To spot the Church of the Corner Stone, look directly ahead for a compact, pointed-roofed brick building with tall, arched windows and a wooden front door framed by a decorative brick archway.
Now, take a moment to let your eyes wander over those Gothic arches and the sturdy brickwork-doesn’t it look like something out of an old storybook? Well, strap in, because the tale of the Church of the Corner Stone is packed with twists, turns, and a good old dose of 19th-century Newburgh drama.
It all started back in the 1870s, when Newburgh had a bit of a spiritual identity crisis. The city was mostly Protestant, and everyone thought that was just the way things would stay, like oatmeal for breakfast. But then, as the Oxford Movement swept through America, Bishop George David Cummins decided some changes were due. On a chilly day in 1873, he founded the Reformed Episcopal Church-think of it as the ‘startup’ of churches, breaking away from the more established Protestant Episcopal tradition.
Not long afterward, in December 1874, a handful of sharp-suited men gathered in the cozy parlor of the Newburgh Club, just itching to found something new. They whispered about rising Catholic influence and plotted out their plans for a church with the energy of inventors brainstorming the steam engine. There was Daniel T. Rogers, Walter C. Anthony, and Thomas Hazard Roe among others, with William James Roe II tossing out the name “The Church of the Corner Stone”-catchy, right?
By the following August, Bishop Cummins himself rolled into town, ready to dazzle the locals with fresh takes on prayer books and explain why his new church was the way forward. He gathered such a crowd that, by evening, they were squeezed into basements, pledging money and support like it was the hottest ticket in town. It was the start of something big.
The new congregation found a temporary home in the chapel of the Associate Reformed Church-the church version of crashing on a friend’s couch. Services soon boomed with Rev. Benjamin B. Leacock at the helm, guiding this ship through both smooth and choppy waters. By December 22, 1875, with winter settling over Newburgh, eager volunteers and a few wagons of bricks set to work. The foundation was laid quietly-no grand speeches, just the sound of shovels biting into earth and the smell of fresh mortar. By spring, the building we see now was finished, designed in the stylish High Victorian Gothic by George E. Harney. This little church, complete with its sharply pointed roof and stained glass, was ready for its grand debut on Easter Sunday.
Now, if you listen closely, you can almost catch the echo of that first service: the hum of a congregation, the soft shuffle of hymnals, the flicker of candlelight along the rows, and maybe a nervous choir note or two. The church council was a lively bunch-wardens Daniel T. Rogers and Walter C. Anthony kept things in order, while William J. Roe II, who named the church, made sure no one fell asleep during meetings.
Through the years, the church weathered a string of pastors and even became a brief stage for Rev. James Martin Gray, a preacher who would only pass through for a moment (he must've preferred shorter sermons). The congregation thrived, hosting hearty picnics and rowdy outings in the fresh country air. For a while, things were grand. But as decades rolled on and Newburgh welcomed more Catholic families, times changed. By 1917, the once-vibrant church was gasping for air like a fish out of water.
But then, enter Rev. James Louis Best-a man with a heart as big as his faith, who arrived in Newburgh in the early 1940s. Originally from North Carolina, Best started preaching in a dusty storefront and moved his flock a few times, ducking urban renewal projects like a squirrel dodging traffic. Finally, his congregation found this very building, empty and waiting for new life. They renamed it Best Temple Church of God in Christ. Rev. Best brought hope to a struggling city battered by hard times. Every service was filled with hope, healing, and the sound of voices lifting the rafters.
So, as you stand here at the corner of history and hope, remember: this church was built by dreamers, nearly lost to time, and then reborn for a new generation. It’s a cornerstone alright-and not just in bricks and mortar, but in the hearts of all who passed through its doors.
