Ralph Moore stepped down from his magenta-and-teal painted home as pennies clanked against the inside of a glass jar cupped in his hand.

The pennies represented a Herculean effort by his Catholic parish, St. Ann’s at Greenmount Avenue and 22nd Street, to get a new roof and avoid closure decades ago. This past Sunday, the pennies held a different meaning, and if one were traded for Moore’s thoughts, he would share this: “The day St. Ann closes, I leave Catholicism.”

That day came on Sunday, Nov. 24.

St. Ann’s is one of several predominantly Black Catholic parishes in Baltimore that are closing and being folded into others under the Archdiocese of Baltimore’s Seek the City plan. On Sunday, the archdiocese is asking these newly merged parishes to come together for the start of Advent, the religious season leading up to Christmas.

As the archdiocese discontinues regular Masses at St. Ann’s and shifts its operations to nearby St. Francis Xavier, another historically African American church, it’s a painful time for those who have considered it their spiritual home. For Moore, it was the last straw.

He’s tired of the church being on the “wrong side of theology” with its history of racism, women unable to be ordained as priests and homophobia, he said. And now this, despite vocal opposition from St. Ann’s parishioners.

“I’ve done it for 72 years, but they’re not gonna change,” Moore said. “They’re not gonna get better.” The lifelong Catholic isn’t sure what comes next for him and his faith.

Moore was born and raised in Baltimore and baptized at 3 months old. His grandmother was a devout Catholic by way of New Orleans. The seamstress paid for Moore and his seven siblings to go to Catholic school and for their uniforms, which he wore from kindergarten through 8th grade.

Through his schooling, Moore crossed paths with the Oblate Sisters of Providence, the first convent to welcome Black and brown women. In college, he spent time with seminarians at St. Francis Xavier, one of the oldest African American Catholic churches in the country. He and others also painted Jesus and the Blessed Mother in the color mahogany at St. Pius V in West Baltimore’s Harlem Park — also closed under the Seek the City plan that’s shrinking the archdiocese’s footprint in the city and some surrounding areas from 61 parishes at 59 worship sites to 23 parishes at 30 worship sites.

Moore has been one of the stalwarts at St. Ann’s, which opened 151 years ago.

He is among a group that created a scholarship fund for young Black men to attend Loyola Blakefield, a private Catholic college prep school for boys.

Moore firmly believes there should be “reparations, not separations” as far as Black Catholics and their churches. Black congregants stayed around even when racism and prejudice were prevalent within their church. Moore remembers a separate holy water font and being restricted to the back of certain churches.

Still, Moore and others stuck with the Catholic Church, established a family at St. Ann and did what they could for the church and its neighbors.

When St. Ann faced closure because of an unstable roof in the 1990s, they launched a “Pennies to Heaven” campaign and raised 3 million pennies — $30,000 — to repair it.

When East Baltimore neighbors were overexposed to fumes from a bus yard, they rose up to help fight the environmental injustice.

And, when several parishioners noticed there weren’t any Black saints from North America recognized by the Catholic Church, they pushed for the expedited canonization of the “Saintly Six.” Moore and longtime St. Ann’s parishioners Delores Moore and Mary Sewell even took their cause to Rome in October 2023.

Moore often says that he was Black before he was Catholic, and he has long been outspoken about the lack of acknowledgement of the contributions of Black Catholics to his faith.

His home office is filled with Muhammad Ali memorabilia, Frederick Douglass posters and black-and-white photos of friends and family. He’s written for The AFRO and the Black Catholic Messenger — a piece that outlet published in June is headlined, “How I became an angry Black Catholic.”

Every morning, he sends a message to Pope Francis through the social media platform X. The pope, in turn, usually shares a message each day to his 18.4 million followers. Moore told the pope that St. Ann’s is closing and that there’s a feeling of hopelessness.

His wife, Dana Moore, and Sewell met with the archdiocesan officials twice to talk about the possibility of remaining open. They submitted a seven-page plan to strengthen the church, pledging to build a solid relationship with the Mother Seton Academy next door, reinvigorate their community health and wellness fair, and reconnect with neighbors.

The appeal was denied in a letter from Archbishop William Lori. Their last hope is an appeal to Rome to get the Baltimore archdiocese’s order rescinded. As it stands, members of St. Ann’s and St. Wenceslaus will be shifted to a newly merged parish based at St. Francis Xavier.

“They think they can move people around like pieces on a chessboard,” Moore said.

Auxiliary Bishop Bruce Lewandowski, who has overseen the merger plan, has stressed that “none of these decisions were easy.” But he said last spring that the historical significance of St. Francis Xavier took precedence. “That’s where we have to be,” he said.

Moore and his jar of pennies made their way to St. Ann’s for the final regular Sunday Mass. He wore a shirt printed with the names of the Saintly Six. A sign urging people to save the church from closure still hung near the front entrance of the Gothic-revival church with its sky-high steeple that can be seen from blocks away.

He made his way to the front of the church grabbing the top of each pew as he passed. Before Mass, Moore and several other parishioners prayed for the Saintly Six, which they’ve done for three years.

Moore sang “If Anybody Asks You Who I am, Tell Them I’m a Child of God,” and true to his rebellious streak, he remixed part of the song, adding, “I would not be a church closer.”

“We have been here. We have been good shepherds,” he said. “We deserve to be here.”

People filled nearly all of the middle pews from front to back.

“Next Sunday when I wake up, it’s gonna be surreal,” Sewell said. “Where am I going to worship? There’s no place like home.”

Sharon Johnson-Stewart said it was one of the saddest days of her life. Like Sewell, she also grew up in the church and attended St. Ann School, which closed in the 1970s.

“It’s our faith that’s gonna keep us going,” Johnson-Stewart added.

The choir electrified the church during the hourslong service. People gave cheek-to-cheek hugs and reached out to clasp hands from the nearby pews. Others sang and lifted their open palms toward the arched white ceilings.

Deacon Paul Shelton reminded parishioners that Black spirituality is a “gift” to Catholicism, and that their shared faith isn’t contained or defined by a building.

“If you came here for a pity party, you came to the wrong place,” he said.

Moore helped hand out the pennies to parishioners as a way to remember St. Ann and how they staved off closure before, and their more recent drive to remain open.

Moore planned to take the rest of his pennies with him. He said he would give some to his children and grandchildren and keep the rest near a chair he often sits in at home.

The pennies, even in constant view, are unlikely to change his mind about leaving the only faith he’s ever known. His wife hopes he’ll reconsider.

“I just hope that he takes a moment,” Dana Moore said, “lets it settle and realizes if there’s going to be change in the Catholic Church, he’s part of it.”