,

Plunged to Victory

I opened my heart to Jesus five days after my eleventh birthday. Prior to that, Jesus had been in my life but only as a character in stories read to me at bedtime or as an image frozen in the glowing stained glass windows that surrounded me on Sunday mornings or as an invisible spirit-person worshipped by many of the most important people in my life. Growing up in a church-going, Christian household, I had sung of Jesus’ love for me from a very early age, I’d memorized Bible verses that explained His work of salvation, I’d taken part in pageants depicting His birth, an on many an Easter morning, I’d gotten up before dawn to celebrate Christ’s resurrection from the dead. But there was something different about that night in April of 1986. Sitting there in the Civic Center in Washington, D.C., surrounded by the thousands of people gathered to hear Billy Graham preach, this mythical Jesus was suddenly standing out on the front porch of my very own heart; knocking on my door and calling my name. Listening, I could hear Him asking to come into my heart! I remember being frozen in that moment; afraid to make a sound. Looking within, I could see that my heart was in no shape to entertain. I twirled and churned about within my heart; scrambling to neaten things up a bit. But as Graham kept preaching and later, as George Beverly Shea kept singing, the Lord kept on knocking and calling my name. And then, at just the right time, I opened the door to Him. I’m so glad that I did – He’s been dwelling within me ever since.

That was on a Monday and by that Sunday, it was announced in church that I would to be baptized in just a couple of weeks. Our church had a baptistry at the rear of the sanctuary; a deep, metal tub painted aqua blue and adorned with lots of grippy, plastic treads stuck to the stairs and the floor. That tub was to be filled for me and the morning worship service altered to showcase my decision. The pastor met with me to assess the nature of my understanding and to offer me an opportunity for any clarifications I might need. He took time to go over the particulars of my candidacy and to prepare me for the sacrament. We walked into the empty tub and talked about what to expect when both it and the sanctuary would be full. I was given the list of questions I would be asked and encouraged to prepare a word of testimony to share. My stomach tossed and turned at the prospect of my private, budding love being outed in such a public way.

That was almost forty years ago now and I don’t remember an awful lot about my baptism. I do remember the ill-fitting, musty robe that I wore. I remember the cold water and trying to talk through chattering teeth. I remember being buried under the water just long enough for the world to go silent in the submerging. I remember being lifted back up to hooting, hollering, and sounds of applause. I remember being prayed over and sent up out of the water. I remember afterward having grown men shake my hand and call me “brother”.

Baptism is an odd rite but considering that it bears passage into an odd life, I say the stranger the better. So much of the Christian life exists in the intangible. Faith is held in the heart and believed in the mind. Aside from the thirty-three years that the Son of Man dwelled with us here on Earth, God’s presence – if it has been felt at all – has been known almost exclusively in the metaphysical. Christianity is a spiritual reality that must be lived out by flesh and blood in time and space. But through the wonderful sacrament of baptism, Jesus would build a bridge between the two worlds; forever connecting our earthly dwelling with our heavenly address. Jesus would have His newly minted disciples step into a river, a lake, cistern, pool, or ocean and there lay down their lives; dying to self. Then, just as Jesus had been raised from the dead and taken out of the tomb, so all the submerged followers of Jesus would be raised to newness of life as born-again, new creations. It’s a truly amazing and miraculous thing; no doubt mocked and viewed scornfully by the world. But to those that believe – it is the best of experiences. For on that day and in that moment, the baptized climb out of the water by Jacob’s ladder. Having lain down their lives, a way is opened to Heaven. Hallelujah!

We’re looking forward to gathering together for our first worship service of 2025. No matter the dates with destiny that will be written in on our, as yet, empty calendars, no matter what difficult and unsettling headlines will scroll along the chyrons of our lives, and no matter what ups and downs will keep our stomachs queasy – we know we’ll have the Lord beside us as we walk through it all. And for the journey we’ll have each other and the wonderful household of faith for encouragement. I’m so thankful for our church family! Tomorrow stands to be a wonderful day of worship and testimony. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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Coming Home

Good morning church family,

“Hey Mom,” Justin said rather loudly; looking into the kitchen where his mother was running water in the sink and cleaning the countertops. “Do you know where the remote control for the TV is?”

