The Roof Supported by Madrone Trees, Just as They Left the Forest.

THE REV. MR. WORCESTER'S CHURCH.

Going to Service Through a Garden and Hearing a Sermon While Resting on Rush-Bottomed Chairs.

The building itself is a lesson-- it teaches truth and honesty, this little tiled brick church at the corner of Lyon and Washington streets, in which a gentle and venerable minister teaches that the sacred Scriptures are the true world of God, accommodated to the understanding of man-- the perpetual medium between heaven and earth, the law of correspondence having been revealed to the pious philosopher and scholar and engineer of Upsala, Swedenborg.

The kindly teacher of this flock, the Rev. Joseph Worcester, who is regarded as a parent by those who listen to his preaching, saw what this church should be before the first brick was laid. He had his notion that the way to the door should lead through a garden in which the grass should be ever green, in which the first roses should bloom, in which the birds should gather to bath[e] at a fountain, in which the vines should start on their clinging course, holding fast to the bricks of the church, as the men and women should hold fast to the Bible. He pictured a church interior in which there should be no pretense, no plaster, no paint. He saw the heavy timbered roof supported by great trees cut from the forest and the thick walls of concrete.

To build a church, to acquire room for a garden, money must come. This minister had noticed the troubles of securing money. "We wanted no scramble for gold," said he, "no emulation in giving, no criticism of the gifts. I asked the people of the society to leave the money matters to me, saying that none should know who gave, none should know the amounts given." Thus the fund was gathered. No public announcement was made of the record of the contributions. Each one in the society gave as he felt able, knowing that neither public commendation nor criticism of his gifts would be made. "I could have done nothing without the architect," said the minister, "but he was very patient with my suggestions. Sometimes he said that some idea of mine was not good architecture. I answered him that I cared nothing for the canons of architecture, the building must teach its lesson. So through the unceasing care and labor of Mr. Brown the building came to its proper completion."

For the trees to support the heavy roof the minister himself sought among the forests of the Santa Cruz mountains. On the summit of a hill looking over the ocean, far away from mills and railroads, he found eight madrone trees of proper size and symmetry. Then to get them. They were growing upon the land of a young man who was bringing up a family on his own possessions. The owner had been born on the land. Though isolated and rugged, it was dear to him, and he had an affection for the trees, strange to the lumbermen who see nothing in standing timber save the "stumpage." He would not barter for his eight madrones that grew on the mountain top. But patient Mr. Worcester told him that the trees would be pillars in a church, not sawed and planed and painted, but discovering the natural beauty of the bark to the men and women gathered to worship and children assembled to learn truth.

The owner became interested, then enthusiastic. The church and the minister might have his trees. He would fell them with his own hands, that proper care should be taken not to break away the bark. Moreover, he would trust them to no heedless freighters, but would himself take them to the church in San Francisco.

The owner fulfilled his promises. He cut his madrone trees with care. He loaded them upon two heavy mountain wagons, each tree wrapped separately and resting upon a cushion of hay, that the bark might not be bruised. Over the collars of his horses he placed chimes of bells,and having lifted his wife to the high seat of the first wagon, for she could not let him depart without her, he started on his trip over the mountains and through the Santa Clara valley. When night came the man and his wife camped by the side of the road. After several days of driving they arrived in this city, and with the bells all a-jingle drove in triumph to the site of the church.

Those madrone trees are now in the church. The base of each rests upon a pier of concrete. Divided into sections, the pieces of each tree are notched into one another and bolted together, every tree forming one-half of an arch. On these four arches rest hewn timbers, rough from the ax, upon which the planks of the ceiling are laid. Over this vaulted ceiling are the thick tiles. The exterior walls are plain brick, a little tower rising from the southern side wall, capped by a brick coping, with an interstice under the coping in which may be hung two bells, one each side a marble column. The device of the exterior is similar to a little church near Verona.

Within the church above the wainscot of pine show the concrete walls to roof timbers. For places for the worshipers to sit heavy, square-framed chairs were designed. An old Scotchman was at work upon them, when he learned that the minister could find here no one who knows how to make the rush seats upon which he had fixed his mind. "I haven't made a rush seat for thirty-five years," said he, "but I think I can remember how to make them and I will teach others."

Taking the tules of the California marshes, the old Scotchman began his work, and found his cunning had not left him in a third of a century. So interested he became in the work that he finished with his own hands the seats for all the eighty chairs.

One day Mrs. Richardson, the artist, who is a member of the society, made a sketch of the white-haired Scot at work with the tules.

After thinking for a day of this sketch, and the interest in him that it indicated, the old joiner wrote a note to Mr. Worcester telling him that he was worried that people might think that he was influenced to do this work by religious feeling. He wanted it understood that all religious feeling had been driven out of him by the churches.

The mild minister replied that whatever the joiner might call the influence, he believed that the fidelity and zeal he had shown, notwithstanding expectation of but small reward, for he had refused to accept more than a very moderate contract price for the chairs, were entitled to be called religious influence.

In front of every chair is a small circular rush mat. A strip of matting down the single aisle is the only other covering of the floor.

At one end of the church, under an oriole window, showing a dove at the fountain and a cluster of lilies, the minister conducts service, except the Sunday-school, being held, reading the Scriptures from a plain desk and stepping aside to join with the choir in the music.

On bright Sundays, after the Sunday-school hour, the people of the congregation stand and sit about the lawn until called in to the service. On gloomy days, such as yesterday, they gather about the blazing logs in the great fireplace in the church until the tones of the little organ next the preacher's desk tell them it is time to take their places on the rush-bottomed chairs.

The service is simple, though from a ritual. "We are not without regard for church history," explains Mr. Worcester. "We use the Episcopal service, simplified and abridged. Our service is from the Scriptures. Our only prayer is the Lord's prayer. In the musical part of the service the words we sing are from the Scriptures, save on hymn after the sermon."

On the service yesterday the minister read four brief lessons from Scripture, the Lord's Prayer and the Commandments; minister, choir and congregation chanted selections from the Psalmist and the prophets, and then for a few minutes the minister spoke from the address to the churches in the Book of Revelations. The burden of his message was one of the prime doctrines of the New Church, as those who believe that the truth was revealed to Swedenborg call their religious community, that man is not saved by faith alone, but by life according to the Word, the summary of which is the Commandments. He counseled those who heard him to live in good works, not for the hope of reward, but because of the right. Over the preacher's head was a dry, gray branch from the oak. This is without particular significance. Indeed, the service of the Swedenborgian is not ornate, nor are there symbolical positions, gestures of church equipment. One day, while walking on Tamalpais, the minister broke off the gray branch and carried it back to have a place in his church.

After the benediction the congregation clustered again about the fire logs. The minister came among them and spoke to all. ---missing sentence-- jugs and, as is the custom, to every stranger was given some of the blossoms, the remainder being taken, by the members of the society. Then the minister stood for a few minutes in the garden. He pointed to a rusted iron cross which a vine is industriously working to garnish. "This was sent from one of the old missions in Southern California," he remarked, "and we have planted it in a bowlder and imbedded the rock in our garden. Is it not appropriate?"

Having spoken to the last of the congregation to leave, the minister started toward his home eyrie, on the very apex of Russian Hill, one side of his house resting on a sheer precipice. From his windows he overlooks all the bay, and there he studies his books, receives his friends, to whom his door is always open, and there he writes the notes from which on Sunday he reads his messages to obey the decalogue, to do good works, to love one another. His people say his example is as valuable as his precept.

San Francisco Examiner, September 30, 1895