It all started in a no-name town. The type of town that no one has ever heard of, that no one ever comes to visit, that no one ever leaves.
That kind of town.
The little church in the country was quaint, just like an old story book. White, square, straight, rigid inside and out, empty except on Sunday morning. That was the building, yes. And it was also the ethos.
No blue, just red.
Red like Republican.
Red like blood.
Red like power, authority, dominance.
That was the men of the congregation.
That was also their god.
In this little village church, the gospel meant good news… for us, only us, forever us. Not “them” whoever “they” were.
Our family attended for a few months. Young and hopeful, I wanted to make a difference. But I couldn’t make a difference. I’m not sure God Himself could make a difference. The walls to get to those hearts were miles high, meters thick, and topped with barbed wire.
So our family found another church: a safe, conservative, glory be to God church. Still had hints of red, still had hints of white, but it was better.
At least you could breathe, sense some love and care in the air.
It was everything we needed for the decade ahead.
Omer Redden 