by Lisa Doege, minister, First Unitarian Church, South Bend, Indiana
I bought a fascinating book for a dollar at the Farmers’ Market yesterday, entitled The Supernaturalness of Christ: Can We Still Believe In It? by Wilbur M. Smith, D.D. Published in 1940, it answers the title question with a resounding “yes,” and supports that answer with a variety of scholarly arguments from both historians and theologians. To my mind, the only thing more foolish than believers trying to prove, rationally and scientifically, that which must be taken on faith lest it lose all meaning and power, is non-believers trying to disprove the same stories, rationally and scientifically.
For me, the truth about Easter, and Passover, too, is simply this: the facts don’t matter. None of it matters. It doesn’t matter that Easter is layered on top of ancient pagan spring festivals, the symbols of which survive today. It doesn’t matter that the miracles of the Passover and Easter stories seem unlikely to twenty-first century empirical minds. It doesn’t matter that some of us want to celebrate the rebirth nature offers so generously this time of year, and some of us want to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, and some of us want to celebrate the liberation from bondage that is the heart of Passover. None of it matters, because the meaning of Easter and Passover are much simpler and far more profound than the confusion and the controversy and the proofs about the sequences of events.
The true story of Passover is this: the human journey brings us, each of us, again and again into slavery, and up from slavery, into the wilderness and into the Promised Land.
The true story of Easter is this: the human calendar is filled with Good Fridays and Easter mornings, days of death and days of resurrection.
The true message of both holy times is this: the human spirit is capable, in ways not short of miraculous, of triumphing against all odds, and indeed does so again and again, as long as we live upon this earth.
The news and entertainment media are fond of dramatic, public examples of life in the face of what seemed sure death—a frozen baby revived and sustaining almost no injury despite her ordeal, a plane crash survivor bringing about his own rescue after three years alone on a deserted island, men or women who one day wake up after months or years in coma, having suffered no lasting ill effects. It is not unreasonable to call these events resurrections or rebirths or safe homecomings to the Promised Land after wandering in the desert. But our own lives are made of exoduses and resurrections no less miraculous, though far more private.
The death of a loved one, addiction, divorce, bankruptcy, disease, business failure, incidents of homophobia or racism, academic disappointment, miscarriage, mental illness, a debilitating accident, heartbreak, betrayal, disillusionment—all of these and hundreds of other events grasp our lives with the power and oppression of bondage, cast us into the isolation, chill, and dark of the tomb. And while any one of these can bring one to total destruction and end one’s life in a final death, far more often we survive and even triumph.
A recent naturalization ceremony in my home town of South Bend, Indiana, in which dozens of adopted children from around the world became United States citizens, is an example of a modern day exodus. Many CLFers around the world are living out their own stories of exodus and building new lives. And for most of us in the United States, the stories of how our ancestors came to live in this country are stories of bondage, exodus, wandering and arrival at last in the Promised Land—though, of course, those whose ancestors were already living here don’t see it quite that way. From the Pilgrims who set sail seeking religious freedom, through refugees of almost every armed conflict anywhere in the world since then, and up to the men, women and children who every day still try to enter the safer countries, legally and illegally, this nation is a living testament to the human spirit’s desire to rise up and survive, in freedom and peace.
A young woman was off and on one of my units, Medical Intensive Care, for several weeks at a time throughout my year of chaplaincy at the hospital in St. Paul. Her initial diagnosis was leukemia, and that, along with a succession of unfortunate and bizarre complications, brought her near to death more than once. I spent many hours talking to her unresponsive figure there in the bed, visiting with her companion, and praying with them both. Years later I still receive at least a letter a year from the young woman and her companion, telling me about their latest vacation, and usually including a photograph, so I can see with my own eyes that she triumphed over death, and triumphs still.
Parishioners have told me stories of death and rebirth, of slavery and liberation. Of the addictions they’ve refused to let claim their lives. Of the destructive relationships they’ve found the strength and the courage to leave. Of the deliberate decisions they’ve made to live, no matter what. And I know there are more stories, too secret to tell, but just as miraculous.