“Look on top of the cabinet or maybe next to the recliner,” his mother replied; only looking up briefly from her work. “I’m sure it’s there somewhere. You might need my help getting onto the channels. It’s kind of convoluted.”

It was New Year’s Eve and Justin, who had arrived at his parent’s house earlier that afternoon to spend a few days with his folks, was hoping to find some way to pass the time. His dad was upstairs packing for an early-morning flight overseas, his mom was busy being busy, and his siblings were all off building families far away from there.

Finding the remote in an end table drawer, Justin plopped down on the couch and proceeded to try and get the large screen to flicker to life. It was only eight o’clock.

“Oh, good,” Justin’s mother said; walking into the room and drying her hands on a hand towel, “you found it. Here, let me get it going for you.” She reached down and took the controller and soon had a satellite menu on the screen. “Watch whatever you like. I’m sure there’s some football on or something.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Justin said; receiving the remote back and pulling a pillow in next to him. “Sure I can’t help you at all in there?”

“Oh, no,” Justin’s mother quickly replied. “Just make yourself at home. It’s so nice to have you here.” She looked down on Justin with a warm but fleeting smile. “I’m just going to wrap up in here and probably start getting ready for bed. I know your father is probably going to be going to bed soon as well. The company is sending a car for him at 4.”

“So, you’re not staying up ‘til midnight then?”

Justin’s mother chuckled as she turned to head back to the kitchen. “I haven’t seen the ball drop in probably twenty years.”

Justin wasn’t regretting coming home but it wasn’t going to be the fun and meaningful vacation that he’d hoped it might be. It never was. He’d been living on his own for the three years since his graduation from college but was still homesick for his parents and the life he’d enjoyed while growing up. His life in Akron was nothing like what he had known in Fort Wayne. Akron was barking bosses, echoing apartments, fast food dinners served out of drive through windows, and darting eyes in sports bars. Fort Wayne was waving neighbors, shortcuts across farmland, placemats on the dinner table, and giggling girls in high school halls. So much was missing but still he scrolled the menu for a movie, a game, or a show.

“Maybe I should drive downtown and check out First Nite,” Justin thought to himself; referring to Fort Wayne’s annual New Year’s block party. But it was a cold and windy night and he couldn’t be sure there would be anyone for him to hang out with anyway. “Maybe I’ll text some friends and see if anyone’s going.”

The Alamo Bowl was on TV and the two teams held just enough interest for Justin that he loaded the game and put the remote down on the coffee table. He folded his arms over the throw pillow that rested on his stomach and swung his legs up onto the couch. He thought he might just settle in and end the year watching football.

“Oh, good,” his mother began again, “you found a football game. There are plenty of snacks in the kitchen – I’m sure you know where to find them. And help yourself to anything in the fridge. There’s a little beer and some wine in there and I think there’s plenty of other stuff in the cabinet. Be sure to give a toast to your dear old mom,” she said with a smile as she bent down to kiss Justin on the forehead. “I’m turning in. I’ll see you in the morning, honey”

“Okay, Mom,” Justin said in reply. “Thanks for everything. Love you – happy New Year.” He only gave a brief look in his mom’s direction before fixing his gaze again on the screen. It was such a weird and unsettling thing to Justin to have his mom offer him alcohol. He liked it better back when he was begging his mom for soda instead of milk.

For the next couple of hours, Justin snacked on this and that, sipped some spiced cider, watched football, and checked his phone every two or three minutes. He could have gone to bed but didn’t feel like it. He wanted to find some significance somewhere; to do something, feel something, be something.

“What about Saint Anne’s?” the thought suddenly came to Justin; fighting its way through his subconscious. St. Anne’s was an Anglican church downtown that his family had always had a loose association with. His mom and dad had been married there years ago and the family attended Sunday services a few times every year. Justin remembered the whole family going to a New Year’s Eve service one year when most of the kids were in high school. Justin was only ten and had gathered that the family’s attendance had something to do with an ongoing argument between his older siblings and his parents concerning drinking and partying. But regardless of the reasons they’d all gone that year, it turned out to be a magical night for Justin. Ringing in the new year with singing, readings, and silent reflection had left an indelible impression on young Justin and had pinned a note on the cork board of his heart.

