One of the most striking features of West Philadelphia's skyline is the spire of Christ Memorial Church at the corner of 43rd and Chestnut. The elegant gothic revival architecture is a testament to the grandeur of 19th century Philadelphia.
-- Christ Church and Academy's website (last updated in 2002)
10:30 p.m., August 3rd, 2004. The 150-foot spire imploded.
It did not wait for a slowly melting snow to put the mortar to its final test, a heavy rain sufficed. It did not fall in toward the congregation the way one engineer assured them it would. It did not fall like a tree; it did not tilt, rock or creak.
The spire crumbled and fell straight through to the basement. It put a hole in the roof of the nave, and it left a hole through the floor, taking rows of pews as it went. It left the area in front of the church a graveyard of cracked weathered stones. Stones littered onto the sidewalk and hit cars on the street. They knocked off the stone molding around the original stained glass. The glass remained intact. A 12 year-old boy had breathing difficulties from the dust, but no one suffered a scratch.
After the collapse, an engineer took a scrap of the sandstone from the church lawn and placed it in a bucket of water overnight. In the morning, he could crumble it in his hand. This type of stone had only been used for a little over a decade before it was deemed too porous for construction work.
The Night the Steeple fell
The 911 caller said he heard a loud rumble and saw that some of the stones from the church had fallen across the sidewalk and into the street. There was a fire station a block away. The firemen ran over, some carrying their boots in their hands. When the first firemen arrived and realized there was a great potential for people being trapped or killed, they called the fire marshal's office on 3rd and Spring-Garden.
The call was received and the men dispatched by 10:32 p.m. Four engines, two ladder companies, two battalion chiefs and one specialized rescue unit were on scene by 10:34. The rescue unit brought planks of wood and long metal rods so they could create tunnels, making digging into the rubble and dragging people out safe for the rescuers. They also brought sound sensitive equipment. Dogs were ready if needed.
On the way over in the fire trucks, members of each team found the vital building information sheet, cramming it into their heads as the sirens reigned above. Each major building in the city has a sheet, with information on where the heating is, and where the gas is, as well as how to shut them off. It is placed in a file on every fire truck and updated every 18 months.
Lieutenant Jim Brady was on scene a few minutes later than the others. He missed the first few minutes of chaos, because he had to drive over from another job in Northeast Philadelphia.
While the fire trucks were on their way, women and children streamed out of Luther Settlement House, a halfway house that occupied the old seminary building adjacent to the church. The collapse had occurred on the side of the nave furthest from the seminary. All of the children in the shelter had to be in bed by 9 p.m., and their parents had to be in their rooms at the same time. The children were awoken by what seemed like an earthquake. The shelter workers on duty ran to knock on everyone's doors to make sure they evacuated. About 100 people evacuated the building including 63 kids and eight newborn babies. The only other person in the building was the maintenance man for the church, Jose Jackson.
When the firemen first arrived, those first few minutes, there were numerous operations in action. Brady explains, "You need to address the situation and potential, there is always a potential," Some members were assigned to the situation. They knew people were inside.
The firemen quickly made an assessment of the best way to get into the building. They entered the door to the church seminary, and yelled to the people inside. Amid the screeching alarm, no doubt they debated the weight of the potential -- the potential that this thing with a hole blown out of its roof wasn't going to stand for their abuse. Others were assigned to checking out the chances of a secondary collapse. Brady was assigned to another potential -- the potential of death by stoning. He interviewed, figuring out the timeline of events and piecing things together, making sure that no one was missing. He says his job is "to rule out anyone standing in the doorway or sitting on the front step." "You always first assume ..."
Brady and the firemen were there until about two in the morning. Brady interviewed until everyone anyone could think of was accounted for and then stayed there for hours after the incident in case new information arrived.
While Brady sat watch for the next few hours, congregation members first heard about the collapse through the news and phone calls. A dozen or so members arrived. Some said prayers. They walked around the church and saw the Luther House women and children sitting on the street, a safe distance from the church. The children cried. They were once again homeless. The administrators worked with the city and the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority to transport the families to a recreation center. At 4:30 in the morning they got to go back to sleep. By eight they were moved out once again.
