by
Cathy Fiorello
It was Sunday, another glorious day in San Francisco. It was also my husband’s birthday and I thought, what better way to celebrate than to take him to a place that I wanted to visit. I would justify that by treating him to brunch at a restaurant of his choosing afterward. As we boarded the bus that would take us to the Swedenborgian Church, I was certain we were about to discover something extraordinary; his expectations were not nearly as high as mine.
Getting off the bus at California and Presidio, we made the breathless climb to Washington Street and looked for a soaring spire, or any symbol of a place of worship. There was none; a plaque on a stone wall on the corner of Lyon Street told us we had arrived. Behind the wall was what could have been the model for The Secret Garden of literary fame. We followed a red brick path to the arched wooden door that opens directly into the rear of the nave where we were met by parish hospitality greeters and immediately made to feel welcome.
The Swedenborgian Church, established in San Francisco in 1895, is the birthplace of the American Arts & Crafts movement in architecture. The nave we were ushered into is divided into two sections. Handcrafted chairs with rush-bottom seats, eighty in all, are set up on both sides of the aisle. Overhead, massive madrone tree trunks, gnarls bulging through their bark, arch upward supporting the ceiling, evidence of the founding pastor Joseph Worcester’s intent to bring the natural world indoors. There are no kneelers and no religious statues in evidence. Four murals on the sanctuary’s north wall by William Keith, one of the first California artists to paint directly from nature, depict the changing seasons. In the back of the room is a working fireplace; in the front an altar, bare except for a pedestal at its center holding an open bible. Above the altar is the iconic Dove window, a stained glass masterwork created by nineteenth-century artist Bruce Porter, which has cast its glow on parishioners for one hundred twenty years. My initial impression of the church was one of peace, a place to connect with one’s own higher power without the intrusion of rites and idols.
As the service proceeded, that barren altar became filled with young life. Singly, or hand-in-hand, young children began strolling up the aisle and gathering on its steps. There was no announcement inviting them up; they seemed to know this was their place. They snuggled in together, and sat quietly. The minister proceeded with his sermon, not at all distracted by the youngsters at his feet. I have no recollection of what he said that day—for me, the children were the message. It was a biblical scene come to life.
The choir, for a church this small, was exhilarating. There were only eight men and women and an organist in an alcove at the side of the altar, but their voices soared and could have filled a concert hall. In fact, the soloist this day was a soprano who sang with the San Francisco Symphony.
When we came to the peace exchange, the parishioners rose and crossed the aisle, some shook hands, others hugged as we reached out to each other. I had exchanged peace greetings at many churches, but had never felt as connected as I did with these people, unknown to me just an hour before. Their warmth reflected the open-door, non-denominational premise on which the church is founded. Lingering in the serene garden after the service, I had to remind myself that I was in the hub of a great city. How blessed, I thought, to have this restorative escape at hand when city life closes in on us.
In 2004, the U. S. Department of the Interior designated the Swedenborgian Church a National Historic Landmark, one of the first houses of worship in San Francisco to be granted this honor. In making the announcement, Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi said: “This church, over a hundred years old, radiates friendship and community for countless San Franciscans.” At its dedication in 1895, a newspaper reporter wrote, “The building itself is a lesson—this little tiled brick church teaches truth and honesty.”
And an all-inclusive love. It was in the air we breathed that day, in this hidden haven on a hill in San Francisco.
Getting off the bus at California and Presidio, we made the breathless climb to Washington Street and looked for a soaring spire, or any symbol of a place of worship. There was none; a plaque on a stone wall on the corner of Lyon Street told us we had arrived. Behind the wall was what could have been the model for The Secret Garden of literary fame. We followed a red brick path to the arched wooden door that opens directly into the rear of the nave where we were met by parish hospitality greeters and immediately made to feel welcome.
The Swedenborgian Church, established in San Francisco in 1895, is the birthplace of the American Arts & Crafts movement in architecture. The nave we were ushered into is divided into two sections. Handcrafted chairs with rush-bottom seats, eighty in all, are set up on both sides of the aisle. Overhead, massive madrone tree trunks, gnarls bulging through their bark, arch upward supporting the ceiling, evidence of the founding pastor Joseph Worcester’s intent to bring the natural world indoors. There are no kneelers and no religious statues in evidence. Four murals on the sanctuary’s north wall by William Keith, one of the first California artists to paint directly from nature, depict the changing seasons. In the back of the room is a working fireplace; in the front an altar, bare except for a pedestal at its center holding an open bible. Above the altar is the iconic Dove window, a stained glass masterwork created by nineteenth-century artist Bruce Porter, which has cast its glow on parishioners for one hundred twenty years. My initial impression of the church was one of peace, a place to connect with one’s own higher power without the intrusion of rites and idols.
As the service proceeded, that barren altar became filled with young life. Singly, or hand-in-hand, young children began strolling up the aisle and gathering on its steps. There was no announcement inviting them up; they seemed to know this was their place. They snuggled in together, and sat quietly. The minister proceeded with his sermon, not at all distracted by the youngsters at his feet. I have no recollection of what he said that day—for me, the children were the message. It was a biblical scene come to life.
The choir, for a church this small, was exhilarating. There were only eight men and women and an organist in an alcove at the side of the altar, but their voices soared and could have filled a concert hall. In fact, the soloist this day was a soprano who sang with the San Francisco Symphony.
When we came to the peace exchange, the parishioners rose and crossed the aisle, some shook hands, others hugged as we reached out to each other. I had exchanged peace greetings at many churches, but had never felt as connected as I did with these people, unknown to me just an hour before. Their warmth reflected the open-door, non-denominational premise on which the church is founded. Lingering in the serene garden after the service, I had to remind myself that I was in the hub of a great city. How blessed, I thought, to have this restorative escape at hand when city life closes in on us.
In 2004, the U. S. Department of the Interior designated the Swedenborgian Church a National Historic Landmark, one of the first houses of worship in San Francisco to be granted this honor. In making the announcement, Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi said: “This church, over a hundred years old, radiates friendship and community for countless San Franciscans.” At its dedication in 1895, a newspaper reporter wrote, “The building itself is a lesson—this little tiled brick church teaches truth and honesty.”
And an all-inclusive love. It was in the air we breathed that day, in this hidden haven on a hill in San Francisco.
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