Tiny Group of Faithful Changes Old Gym Into House of Worship

“For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”

Matthew 18:20

Pastor Phillip J. Wilson lives by those words. They embody his belief that a church gains strength from the faith of people rather than the splendor of marble or stained glass. Bring God with you, he seems to say. He’ll go where you go.

On Sunday afternoons at the Sepulveda Recreation Center in North Hills, Wilson sidesteps basketballs pounding on worn concrete and enters the gym he and his flock of a dozen or so people rent for church services. Just after 1 p.m., the members of Liberty Faith Worship Center will begin praising Jesus Christ in a stuffy gym where just hours before, sweaty men, often complaining about being fouled, yelled obscenities at one another.

The worshipers, some of them former gangbangers and drug addicts, some just hard-working Christians, have found a spiritual home here in one of the nation’s 52,000 or so churches with fewer than 100 members. Today the congregation has 17 members--10 adults and seven children.

It’s clear from their fresh-faced dedication and boisterous hand clapping that they thrive on the natural energy that fills the gym every Sunday. And there must be a higher calling that brings them here, because the gym itself does not inspire heavenly thoughts.

There are no pews, no altar, no silver trays for offerings, not so much as a bulletin board listing the month’s events. Wilson’s boombox doubles as a choir--a gospel medley on tape leads the group in a sing-along. Even as a scraggly basketball net--or a tattered halo--looms over their heads, Liberty Faith members still eagerly await the day’s service.

One who revels in the atmosphere is Khaleelah Abdullah. “I met the preacher and then I came here,” says Abdullah, who is the church’s unofficial workhorse and backbone. “I liked what he was doing here so I made it my church home.”

Abdullah says she was looking for a church centered on personal healing when she came across Wilson through friends.

“Liberty Faith is a teaching church,” she says passionately. “Whatever you have to offer, the pastor will help bring it out of you.”

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Wilson, who works during the week as a welder in Sun Valley, decided to start the nondenominational church nine months ago. He says street-corner mentoring to local residents near his Panorama City home, as well as the in-house Bible studies he conducted, served as his inspiration.

“The park is the center for a lot of drugs and other things, so I thought there was a need here,” Wilson says.

With his neatly trimmed beard and slicked-back, curly hair, Wilson could easily be mistaken for a character on the once-popular undercover cop series “Miami Vice.” But before a booze-and-cocaine binge resulted in a life-threatening car accident 15 years ago in his native Kansas City, the 36-year-old Wilson says he worked as a pimp, using his charm to keep his prostitutes on the street. Now an unmarried father of one son, Wilson seeks solicitors for the Lord.

“Since I experienced first-hand what some of these people have been through, I can relate better to what’s going on in their lives,” he says.

Minutes before the actual service starts, worshiper James Wright gives a mini-sermon of his own on the sidewalk. He grabs the hands of four young black men he describes as “brothers banging but just needing to hear about God” and leads them in an impromptu prayer circle. Clutching his Bible, highlighted with yellow marker, he asks for God’s blessing on the men and invites them to his church--with no conditions. They decline and go on their way.

As Wright walks inside, a woman asks him how he’s doing.

“Just feel blessed to make it to another day,” says the lanky 31-year-old, smiling.

Each day is indeed a blessing for Wright as he tries to put 15 years of gangbanging behind him and become a good Christian father to his four children. After Wright offers some words of inspiration to the group, Abdullah asks for personal testimonies about what Jesus has done for their lives.

Audra Franklin jumps up and releases her sorrows.

“I came close to dying last night,” says the 26-year-old Franklin, nervously shifting her weight from left to right. “I was roaming the streets, but I made it here this morning. At first I felt like I only wanted to stay for 30 minutes and leave. But I think I will be here for a while.”

Lake View Terrace resident Aquilla Singleton stands up next.

“I just want to thank the Lord because I know that something brought me here today.

“This is spiritual food for you, a bullet to fight the devil with,” the 41-year-old self-proclaimed “bold sista for the Lord” continues. “And don’t be intimidated by your family saying you are a Jesus freak. We are serving royalty, serving a king.”

As one of the mothers rounds up the small children so they can attend a Bible study run by one of the congregations next door, Wilson stops her. “We wanna pray over our kids, so don’t let them leave just yet,” he says. “The devil just loves to get his hands on them. But he’s not going to steal our children.”

And so they pray.

During the afternoon’s sermon about the difference between spirituality and religion, Wilson makes it clear what each means to him.

“Religion is seeking God,” he says, staring straight at one woman. “Spirituality is ‘I have found God.’ ”

The few dollars scrounged up during the offering are blessed by Wilson’s uncle, Bob McReynolds.

Once the service ends and the true believers at Liberty Faith begin to stream out, Wilson packs away the folding chairs and lectern and admits that he hopes for a real church home, even though he believes that faith will keep the people coming back.

Later that afternoon, the thumping basketballs return. The recreation center is transformed back into a gym, and Wilson’s tiny church disappears until next Sunday.