The Innards of the Church
The congregation members who have entered the church since the collapse scurry around for specific documents and belongings and then get out. The aftermath of the collapse, and the movements since, are preserved by their immediacy. The saturated red cushions have been stripped from each pew, and stacked high and thick on the first pew of each row -- both closest to the alter and furthest from the rain. They are stacked higher than the pews themselves. Their tops are dusty -- a fine woody dust sticks to the velvet fibers, making them furry. The pews and floor are coated with the same fine dust. When light touches the dust, it illuminates the tops of everything white.
During its descent, the stone struck the balcony that led to the door of the tower, and then struck the chandelier. The stone descended through the floor and filled the basement; spreading itself like roots and then piling up through the hole it had just made. The chandelier now sways above the rubble with bent metal and uneven lights. The door to the tower remains wide open with no tower behind it. The balcony leading up to the door, its delicate wooden banister and its filigree is torn off like paper.
The Congregation Outside of the Church
The collapse occurred on a Tuesday. The following Sunday, congregation members were welcomed by another Reformed Episcopal Church -- Grace Memorial Church. The West Philadelphia congregation, many without cars, networked rides to the new church in Collingdale. Reverend Michael Fitz-Patrick welcomed them while news cameras looked on.
At the time of the collapse, Christ Memorial had an interim minister while they were searching for a new pastor. The night of the collapse, Fitz-Patrick sped over to be with the congregation. Only after he arrived did he realize that he was the only ordained leader amongst them. Recalling that night, he cannot remember if he led a prayer. He can remember the hot feeling of their embarrassment, the reporters questioning them while they were without a pastor, their church in a layer of stones on the lawn, the news cameras watching. Fitz-Patrick explains, "This was humiliating to all of them, so I made a unilateral decision. I said, 'you are worshipping with us this Sunday.'" He was caught up in the moment. Since that very moment, he has fostered them as his own.
Fitz-Patrick has provided them with a pastor, and Grace Church has provided them with a sturdy stone building with a nice sturdy roof that never held a steeple. The academy that used to be at Christ Memorial has also moved to Grace Church. The older congregation of Grace Church seems to be thriving with the new influx of West Philadelphia families and children. The merging of the congregants occurred smoothly. During services, when in the nave, they are now one people joined by faith. They take bread and drink wine kneeling side by side, gazes down and humbled. After church, the two congregations drink coffee and mingle while children weave around adults running in slacks or Sunday dresses with white stockings and black shoes.
Fitz-Patrick is careful to remind the congregation that the other church is sick, but it is healing. Christ Memorial Church remains on the prayers list in the weekly pamphlet- along with sick parents, relatives and church members. It will remain on the prayers list until its people return. Fitz-Patrick one day in church reminds, "Continue to pray so that Christ Memorial Church can go home. Although we have enjoyed having them, it's like being at a relative's house. At some point you just want to go home."
Going Home
Two months ago, the insurance company began funding the long process of rebuilding the church. Workers are currently building a roof across the hole in the nave. They have already cleared the sidewalk of rocks, uncovering a path around the church but leaving the lawn covered in a blanket of stone.
This coming Wednesday will be the first time since the collapse that a service will be held in the Christ Memorial Church. This Groundhog Day, Phil will emerge from the ground. He will emerge to a world that is nearly exactly the way he left it. The evening of Groundhog Day, congregation members will walk the familiar walk to church. They will approach the rock filled lawn, and then they will enter the sanctuary. They will hold evening service in a temporary chapel set up in the old seminary building. Jose will enjoy the sound of feet and chatter and song. Despite the months in exile from their church, despite the foster pastor, despite the lack of a steeple -- allowing the wind and rain to enter through the ceiling of the nave, the first time the congregation returns to their church, they will receive wine and bread and sing hymns to the grace of God.