Justin grabbed his phone and googled to see if St. Anne’s was having a service this New Year’s Eve. The church website was poorly maintained and it didn’t look like the church calendar had been updated recently. But he went on Facebook and searched the Journal Gazette for information. From what he could tell – it looked like some kind of service was scheduled for 11pm. The clock on Justin’s phone read 10:48.

Justin scribbled out a quick note for his mom; leaving it on the kitchen counter. He grabbed his coat and hat, wallet and keys and headed out the door. The entire drive downtown, Justin was filled with an overwhelming sense of joy and the feeling surprised him. His heart was light somehow and not a little lonesome. He couldn’t explain it but an odd sort of anticipation settled in his soul.

Walking in to the old, familiar church building, Justin listened as the rector read from Scripture. A small collection of souls were scattered across the large sanctuary. The room was well-heated and warm. Justin removed his coat as he sat in one of the pews in the rear. The main of the hall was dimly lit, with only candles flickering in the windows but from spotlights up in the ceiling, bright light shone down on the altar and the pulpit behind it. Justin sat back and listened to what was being read: “A voice is calling,” the rector read in a calm, solemn tone, “‘Clear the way for the Lord in the wilderness; make smooth in the desert a highway for our God. Let every valley be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; and let the rough ground become a plain, and the rugged terrain a broad valley; then the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all flesh will see it together; for the mouth of the Lord has spoken’ A voice says, ‘Call out.’ Then he answered, ‘What shall I call out?’ All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever.”

These words pealed within Justin’s heart as bells ringing out in tall towers of a city. His withering suddenly made sense and, with it, came the promise of something new. The promise of something that might stand. Earlier that day, Justin had left Akron to come home and now, in this place, he somehow knew he had.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered unexpectedly.

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning and coming home to the Lord’s presence once again – it’s such a blessing! There’s so much to say and so much to be said and in that time in the sanctuary, so much gets settled. Hallelujah for that! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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Start the Presses!

Good morning church family,

Before long, I’m afraid newspapers will go the way of phone booths, gray flannel suits, and the milk man. And that’s a sad reality to have to accept, for newspapers have long played a wonderful role in the life of the nation and its many cities and communities. Anyone leafing through his local daily would become literate on any number of important matters close to home and around the world. A good newspaper didn’t just educate its audience but would motivate and inspire them as well. Using provocative headlines, newspapers often coaxed people out of their informational ecosystems; daring them to read stories and opinions from disparate voices. The daily newspaper also served as public record; keeping neighbors informed of police activity, property sales, graduations, engagements, births, and deaths. And it wasn’t all high and lofty either. There was a lot of fun to be had too as ink and newsprint were devoted to comic strips, box scores, crossword puzzles, Dear Abby, and the jumble. It’s not hyperbole to say that newspapers were often the knitting needles that helped produce the very fabric of our society.

As a young boy, I enjoyed delivering newspapers on my paper route. For years I would get up every morning and find bundles of still-warm copies of the Washington Post out by the curb in front of our house. I would haul them into my family’s living room, cut the ties, stuff the inserts, either band or bag the papers depending on the weather, and then, with a loaded newspaper sack over each shoulder, head out to deliver my route. Cox, Sheridan, and Somerset were my streets and it seemed that nearly every house up and down the road got the paper. And the ones that didn’t get the Post – got the Times. Papers seemed to draw the entire neighborhood around a campfire of information and conversation. I loved it.

One of the most endearing things about newspapers has always been the different names these dailies would put on their mastheads. You can group newspaper names into two general categories; those that present a newspaper as a simple historical record and those that present it as a defender of the public interest. Names that fit in the former category are ones like the Times, Chronicle, Journal, Post, Globe, and Gazette. Names fitting the latter category would be newspapers calling themselves the Herald, Tribune, Sentinel, Crier, Courier, and Star. I love how these types of names had the newspapers assuming an almost prophetic office within the community. And that got me to thinking.