Nature, itself, tells stories of death and rebirth. Some of you have seen a forest after a fire. Years later the devastation is still evident in the acres of charred tree trunks, some still standing, bare of leaves and branches, some lying on the ground; in the lack of undergrowth; in the way you can see much too far into the distance. And among all that devastation, new life—small trees, fungi, wildflowers, insects, birds, animals, and much more are making this place their home again. Even after fire, the forest can sustain life, though differently than before. Indeed, there are trees whose seeds only open through the trauma of fire, and birds which can only thrive in the more open spaces fire leaves behind.
Our lives are like that, too. No matter what the fire, the death, the slavery, no matter that the rebirth is slow and painful and long, no matter that the new life is never quite the same as the old one—still we live again, to love and praise life. The scars are but proof of our triumph.
A young girl woke her older brother soon after sunrise one spring Sunday, many years ago. “Denny! Denny!” she whispered excitedly, not waking the rest of the family. “I saw the Easter bunny!” Her sleepy brother obligingly climbed out of bed and looked out the window. And there, down below, was a rabbit, hopping around the front yard. And, since it was indeed Easter morning, the brother agreed with his young sister that it must be the Easter bunny.
The rabbit my dad and my Aunt Margaret saw from their bedroom windows in western Minnesota all those years ago wasn’t the pet store variety that parents so often purchase as Easter surprises. It was a real, wild rabbit, the kind that eats the tips of flowers just as they begin to poke their heads above the thawing ground. That rabbit was a sure sign of spring, and the acknowledgment that it was the Easter bunny, something totally out of the ordinary, comes to me through the years as a reminder that the miracles of renewal abound in our souls, again and again, whether it is Easter that speaks to us, Passover, the cycles of nature, or a bit of all three. We need only eyes to see and hearts to rejoice.
Perhaps you have heard of the Triops, a small crustacean native to the American Southwest. The eggs of these amazing creatures can do what none of us can, but what all of us are called to do again and again. With the ability to dry up, die, then come back to life, they are life’s resurrection miracle. The period between their death and rebirth can be decades or hundreds or thousands of years. By releasing all their water they enter a state between death and life. What should we call it? Living? The twilight zone? Or just waiting and hoping?
There is a great diversity of body shapes among the unhatched creatures who perform this long waiting for rebirth. Scientists have done unspeakable things to test the faith of these resurrectionists. Even after they are dangled outside of a space shuttle and exposed to the cold and radiation of outer space, they come quickly back to life when baptized in water.
These creatures confirm what we have long suspected: Resurrection is natural.
from Consider the Lilies by Stephen M. Shick, minister, Universalist Unitarian Church, Haverhill, Massachusetts. Published by Skinner House and available through the CLF library (www.clfuu.org—look under Resources and then Library) or the UUA Bookstore (www.uua.org/bookstore or by calling 1-800-215-9076).
by Carl Scovel, minister emeritus, King’s Chapel, Boston, Massachusetts
When we said goodbye to our son at Logan Airport, his sisters cried and his mother hugged him hard, and I did too, and he looked embarrassed. Then they announced his flight, and he walked down the long corridor to the plane. Every now and then he’d turn around to wave, and yes, we were still there, and then he turned the corner and was gone.
It doesn’t matter whether you leave by train or plane or car or on your own two feet, but there is always a corner that you must turn and then you’re gone.
We walked to the car parked on the top level of the garage, and, I imagine, we looked as if there’d been a death. In a sense, there had been, for every parting is a death, and so is every goodbye. We were giving up the someone we had heard bellowing in the shower at 5:00 in the morning, who ate the brownies his sister had baked for her friends, who left his bicycle in the front hall, who made quiet funny jokes and wonderfully crazy drawings, and who left emptiness and silence where he used to be.
So, yes, you must die to the one he was and die to the one you were to him, so that he and you can each go on and become the one God created you to be, not the one you’ve grown comfortable with. This dying-to-each-other is as much a part of life as breathing and sleeping, but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.
So many little deaths we die before we die the big one. We die these deaths so we may live, so we may move with that inexorable force called life. The favorite mug smashed on the stone floor, the lost book, the job gone, the song sung, the face now seen only in that unrealistic photo—all these are part of the dying-to-live.
In the 1940s Dietrich Bonhoeffer sat in his prison cell in Berlin and wrote a letter to his parents. It was the first Christmas he had spent away from home and he wrote,
Nothing can fill the gap when we are away from those we love, and it would be wrong to try and find anything. We must simply hold out and win through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation since leaving the gap unfilled preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap. He does not fill it but keeps it empty so that our communion with each other may be kept alive even at the cost of pain.
