Ringling’s church was built in 1914 and sits on a hill over the town.
history under ground
crosses
Looking above the altar.
The stage of the theatre still holds hymnals and other vestiges of its time as a church.
On my second or third trip, the cross had broken in the wind.
Outside the Chateau, where the fuel oil tank blocks the chapel.
When I first visited the chapel, it had a projection TV, two organs, Bibles, and more. Now these are mostly ruined, except for the tapestries, which have somehow survived.
San Luis may not be a ghost town, but it’s aspiring by all indications. Luckily, it’s close enough to Cuba, NM to hang onto life, unlike the other ghost towns down the road.
Little crosses on the side of the church, near a broken window.
Sadly, this picture is dated from the fact there’s a single piece of glass unbroken. Since this was taken, the entrance to the church has been vandalized even more.
Lost words over the auditorium entrance.
The basement held a makeshift chapel.
From the roof of the Clemens House, looking toward downtown St. Louis.
Looking up at the most conspicuous graffiti in the city on ADM #4.
The stone chapel sits beside the main house and received a particularly heavy dose of gothic architectural touches.
The chapel (left) and surgical suite (straight on) move in an out of view as fog rolls up from the St. Louis River valley.
The historical entrance.
The Cross of Loraine served as the international symbol of tuberculosis; it was traditional to find these on sanatorium smokestacks like this, which was part of the old steam plant, behind the Refractory.
Bells are highly symbolic, being used from everything from calling worshipers in the morning to exorcising demons at night.