the garden of Eden, had seen fear cause Cain to kill his brother Abel, had seen fear pollute the family of Jacob and Esau, had seen fear prop up judges and kings and silence prophets, had seen fear divide nations and houses of worship based on fear of each other, had seen centuries of people projecting their fear onto God and weaponizing that fear to maintain their power … power that never seemed powerful enough cast out fear. 

In those days, it was time to end the reign of fear. And God’s audacious plan emerged… to dwell among us… full of grace and truth… to live with us as perfect love that casts out fear… God planned to become the one thing that evokes no fear in humankind at all, a baby.

When God announced to the angels the plan to come among us as a baby, even the angels were fearful.  Renowned preacher Barbara Brown Taylor imagines that conversation going this way: “Could you at least create yourself as a magical baby with special powers?” they ask.  “It wouldn’t take much—just the power to become invisible, maybe, or the power to hurl bolts of lightning if the need arose.  The baby idea was a stroke of genius …but it lacks adequate safety features.”  Taylor writes, “God thanked the angels for their concern but said, no, [it] would just be a regular baby.  How else could God gain the trust of [God’s] creatures? …There was a risk … a high risk, but that was part of what God wanted us to know—that God was willing to risk everything to get close to us in hopes that we might love God again.”  

So, in those days, God worked from sidelines instead of the headlines, it seemed. To a sidelined Mary, the angel said, “do not be afraid, you have found favor with God.” To a sidelined Joseph, the angel said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.” To the sidelined shepherds, the angel said, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people.” Good news: Do not be afraid. That is the number one message throughout the Bible from God to humanity. It is said 365 times, once for every day of the year. 

And on it goes, this good news. In a boat buffeted by storms, Jesus said, “Quiet, be still. Why are you afraid?” In the Upper Room, to the disciples, fear coursing up their legs, Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you, do not be afraid.” In the Garden of Gethsemane, to the women on Easter morning, exhausted and rattled, angels said, “Do not be afraid. You are looking for Jesus. He is not here. He is risen.” To the Easter disciples, desperate and doubting, “Do not be afraid. Go tell the others.” And even in the book of Revelation that sometimes feels hot to the touch, “fear not. I am the first and the last.” And that love was there all along: In the words of Isaiah, “Do not fear. I have redeemed you!” In the Psalms, “I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.” We always knew fear and love were close, but without love calling the shots, fear instantly comes tyrannical.

And how about you in these days? As you read the headlines, the decrees of fear still blaring over all the world, shame and its pointy fingers still poking our families and neighborhoods, can you hear from the sidelines the Christmas refrain? And if you hear it, can you sing it? And if you sing it, can you invite that love to make its home in your heart? To dwell in your body and govern your mind? We know firsthand that love’s deputies are candles and infants and bits of bread and defiant hope and you, yes you, even when you feel the most fragile. Love loves to work with small things like that and grows them up and multiplies them and changes the world through them. 

A headline caught my eye this week. A woman named Kim Morton in Baltimore received a text from her neighbor across the street telling her to peek outside. Matt Riggs had hung a string of white Christmas lights from his home to hers. He’d also left a tin of homemade cookies on her doorstep. The lights, he said, were meant to reinforce that they were always connected despite all their pandemic isolation. Matt said, “I was was reaching to Kim to brighten her world.” He knew she had been facing a dark time… depression, the loss of a loved one and work stress. The pressure led to panic attacks. Matt understood. His teenagers had been struggling, financial pressures had been mounting. He knew a lot of light was in order. He did not expect to start something of a neighborhood movement. In that followed, Riggs light-hanging gesture, neighbor after neighbor followed suit, stringing Christmas lights up and down all the streets. A neighbor named Leabe Commisso wanted in. She said to her neighbor, “Let’s do it too. Before we knew it,” she said, “We were cleaning Home Depot out of lights.” Then, Kim said, the entire neighborhood did it. The lights were a physical sign of connection and love.” She said, “What blows my mind is that it was all organic. There was no planning. It just grew out of everyone’s  desire for beauty and connection.” Riggs said, “it brought tears to my eyes. From such a humble beginning, a tiny little act, it became a movement.” A woman down the street made her lights into a sign that said, “Love lives here,” bending coat hangers all night long. Finally, Kim Morton after such a hard year said, “It was light pushing back the darkness.” 

He rules the world with truth and grace

And makes the nations prove

The glories of His righteousness

And wonders of His love. And wonders of His Love. And  wonders of His love. 

That’s the only headline we need. Merry Christmas. Amen.


Christmas Eve Services 2021

Please join us on Christmas Eve!

4:00pm Family Service ~ in the parking lot

6:00pm Lessons and Carols ~ in person

9:00pm Communion ~ in person and online (Zoom or YouTube)