Sermon For FEBRUARY 27, 2000
Eighth Sunday after Epiphany
Women’s Service
Scripture Reading: Isaiah 43:18-19
Guest preacher, Linda Thompson
In 1955: “Women’s Fellowship Sunday was held for the first time with the service conducted by Alice Erickson, Helen Shane, Eleanor Helliwell, Ethel Crowe, Marion Elgin, Ethel Jovag, Grace Braillard and Ethel DeVere.” I can tell you this because of the efforts of a woman from this church—Mrs. Shirley Lindahl, who wrote the history of our church in a book, called In Christian Fellowship. In 1955, the Ladies Aid Society became the Women’s Fellowship and under that name it continued the fine work that the Ladies Aid Society began in the 1880’s.
As I looked through this book, I marveled at the rich history of this church. It is truly a church of community. The women of our church community represent generations of women dedicated to service to their church, community and home.
We would now like to invite the women of this congregation to stand, if they are able, and read together our prayer of celebration:
As once invisible sisters from many cultures,
We come together as streams in the desert
To share our love, our stories,
Our gifts and our dreams.
In doing so, we create a new holy river—
Celebrating a new church for a new century.”
Please be seated
I always thought that when I had children, I would learn how to cook and sew—and at every church bake sale, they’d ask me to make my famous pies, and my beautiful hand-made quilts would be the pride of every church bazaar. Well, I don’t have any children, and I’ve never even baked a pie, and my sewing is confined to the occasional button. So, when it comes around to volunteering at the church—I get asked to tell stories. And, to me telling a story is a whole lot easier than baking a pie, so I got the easy job.
Or, so I thought. In the weeks that we have been preparing this worship service, we have talked to the women in our Circles and I read about the history of the church. I was given many fine stories. As a writer, I know, one has to do a lot of research. I looked up poetry about rivers and went into the UCC web site. I looked in the Bible for passages about water and rivers. I thought of using props—like a quilt, or an elephant up a tree. I even resorted to asking Walter John for some kind of hook.
I was looking for some way to connect the stories together. Like most good journeys, this trip I took with these stories, led me home. Back to the beginning—to the water. To the simple and beautiful image of this service—from many streams, a new river.
My favorite writer is NW writer, Barry Lopez, who says his work, writing about nature, is his prayer. He also says that the job of a storyteller is not to be the person who always knows, but the job of the storyteller is to be the one who recognizes the patterns that remind us of our obligations and our dreams.
I found a pattern to the stories I was given. I’m going to tell you about just a few of the stories that were shared with the committee and me. The stories flow like a river. They form a pattern like the light that dances off water flowing over smooth rock.
A river begins at its source, which is a gift from God—much like a child.
(Becky Spath comes forward and pours water.)
I remember when I was a child a long time ago. Montana winters were very cold, but my brother and I trudged off to church on all of those freezing Sunday mornings to a small community church. We climbed the wooden steps into the brick building and greeted our minister—a lady, Miss Green—, which was unusual in those days. Our Sunday-school class was held over the spot where the furnace vent came up through the floor. I loved Sunday school because I always grabbed a seat at the perfect spot where I could get my feet nice and warm.
Some people are great reading aloud and my teacher was one of them—Mrs. Farnes. She could make me see pictures as she spoke in her lovely voice. I loved hearing her read the Bible stories to us. I still cherish these memories after so many years.
As an infant, I attended Sunday school while Mother practiced with the choir. During the service, I’d sit with Father. He always had a ½ of a banana or apple in his pocket. I could just reach in and grab a snack if I was hungry! When I was older. I could sit with my friends, but if I got out of line, I would hear a whistle. It was my father and I knew I was in trouble and had better behave!
The water flows and forms many streams—pouring over many landscapes, trying to find its way—much like a young person.
(Sean Thomas comes up and pours water)
For me, church was a way to escape from an un-loving home. Now that I’m an adult, I can see the pain my parents were going through, but as a child growing up in the 1950’s, they were not able to give me much. But, at church, I found the care and attention I needed. I felt embraced by the loving spirit of the church community. The church-school activities gave me a direction and a focus. I don’t think anyone knows just how much church meant to me as a child.