As the newspaper industry now fades into history, what might it look like if we tried taking up the mantle ourselves. Why can’t we all be newspapers of a sort? Obviously, should I be a newspaper (the John Tate Times or the J. T. Harbinger and Dispatch might work) the universe of my reporting would be quite small. I could write plenty of stories concerning events at 63, 75, and 82 Eastern Avenue. I could also provide editorial insights into the heart and mind of the publisher, though I don’t imagine many would care much about that. But I might endeavor to do some additional reporting into areas of much broader interest. Suppose I had something to report under the following headlines: “Death Defeated!” “God Revealed!” “Doorway Into Eternity Discovered!” “Peace on Earth!” Shouldn’t headlines like these get folk’s attention and have them asking for a copy?

Think of it – I could do biblical journalism on all kinds of subjects including marriage, family, economics, diet, and the Middle East. I could break all kinds of stories on matters near and dear to my readers; things such as the root of all evil, the key to self-discipline, and how to achieve the desire of your heart. Instead of only studying the Bible as a matter of personal devotion or merely for immediate application in areas of singular concern for me and my life, I might also study the Bible for the benefit of others. With my neighbor in mind, I could wrestle with all sorts of difficult concepts, work to comprehend any number of mysteries, and become so familiar with complex doctrines that I might be able to articulate them to anyone, anywhere. I could make sense of things! I could be a hardboiled gumshoe tramping through the Scriptures, the breathless reporter showing up on the scene of every major happening in my neighborhood, and the most compelling editorialist sitting out in front of the hardware store, in the barber’s chair, or on the barstool at the local watering hole. No matter the situation or the conversation, I could fire up the presses and get the good news out.

I know it might seem a strange thing to say and perhaps it stretches the metaphor’s elasticity to the point of snapping, but why not consider how you might be a daily newspaper in the year to come; publishing a biblical worldview with every word you speak? I’m certain that God will go with you on your paper route.

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to celebrate the birth of our Savior and the reign of our King, Jesus Christ! The season of advent is so rich in wonder, hope, and joy. What a blessing to be able to share in it with each of you! As I continue to mature in my faith – I’ve certainly come to look more forward to Christmas Sunday than I do Christmas morning (though it’s a close second!). Whichever it is for you – come into His house rejoicing! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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A Reason to Smile

Good morning church family,

It doesn’t take much for a class of seventh-grade students to turn into a jumble of sleepwalking moon bats. It takes even less when those same students are just one ring-of-the-bell away from embarking on their Christmas break. On this particular final school-day of December, the transmogrification was brought about by the presence of risers in the school gym. The students had filed into the large gymnasium following their lunch of pizza, crinkle-cut fries, apple slices, and candy canes when they saw the three-tiered semi-circle risers placed just in front of the basketball goal at the far end of the hardwood court. For the last couple of months, all the Crosby Middle School students had spent their chorus period learning a number of Christmas carols and classics ahead of the annual holiday concert held on the Friday before break. Those chorus periods had been held in Mrs. Swicker’s music room. To say that the vast majority of Crosby kids – especially Crosby boys – were unenthused during these chorus periods would be a very kind understatement. But despite the fact that most of her pupils behaved like uncooperative hostages, Mrs. Swicker had still managed to prepare a fair program with a serviceable choir to perform it. But now, as the students assembled for the dress rehearsal before the concert later that evening, the moon bats, with bellies full of pizza and peppermint, were disorganizing themselves on, around, and underneath the risers.

Mrs. Swicker, the school’s chorus teacher, would have attempted to bring the chaos into order but she needed to manage her own chaos first. A slight, middle-aged woman wearing a smart skirt, tight-fitting silk blouse, and high-heeled shoes, Amanda Swicker was simultaneously trying to set up a conductor’s stand, arrange her music, turn the sound system on, and ward off a cadre of high-strung overachievers who were shadowing her every move.

“Okay! Okay everyone,” Mrs. Swicker boomed; speaking into a hot mic. “Please. Would everyone please find a place on the risers? Let’s have the eighth-graders on the top two platforms and the seventh-graders on the bottom two. Don’t worry about it all making sense right away – I’ll move everyone around once I can see how everything looks.”

Mrs. Swicker needn’t have worried that any of her students were concerned with things making sense. They weren’t. But with the help of a couple of classroom aids and multiple threats of holiday homework, the group finally took their places and stood at reasonable attention. Mrs. Swicker wasted no time in firing up the accompaniment tracks that would carry the choir through the program as a cruise ship might carry landlubbers across the Atlantic.

