Pilgrim United Church of Christ

 

Courtesy of NYC Department of Taxation and Finance/1940s.nyc

There’s a rule of thumb for city explorers: when a discovery seems too easy, it probably is. I was prowling the block, the sun beating down on the pavement, when I saw it. An entrance, tucked away beneath the shadowy tangle of sidewalk scaffolding, a side door was wide open. It was an invitation wrapped in a warning.

The air was thick enough to swim through, that specific, suffocating brand of a New York City summer heatwave. I needed a moment, a prop. I ducked into the corner bodega, the bell on the door announcing my brief escape into the chilled air. Minutes later, I was back on the street with a cold can of AriZona Mucho Mango Juice Cocktail, its condensation a welcome relief against my palm. Standing nonchalantly on the sidewalk across the street, I took a long sip and began my watch. I wasn't just waiting for the right time; I was studying the rhythm of the street, waiting for a gap in the steady flow of people.

When the river of pedestrians thinned to a trickle, I made my move. It was a clumsy effort as I made my way up the debris-strewn stairs and the fallen door, a hurried glance over my shoulder to confirm my anonymity, and a less-than-graceful entrance. I was in. I scanned for another door but found no entry to the main sanctuary, my heart sinking when I noticed a long church pew. Then I saw it. Someone had dragged a heavy wooden pew from inside and wedged it against the inner door, a makeshift barricade. After a moment of straining, I slid the pew aside and stepped through the opening.

The air inside was cool, still, and smelled of dust and forgotten prayers. As my eyes adjusted, they widened. Above me, a magnificent circular dome ceiling, painted a brilliant, celestial blue, soared toward the heavens. It was a breathtaking sight, a sliver of perfection watching over a scene of quiet devastation. The pews below were arranged in a spectacular sweep, just as they would have been on any given Sunday, only now they were coated in a fine layer of grime.

My gaze fell upon the heart of the sanctuary, the grand pipe organ. It was a wreck. The woodwork was splintered and shattered, its golden pipes, once full of song, were now just gaping mouths, silenced. Whatever value it once held was long gone. Perhaps it was the first thing to be scavenged by thieves or scrappers, or maybe it was sold off piece by piece before the last light was turned out.

Local lore whispers that the church’s great bell was stolen, a brazen act of heavy metal theft. I can't confirm if that's true, or if this church even had a bell to begin with. But a story like that feels right for this part of town. In a place like the Bronx, survival often means salvage, and piety doesn’t pay the man at the scrap yard. For all my searching, I couldn’t find a path up into what was left of the steeple, no way to the space where a bell might have once hung.

My camera clicked nonstop until a surprise awaited on the upper balcony. In a back room sat a narrow bed, sheets still creased from last night. Whoever called this ruin “home” could return at any second.

I planned to climb higher, maybe reach the rotten steeple, when voices rose from downstairs. Spanish, three people, one woman and two men. I froze. The only door I knew was now their way in. 

A fresh wave of adrenaline hit me. I had planned to make my way upstairs to see if I could find a route into the bones of the old steeple. But as I took my first step toward the balcony stairs, a ripple of voices echoed up from below. They were speaking Spanish, their conversation bouncing off the high, domed ceiling. The inhabitants had returned. To my ears, there were three of them, two men and a woman.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I spun around, my eyes darting through the gloom, searching for another way out. There was none. The entrance to the sub-basement was a dark void; the wooden stairs had rotted away long ago. I glanced at a high, open window, but the leap down to the fenced-off sidewalk was too great, especially with my heavy camera bag. I was trapped.

My first instinct was to wait. I crept to the edge of the balcony and peered down at the entrance, hoping they were just passing through. But as the main door creaked open, a dark figure stepped cautiously inside and paused, listening.

And then, it hit me. The pew.

Remember the heavy wooden pew I had pushed aside to get in? It wasn't just a random obstruction. It was their signal. A simple, brilliant marker to know if someone had entered while they were away. By moving it, I hadn't just found an entrance; I had tripped an alarm. My clever entry was a rookie mistake that announced my presence.

A thousand scenarios, each worse than the last, flashed through my mind. Waiting to be discovered in the dark felt far more dangerous than facing them in the light. I made my choice.

Taking a deep breath, I walked deliberately back down to the entrance and through the door. The trio looked up, their conversation cut short. They saw me, a guy with a rather large bag, walking past them in a hurry. I gave a small "Hello,” and just kept walking.

Their faces were a mixture of confusion and shock, their eyes wide as I passed. They were so startled they didn't move, didn't speak. They just watched as I navigated the debris on the floor and hopped down the last few steps to the street. I didn’t look back. I just let the blistering heat of the city swallow me whole, my heart hammering a wild, frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The ruin I had explored was the Christ Congregational Church of Mount Hope. Founded in 1892, its original home was a modest corner a few blocks away. But as its congregation swelled, so did its ambitions. They needed a building that made a statement.

To bring their vision to life, they hired Hoppin & Koen, a New York City architectural firm of serious repute. These were the same minds behind the stately Albany courthouse and the formidable old New York City Police Headquarters. They were tasked with creating a beacon for the Bronx, and they delivered a masterpiece in the Georgian and Colonial Revival styles.