I took my confirmation class very seriously. I was serious about Joe and Pete and John…We had a lot of fun. At the last over-night I went to, we sang the same songs my mom sang when she went to church camp—this little light of mine, little rabbit froo-froo—Kumbaya. Here’s something cool-- Kumbaya, a song from Africa, was brought to this country by Ginny Rowlands’ parents. I think that’s so cool—that we are all connected by songs and…the fun times we all had at church camp!
As the stream continues its journey, it reaches a point of maturity where it grows stronger and flows swift and strong over rapids. And in other spots, the stream slows down and forms pools.
(Katherine Kehrli comes up and pours water and says:
From many streams a new river.)
I like the children’s story the best. Watching the kids walk up in their velvet dresses and hair ribbons and their sometimes sleepy-head hair, always makes me smile. The energy that the young parents and their children bring to the church is positive and reminds me of my own children when they were young.
Sometimes we are brought together by tragedies. And, sometimes tragedies bring us back to church. One young adult member of our congregation came back to the church after many years away because of a wise young boy:
There is nothing more devastating than the loss of a child. One young friend of mine died. Imagine being a twelve-year-old boy, who knew the Leukemia was winning. This brave boy helped to plan his own funeral. At the service, the minister read a letter the boy had written to be read at his funeral. In the letter, he said he hoped that those who came to mourn him might be able to find some comfort and some joy in their own church. His words stuck with me and motivated me to find my own church home—here at Kirkland Congregational Church.
I was feeling lonely one day and decided to go for a walk .As I walked by Kirkland, UCC, I noticed they were having a church bazaar, so I decided to stop in. I had been missing my daughter who had recently moved to Africa, and I was thinking of her as I browsed the tables at the bazaar. I saw a little wooden item and when I turned it over, I noticed it said, “Made in Africa”. I bought it. I also met and spoke to Jean Hoodless. Jean asked me to attend a Women’s Fellowship luncheon meeting. The meeting was at Verna’s home and there I met Anita. Later, I joined the church.
(Ruth Ruff and Billie Lynch come up and pour water.)
In the life of a stream there are quiet moments, pools that swirl lazily under green willow branches. These are moments of quiet and dappled light.
Throw a stone into a calm pool in a river, and you’ll see concentric circles vibrating out from the center. The energy of the stone upon water ripples out. Some people’s own energy is like that—their positive effect upon the world sends wonderful ripples.
People like Joann Harris are like those ripples of energy. Joann has connected many people to this church.
While attending an aerobics class at a local pool, I met a friendly lady who invited me to attend her church. I did, and found a very friendly Congregational church with a wonderful pastor, Walter John. I am so grateful to Joann Harris.
When I was younger, I attended many churches with friends. I went to Catholic and Lutheran churches. Here in Kirkland, at a Heritage Historical Society, I met Joann Harris and she invited me to church. I loved the people, and loved the sermons, so I dove right in and joined.
I grew up in a small southern town. My family attended the Christian Church, which differed in congregationalism in that we had communion every Sunday and there was total immersion baptism. The church was important to us because it was a social time for us.
In the summer a revivalist would come to town and put up a large tent and hold nightly meetings. We went once because in a small town you were expected to show up at least once. I hated it.
I still remember after more than 60 years.
The life of a stream eventually leads to a place where it mingles with other streams and meets to form a strong, vibrant river.
These stories have joined together to form patterns of lives that have worked together to make our church and our community a better place. Children, youth, young mothers, and elders are all a part of our river.
These were just some of the stories that celebrate our experiences, uniqueness and insights as women—united—in the United Church of Christ.
If you are anything like me—I always like a sermon to give me some great insight that I can take away with me to ponder the rest of the week. I looked toward a very wise bear for a message—and of course A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh never lets me down. Pooh said—and you need to think about this--
Rivers know this: there is no hurry—we shall get there some day.