That’s another way of making my point. Perhaps it is simply dying to the one thing or one person whom we love, so that, although we may not know it at the time, another thing, another person, another love, may happen—not take its place.
Three months after our son left, we returned to the airport to welcome him back. We knew that a young man would step off the plane at Logan Airport, and he would look very much like the one we said goodbye to. But he wouldn’t be. He would be different, and we would be different too. That difference is good, and it would happen because we were willing to say goodbye, to die a bit so that we could grow a bit and meet each other as the people we became.
The church has known this for a long time and reminds us in the liturgies and scriptures. But every now and then we must rediscover it for ourselves. I guess Logan Airport is as good a place for that as any.
from Never Far From Home: Stories from the Radio Pulpit by Carl Scovel, minister emeritus, King’s Chapel, Boston, Massachusetts. Published by Skinner House and available through the CLF library (www.clfuu.org—look under Resources and then Library) or the UUA Bookstore (www.uua.org/bookstore or by calling 1-800-215-9076).
Do you have some words of wisdom to share? Words to live by?
In a sentence or two, please tell us either:
We hope to publish many of these in an up-coming issue of Quest.
Did something in Quest pique your interest, leaving you with a question or an urge for more? Check out the new feature on our Web site.
Just go to www.clfuu.org, click on Publications and then on Quest. In addition to the on-line version of Quest you’ll find links to background material, related articles, curriculum and/or other ways of finding out more about what you’ve read.
The Unitarian Universalist Association’s annual General Assembly (GA) will take place this year in Long Beach, California from June 24-28th. As always, there will be thousands of UUs gathered in this one place to worship, work, and play together and to govern our association of congregations. GA is a unique opportunity for Church of the Larger Fellowship. It is the time for our Annual Meeting and our one face-to-face worship service of the year, a service that is well known for the quality of its preaching and its rousing music. We also have a booth in the exhibition hall where we meet and talk with people about our church and sell classic chalice jewelry as a fundraiser. The CLF is allotted 22 delegates and members should contact CLF administrator, Lorraine Dennis, by March 31st if they would like to volunteer. Delegates are responsible for all their GA expenses and are asked to attend plenary sessions, the CLF worship, the annual meeting, and work 3 hours in the CLF booth.
Most General Assembly events will be held in the Long Beach Convention and Entertainment Center, located right in the heart of the city’s oceanfront downtown. The Center views the Pacific Ocean and is adjacent to a host of restaurants, shops and other attractions such as the Aquarium of the Pacific, Shoreline Village and Pine Avenue.
Beverly Hill, Hollywood and Disneyland are only about a 30 minute drive from downtown Long Beach. Rooms have been secured for GA attendees in nine convenient hotels, including rooms aboard the Historic Hotel Queen Mary. Go to the GA website at www.uua.org/ga for more information.
by Calvin O. Dame, minister, Unitarian Universalist Community Church, Augusta, Maine
Spring training time has arrived here in Maine, and I am hard at it. Well, not so hard, actually. But, to my surprise, I find I do have a regimen.
My goals have grown both modest and eccentric over the years. I have three goals. I want to be able to fit into the summer clothes I packed and stored under the eaves last fall. I want to be able to walk a couple of miles and do a half a day of yard work or gardening, on the same day, without collapsing onto the couch after supper. And I want to be able to lift four bicycles onto a roof rack several times over the course of a day, without endangering myself, my family or the bikes.
I have modest goals and a modest program. First, I push myself away from the table and I walk right past the cookie jar without pausing. Second, I try to walk or rake every day. Finally, I do bicycle lifts. By this I mean I lift bicycles above my head. This is the eccentric part, but on a family outing to the coast you can load and unload several bikes a fair number of times in a day. I’ve gone from eight repetitions to twenty-five. I’d like to be able to do forty without poking my eye out with a pedal—not that I’ll likely need that many, but as a kind of modest macho extravagance.
My spring body tune-up has set me to wondering about a spring spiritual tune-up as well. I expect that, unattended, my spirit grows as flabby as my midriff seems to be along about April. What would constitute a modest program?
