On the corner of 25th and Washington sits a humble yet historic structure: Denver Fire Station No. 3. It may appear only a neighborhood firehouse, but this building holds stories of service and sorrow, of race and redemption, of faith lived out amidst the flames.

Before Fire Station No. 3 moved to this corner in 1931, it had already etched itself into the city’s memory. Fire Station No. 3 originally opened in the late 1800’s at 2563 Lincoln Avenue (now Glenarm Place), just feet from its present-day location. Known at that time as Denver’s Hose Company No. 3, the crew was relying on hand-drawn hose carts and horse-drawn engines. 

On March 23, 1895, tragedy struck the neighborhood. A fire broke out at the St. James Hotel in downtown Denver. Hose Company No. 3 was among the first to respond. As the crew battled the flames, the floor above them collapsed. All responding firefighters perished. The crew was three enlisted Black firefighters led by a white captain. At a time when Denver was steeped in the divisions of Jim Crow, something profound happened: the fallen were honored equally in death. Their caskets, intentionally made identical, were carried side by side in a public procession. It was a visible and radical act of dignity and shared humanity.

Following the tragedy, a new crew was assigned to the station. Among them was Silas Johnson, who became Denver’s first Black fire captain. His appointment marked a pivotal shift. Over time, Fire Station No. 3 would become the first and only all-Black firehouse in Denver. It was a space formed by segregation but transformed by purpose. It became a rare pathway for Black men to serve the public during a time when few doors were open.

When the station moved across the street in 1931, it was revolutionary. The new facility was built to accommodate a new era of motorized fire trucks, signaling the end of the horse-drawn era. The shift marked technological progress, but the mission remained anchored in community and carried forward by a faith forged in fire. Here, amid the rhythms of Black Denver, where jazz spilled from the Rossonian and churches lined the avenues, Fire Station No. 3 became a community pillar. The Black men who served here weren’t just first responders. They were first protectors. First proof that excellence was abundant, even in a city that often attempted to keep them in the shadows.

And their theology? It wasn’t only recited in pews. It was practiced in courage. Faith lived in the firehouse, in the hearts of the men who risked their lives daily, and in the families who prayed they’d return. It showed up in the stillness between sirens, in whispered prayers before entry, and in the belief that their presence could save not just from flames, but from the harm of being unseen. These men believed their service was sacred. And in doing so, they made the station holy ground.

Today, while no longer segregated, the air within the walls still hums with remembrance. The memory of Black firefighters who weren’t just responding to emergencies but responding to history. A site where dignity burned brighter than any blaze. 

Across the street, the original Fire Station No. 3 building still stands. It will soon be the home of Café Momentum. It’s a new chapter, written in the same place. Yet the question remains: as the block changes, how will the history be shared by our collective memory? To understand Fire Station No. 3 is to understand how a place can hold both pain and pride. It reminds us that legacy isn’t about grandeur; it is about groundedness. May we be a city and people who keep telling their stories. May we remember the fire that claimed them and the fire that called them. And may we never forget the power of place to shape who we become.