Where the Spirit Leads Me: Searching for a new Church Home

Something For Sunday

By Felicia Sharrel Moore

As a child, there was never any question about Sundays—we got up, went to church, and stayed there all day. For years, Daddy served as a deacon and presided over the East Zion District, a coalition of Black Baptist churches.

Mama was a deaconess, spent decades working in the nursery, and later took charge of the kitchen and its events.

As for me, I was always musical. I played piano, then bass guitar, sang in the choir, and joined a couple of youth organizations within our church and district. That was my foundation. That was routine.

I wasn’t the perfect kid just because I was raised in the church, but I know for a fact—my life would’ve taken a very different path without it.

Church is where the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit revealed themselves to me. It’s where I began to understand my purpose.

Just as a child’s mind forms early, I needed to know who God was in my life so I could truly revere and respect my parents, teachers, and others who shaped me.

Tabernacle Baptist Church is where I met my first best friends—some I’m still close to today. In the ’60s and ’70s, Tabernacle was a cornerstone in Oklahoma City’s Black community, known for housing some of its most influential leaders.

Coming out of the Civil Rights Movement, the Black Church knew its role—it wasn’t just about saving souls. It was about saving lives.

Jesus being Lord of our lives wasn’t just something we said—it was something we lived. We leaned heavily on that old African proverb: “It takes a village…”

Being Black and striving to live a holy life? That was a two-fer.

I learned how to deal with people—all kinds of people—and I loved it.

Embracing God’s Word at a young age prepared me for life. It helped me face fear and chipped away at my shyness. It taught me to respect elders, while also realizing—sometimes, adults didn’t have it all together either.

That foundation carried me into young adulthood. As I prepared to leave for Grambling State University, our church went through something it had never known before.

The man who led Tabernacle at the time, our shepherd, let pride and power consume him. His arrogance ripped apart our church, splitting it three ways.

One Wednesday night, I was home with Mama when we got an anonymous call from the church. I answered. A voice said I needed to come quickly—someone had kicked my father.

Daddy was recovering from two hip surgeries and was attending a business meeting that evening.

When I got there, members I’d known my whole life were standing at the doors—blocking them. They wouldn’t let me in.

Eventually, someone told my father I was there. I waited until the meeting ended just to lay eyes on him and make sure he was okay. By that time, the police had arrived.

That church split led to a new congregation, where most of my family became charter members. I never joined—I was heading to college.

The pastor was eventually taken to court. Some friends and longtime members remained at Tabernacle, and a new pastor came in after the dust settled.

Change had come—and life had more in store for me, too.

After my college years, I returned to OKC without a church home for the first time in my life. That was unfamiliar ground.

How was I supposed to find a new church? I mean, the Eastside of OKC alone has about a thousand churches. 

I didn’t look right away. Truth be told, I went over ten years without one.

And yet—God carried me, even then.

Those young adult years were full of growth: meeting all kinds of people, adjusting to work life, navigating the ups and downs. All without a church family. But He kept me, still.

At one point, I met a guy I thought I wanted to get to know better. Neither of us had a church home, so I told him I wanted us to find one together.

We visited a few churches—and wouldn’t you know it, I found one. He just didn’t continue the journey with me.

We ended things exactly a year later—and honestly? I wasn’t mad about it, lol.

I had found Faith Tabernacle, a metropolitan church led by a white pastor, with a Black assistant pastor and a diverse, welcoming congregation.

From day one and throughout my twenty years there, the pastor’s ability to teach and preach the Word was relatable, powerful, and sincere. That kind of preaching only comes from someone who truly knows God.

It wasn’t a perfect church—but as a single woman, it gave me a place to experience the fullness of Christian life.

I built core friendships there—friendships that still matter deeply, even though I’m no longer a member.

Then Barack Obama became president—and suddenly, I started to see a shift.

There was a noticeable rise in racial hostility, and much of it—shockingly—came from fellow church members.

Online, I saw vile, disrespectful comments directed at the Obama family. And then I’d come to church and wonder—how could these same people say they loved Jesus?

They never said anything directly to me, but the disdain? It was thick in the air.

I was never afraid. But I was disturbed.