I am not as interested as I once was in a total makeover. At one time, I wanted enlightenment or nothing. But I have come to see that I’m no spiritual athlete: I would just like to stay in shape and be able to do a good day’s work.
What would I include in my modest program? Well, no drums. Drums are out, I’m pretty clear on that. And no chanting words in archaic or foreign languages that I would not speak in English. No backpacking trips with leaders who promise spiritual depth and soul reformation over the course of a weekend.
No, I need those things which will sustain me every day in the world where I live. I need to practice listening to the people who see me as their minister. I want to spend less time on interior monologues—the angry, annoyed, resentful, anxious kind that can eat up a day.
I want to be better at being where I am. Maybe work up from eight “being-here-nows” a day to twenty-five or so. Maybe even forty, though that could get to be macho.
I want to spend more time being friends with my wife. I want to actually see and talk with my children every day. I want to practice forgiveness and forgetting, especially with regard to the people I love.
And I want to make room, every day, for the work of imagination. That means walking past the television more often. And, for me, that means listening more closely to dreams and reading more poems.
I’ll admit that I’ve let things go a bit over the winter. I so often do. But I have my modest and eccentric goals, and I’m working on them. See, I want to be able to do a day’s work without exhausting myself. Then, I want to be able to do another tomorrow.
Per Article VII, Sections 1 and 2, of the Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF) Bylaws, the 25th Annual Meeting of the corporation will be held on Saturday, June 26, 2004 at the Long Beach Convention Center. The purpose of the meeting is to:
Elect a Moderator from among members present to preside at the meeting;
Elect members of the Board of Directors and the Nominating Committee, the Clerk, and the Treasurers from the slate of candidates presented on the ballot and mailed to members in April 2004;
Recognize retiring directors for their service; and
Transact such other business as may legally come before the meeting,
Ken Sawyer, Clerk May 1, 2004
by Barbara J. Pescan, Co-Minister, Unitarian Church of Evanston, IL
Our Minister for Religious Education, Sue Sinnamon, tells me that in class this last Sunday the children and their parents prepared the charoset and the bitter herbs for Passover. She said that the children at this age are really beginning to understand what religious ritual is trying to tell us.
When they got to the prayer for the lives of all, “and help the suffering of the Egyptians, even though they are our enemies,” one of the children said, “Oh, like the people in Iraq.”
That's a tough one for humanity to grasp, and the closer to us our “enemies” are, the more difficult it seems—not so hypothetical, not so theoretical—when the enmity is with family, or neighbor, fellow citizen, or church member.
This time of year I always feel that if we haven't gotten it by Easter, we should all just stay home on
Sundays — clergy ought to gently hush and fold our robes, congregation members put the hymnals carefully in the hymnal racks and all of us leave the building. What is the thing to “get”? That's it's just us, here. That it's only we who are figuring it out, bit by bit; and we do it oh, so slowly, in human time. The reign of love is within us and will reign—or not—by our deeds.
It seems like we ought to understand by now how we might live more lovingly, how we might treat each other more tenderly, treat our earth and its other creatures with more care. Information flies so fast it seems we also must be able to take it in, process, absorb and readjust at speed.
No. Each generation of us comes to know the world in our time, and to move in the world from that knowing. Every generation begins at the beginning—not from scratch, but from what the last generation taught. If we learn love, then all humanity comes that much closer to living by those lights. If we learn pain and humiliation, cruelty and indifference, then all of humanity steps back.
Some days I long for a Gandhi, for Dr. King. On those days when I cannot even drive the eleven minutes to church without being angry at traffic, compassion for others and for myself seems very far away, indeed, and I the one most in need of it, not qualified to pour it out for others.
Then, if I am lucky, if I let myself, I remember that somewhere near where my head is connected to my heart there is a soft spot, a place where I am aware of kindness, wholeness; aware of the unimaginable fragility and deep insistence of life for more life. We are part of that life—that persistence, and that tenderness.
In Spring, my heart is often sore. I make myself look up, though, and I think of the child making charoset and bitter herbs who knows to hold the people of Iraq in her heart at Passover. How much these children have learned in so short a time. How much they have to teach us. How deep are our hearts, and how tender.
by Jane Rzepka, minister, Church of the Larger Fellowship
Hooray for stories. The knee-slapper story you hear at a party; the astonishing story that widens your world; the quiet snuggly bedtime story; the heartwarming story that gives you hope, inspiration, or motivation; even the story that raises an eyebrow. There are a gazillion kinds of stories, and most of them we like.
