Issue #9• November 8, 2026

A Connection to Our Life In and Out of the Church

The Season: To Know and Be Known

"O LORD, you have searched me and known me." — Psalm 139:1

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The psalmist here describes a God who knows our sitting and rising, our thoughts, our words before we speak them, and the paths we travel. This is not merely God's awareness of our behavior. It is an intimate knowledge of our whole lives.

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One of the most beautiful insights in Scripture is that we can risk being known by others because we are already known by God. Faith is not merely a private relationship between an individual and God, but a life we share with one another.

A worshipping community can be a place where people are not reduced to their beliefs, their mistakes, their accomplishments, or their outward appearances. It can be a place where we learn to see one another as God sees us— perhaps not as completely, because we cannot— but with growing patience, curiosity, compassion, and love.

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The invitation is not to become a community in which everyone knows everything about everyone else. It is to become a community in which no one has to pretend to be someone else in order to belong.

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Scruffy Hospitality

Sharing meals, recipes, and quiet spaces breaks down social barriers faster than formal church seating. So, let’s get radical in our hospitality and eat together in our homes.

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But, can be stressful on so many levels.

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"Scruffy hospitality”  is a relaxed, low-pressure approach to hosting that prioritizes human connection and warmth over a spotless home or an elaborate meal.

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This concept was originally shared in 2014 by Father Jack King, an Anglican priest, to combat the anxiety and perfectionism that keeps people from opening their doors to others. It’s core ideas are:

• People over perfection: Instead of spending hours scrubbing floors, hiding clutter, or curating a Pinterest-worthy tablescape, you invite guests into your real, lived-in space.

• Low-stress food: Meals are simple, store-bought, or easy one-pot dishes (like chili, pizza, or frozen appetizers) rather than multi-course homemade dinners.

 

Hosting a casual gathering is all about prioritizing connection over perfection by leaning into low-stress planning, minimal prep, and a welcoming atmosphere. Embracing the "scruffy hospitality" mindset allows you to focus on your guests rather than a flawless home or an exhausting menu.

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Love thy Neighbor Grant

Once again, the Foundation for the Episcopal Diocese of Wyoming is offering a $5,000 Love Thy Neighbor grant to support community organizations over the holidays. The Outreach Committee recently met and prepared the simple application. The grant money will be designated to three recipients.  

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Our Christmas Connections will get $3,000.  This is an opportunity for any member of the congregation to help struggling family members, students, friends or neighbors with a little love during the holidays. On the first Sunday in Advent, we will distribute $100 bills to members who personally know someone who could use some extra support.

Last year, we created Christmas bags for the Park County School District #1 most severely affected unhoused students and would like to put $1,000 into the project.

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Homestead Stageworks Community Theater is a new performing arts program in our community. For now, they are rehearsing in the sanctuary of our church. We will support them with $1,000 for costumes and scenery.

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Leafing Through the Pages

Onions

By William Matthews

How easily happiness begins by  

dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter  

slithers and swirls across the floor  

of the sauté pan, especially if its  

errant path crosses a tiny slick

of olive oil. Then a tumble of onions.

 

This could mean soup or risotto  

or chutney (from the Sanskrit

chatni, to lick). Slowly the onions  

go limp and then nacreous

and then what cookbooks call clear,  

though if they were eyes you could see

 

clearly the cataracts in them.

It’s true it can make you weep

to peel them, to unfurl and to tease  

from the taut ball first the brittle,  

caramel-colored and decrepit

papery outside layer, the least

 

recent the reticent onion

wrapped around its growing body,  

for there’s nothing to an onion

but skin, and it’s true you can go on  

weeping as you go on in, through  

the moist middle skins, the sweetest

 

and thickest, and you can go on  

in to the core, to the bud-like,  

acrid, fibrous skins densely  

clustered there, stalky and in-

complete, and these are the most  

pungent, like the nuggets of nightmare

 

and rage and murmury animal  

comfort that infant humans secrete.  

This is the best domestic perfume.  

You sit down to eat with a rumor

of onions still on your twice-washed  

hands and lift to your mouth a hint

 

of a story about loam and usual  

endurance. It’s there when you clean up  

and rinse the wine glasses and make  

a joke, and you leave the minutest  

whiff of it on the light switch,

later, when you climb the stairs.