They chose a challenging, irregular plot on the corner of the Grand Concourse and 1**th Street and made it sing. The design was magnificent. A formal entrance welcomed visitors through a tall portico held aloft by four grand columns. Above it all, a proud tower rose, its design borrowed from the legendary London churches of Sir Christopher Wren. That celestial blue dome that had captured my imagination was the centerpiece of a circular sanctuary designed to hold nearly four hundred people.

But this was never meant to be just a place for Sunday sermons. The archives revealed a four-bedroom parsonage, a gymnasium, a library, and multiple meeting rooms. This wasn't just a church; it was a community center, a beehive of activity. This design was a direct response to a nationwide church movement that began in 1892, encouraging congregations to become "institutional churches." The goal was simple yet profound: to throw the doors open wide and serve the entire neighborhood, regardless of who you were, what you believed, or how much money you had. It was built to be a lifeline. A safe harbor. 

On a September day in 1910, the doors of the Christ Congregational Church of Mount Hope swung open for the first time. The price tag for this new beacon of faith was $75,000, a monumental sum for the era. The official dedication was a weeklong celebration the following spring. Shortly after, the sanctuary was filled with music from an exquisite organ, built by the renowned M.P. Möller of Maryland, featuring a state-of-the-art tubular-pneumatic action. A century later, in 2012, a test found the magnificent instrument unplayable, its pipes long silent.

The church later became home to the Pilgrim United Church of Christ. Records show a remarkable commitment; the congregation fulfilled its original mortgage obligations, making payments from 1965 all the way until 1988. They owned it free and clear. But ownership couldn't stop the slow, creeping decline. By the 1990s, the lifeblood of the church was draining away. Regular services and upkeep faltered, then stopped altogether in the mid-2000s. The city officially took notice in April 1993, flagging the building for improper maintenance.

Even as the grand sanctuary fell silent, a tiny flicker of faith remained. A small group of the remaining members continued to meet in a side room. Their gatherings were a testament to their devotion, shortened by the biting winter cold, with no heat or electricity to offer comfort. Then, in 2008, the scaffolding went up, a metal shroud signaling the beginning of the end. The church’s pastor at the time was blunt, claiming the building was simply beyond repair.

His vision was practical: demolish the decaying structure and replace it with a homeless shelter and a smaller chapel for the handful of remaining congregants. But the community had a different idea. Members of the local Community Board 5 pushed back, calling for the building to be saved. They envisioned it being reborn as an all-encompassing arts center, a place to serve the neighborhood as it was originally intended. The sanctuary would become a performing arts venue called the Mount Hope Center of the Arts.

Today, the battle for the soul of the building remains at a standstill. There are whispers that a small Spanish congregation, the Iglesia Evangelica Los Peregrinos, still uses an outer portion of the property for services, another small group finding refuge amongst the ruins. Yet as we approach the end of 2025, nothing has been done to redevelop the derelict church into something meaningful for the community it was built to serve.

The historic structure continues to deteriorate, its doors a revolving entrance for explorers and squatters. The arguments over its future may continue, but one thing feels certain. The demolition crew is coming. And for a building born from such grand faith, it seems no earthly, or even heavenly, intervention can save it now.

In a recent social media post, the colorful mosaic stained glass is no longer attached to the window. No word on whether this was an actual Tiffany-made stained glass production.

Source(s):

1. (n.d). New York City Chapter of the American Guild of Organists. Pilgrim United Church of Christ. NYCAGO.

2. (2024, March 24). Exploring The Forgotten Pilgrim United Church of the Bronx. abandonedin360.

3. Pilgrim Congregational Church United Church of Christ. (2009). The Tracker, 53(3), 70–75.

4. Barber, D., & Magonigle, H. V. B. (Eds.). (1911). Some country and city residences. The New York Architect, 5(1), 151.

5. Williams, J. (2015, February 13). Don't demolish historic church: CB5. BX Times. https://www.bxtimes.com/dont-demolish-historic-church-cb5/

6. Sequeira, R. (2022, February 11). Once thriving Grand Concourse church, now just a neglected home to squatters. BX Times. https://www.bxtimes.com/once-thriving-grand-concourse-church-now-just-a-neglected-home-to-squatters/

7. Zimmerman, J. (2021, August 16). More spooky doings [Blog post]. Jean Zimmerman. https://jeanzimmerman.com/2021/08/16/more-spooky-doings/

8. (1915) Sanborn Fire Insurance Map from New York, Bronx, Manhattan, New York. Sanborn Map Company, - 1919 Vol. 15, 1915. [Map] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/sanborn06116_038/

9. (1951) Sanborn Fire Insurance Map from New York, Bronx, Manhattan, New York. Sanborn Map Company, - Mar 1952 Vol. 15, 1915 - July 1950. [Map] Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/sanborn06116_093/

10. Slattery, D. (2014, December 11). Bronx residents rally to save historic church slated for demolition. New York Daily News. https://www.nydailynews.com/2014/12/11/bronx-residents-rally-to-save-historic-church-slated-for-demolition/