For a public school located in a very progressive part of Tacoma, Washington, the song selections for the holiday program were remarkably sacred. Of course, the majority of the songs were radio favorites; things like Jingle Bells and Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. But just about every other song throughout the program seemed to have something to do with Jesus. The kids had spent months singing Go Tell it on the Mountain, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Joy to the World, and O Little Town of Bethlehem. No one seemed to be offended at the mention of Jesus but no one seemed very moved by it either.

“Well, okay everybody,” Mrs. Swicker said after the choir had run through the entire program of songs while only stopping a handful of times for direction, “that’s not half-bad. Please try and watch me at the beginning and end of every song. Some of you were jumping the gun on some of those songs and some of you were holding notes at the end like opera singers. Not a good look or a good sound. And whatever you do, try and blend your voices together with the other ones singing around you. No one should be able to hear any of us singing but only hear all of us. Comprende?” Mrs. Swicker tapped the top of her music stand with her pencil. “Alright, in just a minute I’ll give you some final instructions on how we’re going to enter into the auditorium tonight and how we’re going to exit. I’ll also be giving you some reminders about how to dress and,” shooting a look over at a motley bunch of seventh-grade boys, “how not to dress.” Impish laughs bubbled up from the boys in the lower risers and a gust of sighs descended from the risers above where girls with arms crossed rolled their eyes. “Now, are there any questions?”

Isabella Carpenter raised her hand. “Do you know where our parents are going to be sitting? Will they be able to see us from here?”

“Yes, Isabella. Don’t worry – everyone will be able to see you. Anyone else?”

Cassidy Paradis raised her hand. “Did you want me to sing the mezzo-soprano part on Joy to the World? It’s no problem. I know the music.”

“No, Cassidy,” Mrs. Swicker said; beginning to look a little defeated. “Please just sing the melody with everyone else. Thank you. Okay, are there any more questions?”

It was then that Kegan, a chubby, somewhat cerebral kid who had a Vulcan manner of talking, raised his hand. “Maybe I should have asked this a long time ago but I didn’t think about it until you told us to try and smile while we’re singing. I have no idea who this Jesus is or who the ‘dear Christ’ is who’s supposed to ‘enter in’.”

Mrs. Swicker folded her arms and cocked her head in earnest consideration. She knew Kegan wasn’t grandstanding or clowning and deserved a thoughtful answer. The question had turned the room unusually quiet. “Jesus was a Jewish messianic figure,” Mrs. Swicker began; her speech careful and halting. “He lived back during the Roman Empire, I believe. Think of him as a symbol of good triumphing over evil; or at least wanting to. Jesus is something like a promise of all that’s good with mankind and the world.”

“So, these songs are Jewish then?” Kegan answered sincerely.

“You know, Kegan,” Mrs. Swicker said; looking to quickly put a bow on this topic, “I’m not really, entirely sure, but…”

“I’m pretty sure,” Kegan interrupted his teacher, “that Christmas is a Christian holiday.”

“Well, certainly Christmas is Christian, Kegan. You’re certainly right about that.” Mrs. Swicker lowered her voice an octave and spoke in a summary tone. “But none of these songs have anything to do with religion for us. These are just some traditional folk songs that we’ve chosen for their beautiful music and uplifting lyrics. If you’re having trouble smiling as you sing, just replace Jesus in your mind with whatever warm and sweet thing you love and find hope in.”

Mrs. Swicker, who had a soft spot in her heart for Kegan, looked over at the young man and dared a follow-up by giving a knowing nod. “Okay?” she asked.

“I guess so, Mrs. Swicker,” Kegan answered, plunging his hands in his pockets; only just then noticing that everyone was looking at him. “I just think it’s strange. Why a religion would make such a big deal about a little baby.”

“I guess I don’t really know,” Mrs. Swicker said, cocking her head again. “Perhaps it’s something to look into.”

“Maybe I will,” Kegan said under his breath and mostly to himself. “It might be nice to have a real reason to smile.”

