Le Chapeau Rouge

On the painting: Le Chapeau Rouge

She sat in their churches.

Painted lips, hat tilted just so, she watched the room rise in song. She heard the hallelujahs echo off stained glass and knew—some of them believed it. Others were just trying to. But she saw the cracks. The theater. The aching, well-meaning deception that even they didn’t recognize.

She watched their politicians too. The backroom deals. The polished speeches masking soul-for-sale exchanges. She watched as the lives of the next generation were handed over—not for truth or justice—but for profit. For power. For appearances.

And still she got dressed.

Red hat, wild curls, one eye rimmed in electric blue—the other turned inward. Not blind, just… done watching things that pretend to be light. She remembers when the colors were brighter. When the “glory” felt real. When the music didn’t sound like manipulation and the fire in the room wasn’t manufactured.

She remembers, because she’s seen it. And now? She’s the one doing the perceiving.

And maybe—maybe—she’s me.

Or maybe she’s my generation.

We still get dressed for the show.We still put on the colors.We still walk in like we know where we’re going.

But if you ask us quietly, when no one else is listening—we’ll tell you the truth:

We’re not sure anymore.

We’ve watched the magic thin. Watched the stories unravel. Watched the mighty fall and the loud get louder. And yet something in us still hopes. Still shows up. Still paints the eyes, adjusts the brim, and walks into the room.

Not because we believe the show—but because maybe we still believe something is worth watching.

Maybe the truth will slip out between acts.Maybe grace will stumble in through the side door. Maybe Jesus still shows up—even when He is no longer invited.