The Church of Seven Arches

We passed it on our way back toward Midtown, somewhere between the museum district and the memory of Buddy’s Pizza. It rose out of the street not like a building, but like a vision—arched, intricate, and almost medieval in its intensity. The First Congregational Church of Detroit, known by some as the Church of Seven Arches, stands as one of the most quietly spectacular structures in the city.

If you blink, you might miss it. But if you look—really look—you’ll understand why this place matters.

Built in 1891, the church is a wonder of Richardsonian Romanesque architecture, designed by architect John Lyman Faxon of Boston. Its sandstone façade is all deep shadows and rounded weight. The seven great arches that give the church its nickname stretch along the portico like a chorus of stilled voices—each one different, each one cut with care. They’re not just decorative. They’re declarations: We are here. We are open. We are many.

And Detroit has always been many.

Inside, if you're lucky enough to enter, you’ll find one of the most dazzling sanctuaries in the Midwest—mahogany woodwork, gold leaf detailing, murals, and Tiffany-style stained glass that bends the light into something holy. The sanctuary itself is circular, a layout rare in American church design, inviting community and conversation. This is not a place built for spectators. It’s built for gathering, for people to face one another and share space, soul, and breath.

But beyond its architectural beauty, the First Congregational Church is historically powerful. It stands on sacred ground—not just religious, but human. Because here, beneath its arches and beside its pews, the church honors its role in the Underground Railroad.

Detroit, so often remembered for wheels and wages, was also a final passage for those fleeing bondage. This church served as a waypoint, a station of safety, where runaway slaves hid, prayed, waited. From here, just blocks from the river, they crossed into Canada and into freedom.

Today, the church offers an immersive Underground Railroad Experience, where visitors walk through a re-creation of that dangerous, courageous journey. You crouch through tunnels, sit in silence, feel the weight of fear and faith. It is not a spectacle—it is a pilgrimage.

Standing outside the church, looking up at those arches, I thought about how rare it is to find a building that embodies both aesthetic splendor and moral courage. One that doesn’t just inspire with beauty, but convicts with memory. This is one of those places.

In a city of towers and industry, of murals and music, this church stands apart—quiet, firm, enduring.

The arches don’t shout. They invite.

The sanctuary doesn’t glitter. It glows.

And the history here isn’t written in bronze—it’s lived in stone, wood, and whispered prayers.

Some landmarks impress.

The Church of Seven Arches reminds.

Reminds us that sacredness isn’t only in steeples or scripture—

Sometimes, it’s in a doorway opened in trust.

A hand extended in the dark.

A path walked in faith.