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow to sing and celebrate the good news that we know and believe with all our heart! Our light hearts are a triumph of Heaven. But the heavy hearts of our neighbors are the charge of Heaven for our lives. What a great and joyous work it is to go and tell the good news to others. We are blessed! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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Have a Seat

Good morning church family,

Societies produce many points of tension for the people living in the honeycombed communities they create. Take the time we spend in public bathrooms, elevators, and waiting rooms, for instance. Complete strangers forced into tight, confined spaces are left with the difficult decision of either entering into pained conversation with one another or enduring some of the most awkward silence imaginable. I mean, what exactly does one man relieving himself say to another man doing the same or what do we say to one another as we collectively stare at the digital display on the elevator, waiting for our floor number to ding? Or, to mention another tension; how about four-way stops? Of course, there are rules to govern these traffic conventions but absent a uniformed enforcement agent of some kind, the vigilantes are left to employ nods, waves, flashing headlights, and cold stares to keep everything moving in an orderly fashion. And providing one more example; we all appreciate it when a stranger holds a door for us – but not when we’re twenty or thirty paces from that door. In those instances, we try declining with an aw-shucks wave of the hand but quickly hang our heads and do a half-jog to the door while the stranger stares smilingly at our awkward progress. It’s brutal.

Now none of the above examples represent any profound stresses in our lives nor are they illustrative of any real hardship we must endure, but instead are just little tensions for us to experience and study. There’s a lot that we might learn about human nature and the way we’ve been designed by God when we ponder on them a bit. I got to thinking about this recently when I was reading Paul’s letter to the believers in Ephesus. A part of the following passage jumped out at me: “But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus…” (Ephesians 2:4-6)

What struck me was that last part about Christ making his followers “sit together in the heavenly places”. I think we all understand the odd tension that’s created when a person in your company is standing while you and everyone else present is seated. You can picture it – you’re dining out with some friends when someone you know comes over to your table to say “hi”. Unless the exchange is very brief, you will feel the need to either have the person sit at your table with you or you will feel compelled to stand with him during the dialogue. The conversation is bound to be pained otherwise. You feel the same sort of thing when someone comes and stands by your desk while you’re in your chair at work or when someone drops by your house for a visit and proceeds to just stand there in your living room while you and everyone else is seated on couches and recliners. I get a keen sense of this phenomenon whenever I go and visit someone in the hospital. One of the most important things for me to do in order for the visit to have any chance of being a blessing, is to find some place to have a seat when I enter the patient’s room. Every moment that I remain standing in a moment like that, a palpable tension builds in the room until I either beg an early exit or finally have a seat. Why is that? Well, as social conventions go, sitting is certainly a more casual, unhurried, and open-ended manner of relating than standing seems to be. When someone opts not to sit down but to remain standing, he’s putting the whole exchange on a timer; the conversational equivalent of leaving the car running. But to sit down is to communicate a certain commitment to the time and place; it’s a decision to fellowship with another in whatever is going on. Sitting down somewhere with someone says “I’m with you in what’s going on here”, “I would like to belong here”, and “I’m in no rush to be somewhere else”.

Too many of us (myself included) leave the car running, so to speak, when we come to worship or when we sit to read the Bible or volunteer in some Gospel effort. We come into the Lord’s presence and He offers us a seat but we dip our heads, shove our hands in our coat pockets, and kindly decline. “We can only stay a minute,” we tell Him and then proceed to half-heartedly lean against the door jamb or anxiously shift our weight from foot to foot. We’re there with the Lord in what’s going on but, then again, we’re really not.

But praise the Lord – because of His great love for us and His mercy, He won’t let us stay in that cagey state for long but instead gives us new life and raises us up to where He sits. He lifts us out of all the worries, concerns, and entanglements that make our eyes dart about and which keep our souls shifty that He might bless us with Heaven’s perspective of things. The Lord lightens our hearts, lifts our heads, and causes us to want to dwell with Him. He makes it so we want to take off our coat, have a seat, and stay a while.

So, what do you say? Will you pull up a chair?

The Lord’s invited all of us to His house on Sunday morning! He has something to give us, something to tell us, and something for us to do. It’s going to be so good for all of us to be together with Him then and throughout the week. Isn’t it grand to be a Christian! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

–        Pastor Tate

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