Church of Their Own : Congregation That Rents Gym in Valley is Small Only in Size

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

--Matthew (18:20)

Pastor Phillip J. Wilson lives by those words. They embody his belief that a church can gain strength from the faith of people and not from the splendor of marble or stained glass. Bring God with you, he seems to say; he’ll go where you go.

On a Sunday afternoon inside the Sepulveda Recreation Center in the mid-San Fernando Valley, 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 basketball gym where just hours before sweaty men, often complaining about being fouled, yelled obscenities at each other.

The worshipers, some of them ex-gangbangers, drug addicts or just hard-working Christians, have found a spiritual home here in one of the 52,000 or so churches with fewer than 100 members in the United States. Today the congregation has 17 members: 10 adults, 7 children.

It’s clear from their fresh-faced dedication and boisterous hand-clapping that they thrive off the natural energy that fills the gym every Sunday.

There must be a higher calling that brings them here, because the gym itself does not inspire heavenly thoughts.

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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 boom box doubles as a choir, and a taped medley of gospels leads the group in a sing-along.

Even as a scraggly basketball net, or a tattered halo, looms over their heads, Liberty Faith members eagerly await the day’s service.

One of the people who revels in the atmosphere is Khaleelah Abdullah.

“I met the preacher, and then I came here,” said 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 said she was looking for a church centered on personal healing when she ran 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.”

Wilson, who works during the week as a welder in Sun Valley, decided to start the nondenominational church in the community of North Hills, a few miles west, nine months ago. He says street corner mentoring to local residents near his Panorama City home, as well as 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.

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With his neatly trimmed beard and slick-backed curly hair, Wilson could be mistaken for a character on the once popular undercover cop series “Miami Vice.” Before an alcohol and cocaine binge resulted in a life-threatening car accident 15 years ago in his native Kansas City, 36-year-old Wilson says, he worked as a pimp, using his charm to keep his prostitutes on the street. Now the 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 service starts, worshiper James Wright, a lanky, 31-year-old man, gives a mini-sermon of his own on the sidewalk. He grabs the hands of four young black men he described as “brothers [gang] 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 offers them an unconditional visit to his church. They decline and go on their way.

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

“Just feel blessed to make it to another day,” he says.

Each day is indeed a blessing for Wright as he tries to put 15 years of gang life in Los Angeles behind him and works to become a good Christian father to his four children.

After Wright offers some words of inspiration to the audience, Abdullah asks the group 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,” 26-year-old Franklin says, 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.”

Aquilla Singleton stands up next.

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

The 41-year-old self-proclaimed “bold sista’ for the Lord” left her Lake View Terrace home this Sunday in search of something local, even though she has a home church in Los Angeles.

“This is spiritual food for you, a bullet to fight the devil with,” Singleton says during her testimony. “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 congregation next door, Wilson stops her. “We want to 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.

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During the afternoon’s sermon about the difference between spirituality and God, Wilson makes it clear what he thought each meant.

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

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

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

A little later that afternoon, the thumping basketballs return. The recreation center transforms back into a gym, and Wilson’s tiny church disappears, at least until next Sunday.