Does that include the Passover story and the Easter story? Sure it does. For years I’ve preached, along with my colleagues in the Unitarian Universalist ministry, that stories bear truths. And that’s a fundamental part of what Unitarian Universalism’s all about, the “free and responsible search for truth.”
But then I went to the Science Museum here in Boston, and stumbled upon an exhibit about magic shows. Magic shows, of course, aren’t at all about truth; they’re about tricking people. And guess what the famous magicians, Penn and Teller, tell us is the essential basis for trickery? Stories! “The story is as important as the trick,” they say. “The story helps you make sense of something you wouldn’t ordinarily believe.” And then the magician has you—you’ve been tricked into believing something just plain false.
OK. To state the obvious, just because it’s a story—even a religious one, even one that’s survived through the generations—certainly doesn’t make the story true in any sense of the word. It doesn’t necessarily point to metaphorical truth, nor does it necessarily convey ancient wisdom. The story might reflect an abiding truth, but it might as easily promote a destructive superstition or cruel ulterior motive; it might be a trick.
On the other hand, certainly a lot of stories, religious or not, are straight-up all to the good.
And sometimes it just depends how the story is told.
When I was a child, my school didn’t have much of a grip on the separation between church and state, and so at this time of year we heard a lot about Jesus dying on the cross. I was a Unitarian, and this was the first I’d heard of the gory aspects of the crucifixion story—the nails in the palms and feet, the hours up there on the cross—the works. That he somehow rose straight up afterward didn’t matter much to me. What I got out of the story told at school was a sick feeling in my stomach.
At church, the same story was not so much about nails and blood but about a good man’s teachings living on after he was dead. His teachings came to life over and over again, not unlike the daffodil bulbs we planted in the autumn along the church’s long driveway. Some might say this is simply a wimpier version of the story, but it worked for me.
There was another difference between what I learned in school and what I learned in Sunday School: in school, the Easter narrative was presented as history; in Sunday School, as story.
To some Unitarian Universalists, it matters whether the basis of a religious story is historical, factual. It matters to a great many people, for example, whether Jesus did or did not come back to life after he died. Not wanting to be duped is a healthy part of human nature, and if the central story of a religion can’t be shown literally to be true, many, reasonably, are unwilling to base their life on it.
But some Unitarian Universalists find merit enough in the Jesus story to find inspiration or, indeed, a spiritual foundation. For them, as for Lisa Doege, the author of the first sermon in this issue of Quest, the objective, historical truth doesn’t matter one way or the other; what matters is the wisdom found in the long-standing legend. When a story offers a basis for hope, health, celebration and good works, why not call it a keeper?
You probably have your own sources of stories that serve you well, that you remember with gratitude and a smile, that lie beneath your life to help to make it stable. Maybe it’s the story of a great man named Jesus who rose from the dead, or an ancient story where slaves move to freedom. Maybe it’s family stories about Ellis Island, or a prayer shawl handed down, or pine saplings hauled out West in a trunk. Or the biography of a famous ball player or astronomer. Or some tale your barber told you once about a customer who showed courage, or promise, or spunk.
You are the person who decides which stories are your religious stories, which seem like trickery and which speak to you as higher truths. You, you with your passions and your quirks and your particular preferences are the person who chooses the stories for your life, the stories that buoy and sustain you, alert and amuse you, and fill your spirit.
Hooray for stories.
by Sarah Gibb
We asked Sarah Gibb, a student at Harvard Divinity School, intern at the First Parish in Needham, and CLF membership coordinator, to offer her reflections on Passover, suitable for sharing with children. Many thanks to our acting minister of religious education, the Rev. Helen Zidowecki, for offering the religious education page of Quest. —Ed.
Two things that I loved as a child were good food and a good story. That’s why I really liked Passover: the eight-day Jewish holiday where you get to tell the story of ancient Israelites, sing songs, eat special foods, and drink grape juice to your heart’s content. I also really liked Passover because it was something that my grandparents, Mom-mom and Pop-pop, and all their brothers and sisters celebrated.
When we celebrated the Passover dinner (the Seder) in our UU church, the Seder connected me with all my family and all my religions. Not to mention all my taste buds.
