Here is an excerpt on how the acclaimed evangelist found a home in the Anglican Church.
In March 2021, I made public my departure from the Southern Baptist Convention, the denomination I’d loved all my life and served since I was 12.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a home church. Didn’t have a clue where to go. To Keith, this meant we were footloose, and what could be better than footloose? To me, this meant we were legless. Harborless. Detached. No place nor people of faith we could call our own. The yearning to belong is woven into the human fabric. We had nowhere we belonged.
As multiple churches reopened their doors following the worst of the COVID-19 pandemic, we visited several denominations closest to our tradition, but each time we were faced with an undeniable reality: Our presence was loaded. That’s not to say we weren’t welcome. It’s to say we came with baggage and triggered reactions and opinions. Sometimes we humans are simply too known in a particular environment to have the luxury of starting over. And make no mistake, we were starting over.
One Saturday evening, Keith said out of a concoction of compassion and frustration, “Elizabeth Moore, pick up your cellphone right now.”
“God, help me, woman, you’d exasperate the pope. Google Anglican churches in Houston,” he said, bossy-like.
Keith was at his wit’s end with me and my church drama and knew we were going to have to get off the beaten path to find a place we were less controversial.
“None of them are anywhere near us,” I quipped.
“Well, which is the closest?”
“This one right here.” I tapped the screen with my fingernail. “About a half hour away.”
“Good,” Keith said. “That’s where we’re going tomorrow.”
We pulled into the parking lot at five minutes till. Keith walked around the car and held his hand out to me. I grabbed it and we started for the entryway. As I replay the scene in my imagination, I’m all but wearing a white stick-on name tag with red letters: Hello, I’m a Southern Baptist.
A man wearing a real clip-on name tag with his picture and the church logo on it greeted us at the door.
“Morning,” I said, avoiding eye contact, my volume trailing off with a mumble. “We’re vis’tors.”
“They know,” Keith said under his breath, reveling a bit in my rare onset of social awkwardness.
When we entered the foyer, the double doors to the sanctuary were 20 feet ahead of us and wide open. We were looking to slip subtly into a pew, but a whole handful of people were huddled at the door. A man around our age with a gentle face and warm, genuine smile was among them. He had on a white robe overlaid with a green stole bearing a grapevine pattern. He reached out his hand to me and, in a louder whisper, introduced himself as the rector. “Welcome to our church. And you are?”
“Beth—” I hesitated for half a second—“Moore.”
“Oh!” he said, tilting his head back with surprise and an infectious, harmless chuckle. “Like Beth Moore.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” The verger who’d worked with him for decades would inform me later with a wide grin that the rector was simply amused I had the same name as the infamous Beth Moore. Nothing further occurred to him.
“Come right on in,” he said in the dearest way. “We’re glad to have you.”
Somewhere around 120 people were seated in the pews of the sanctuary. We’d hardly sat down when a bell rang. … Continue Reading
Source: Christianity Today