The Seder includes different kinds of foods that have different tastes. Each taste tells part of the story of the ancient Israelites, the people who are the ancestors of today’s Jews. Every Seder table includes a special plate. The plate has Hebrew words written on it, and special foods on top of it. These special foods are what I remember the most!
Maror (bitter herbs): Have you ever tasted horseradish? It has a very spicy, bitter taste. It makes the inside of your nose feel like it is catching on fire! On Passover, eating this bitter herb reminds us of the time that the ancient Israelites were living in Egypt. The Egyptians made the Israelites slaves. The story says that they forced the Israelites to carry heavy stones all day long to build their pyramids. Can you imagine how bitter it must have felt to be forced to carry huge, heavy stones all day? Slavery was bitter and hard. Eating the bitter herb reminds us of this part of the story.
Karpas (vegetable): Parsley is a green herb that a lot of people use to flavor their salad or soup. On Passover, we dip parsley into salty water, and splash the water on the plate like falling tears. Have you ever cried so hard that you tasted your tears? They taste salty, just like the salty water on the parsley. The salty water reminds us that slavery was sad, and that Israelite children cried night after night when they were in Egypt.
Charoset (a mixture of apple, nut, spice and a little wine): When you chop up apples and nuts in to tiny little pieces, and add some spice and a little wine, what you get is a rough, sticky mixture, kind of like the rough, sticky stuff that people use to stick bricks together. Charoset reminds us of the rough, sticky mortar that the Israelites used when they stuck the stones together to build the pyramids. I think the charoset is definitely the yummiest thing on the whole Seder plate. Why is it yummy and sweet when it reminds us of slavery? Because when the Israelites were slaves, there was a sweet secret that their Egyptian slave-drivers did not know: God loved and cared for the Israelites.
Zeroa (shankbone of a lamb): This is where the story gets kind of gory. If you’re faint of heart, you can skip over this part. Remember, it’s just a story. No one knows if this really happened. Here goes: after many years of slavery, God decided to take revenge on the Egyptians. So God planned to sweep over all the homes in Egypt and kill the first-born son in every family. God told Moses, the leader of the Israelites, that if they put the blood of a lamb on the outside of the doorposts of Israelite houses, then their first-born sons would be saved. So when God swept over and killed the Egyptians’ sons, the blood of the lamb saved the Israelites. So the lamb’s shankbone on the seder plate reminds us of this part of the story—a part of the story where there is no rejoicing, because there was so much bloodshed and so much sorrow. Jews and Unitarian Universalists alike know that it is wrong to rejoice in anyone else’s sorrow.
Beitzah (roasted egg): A roasted egg is not even cracked open. It’s cooked whole in the oven until its shell turns a deep, rich brown color. And it, too, is pretty yummy. The egg on the seder plate tells many parts of the story. Like an Easter egg, it’s a symbol of spring, and new life. It’s also a symbol of a special offering that the Israelites made every year in their Temple to celebrate that they had escaped slavery and moved to the land of Canaan. The temple doesn’t exist anymore, and neither does the special offering. So the egg now represents thanksgiving for the Israelites’ freedom from the bondage of slavery.
Add to these fancy foods the matzoh and grape juice, and you have yourself all the special, story-telling foods of the Passover holiday. The matzoh is a flat bread, like a big cracker. It’s eaten because when the Israelites left Egypt, it happened so fast there wasn’t even enough time for their bread to rise! Also, on Passover, adults drink wine and kids drink grape juice. We always leave out a full glass for the prophet Elijah, and leave the door open just in case he should arrive. The extra glass for Elijah and the open door reminds us to be generous with our gifts: our gifts of food, our gifts of family, our gifts of freedom. Because sharing these blessings is what, for me, Passover has always been about.
To find out more about celebrating Passover, look at www.clfuu.org under Publications, then Quest.
This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, ternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
by John Muir, naturalist (1838-1914)
...that the CLF sells Classic Chalice Jewelry? Perfect for Coming of Age, graduating seniors, and volunteer recognition. Go to www.clfuu.org and click on "Gift Shop"
Last updated June 12, 2005
Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF), 25 Beacon Street, Boston, MA 02108-2823 Phone: (617) 948-6166 · Fax: (617) 523-4123 · E-mail: clf@clfuu.org
