The Least of Us: True Tales of America and Hope in the Time of Fentanyl and Meth

by Sam Quinones

In Carter County, community was created in church; there, children were raised, business connections were forged, romances begun. But an addict or unwed mother entered these churches with difficulty. Clothes drives, casseroles for families with a terminally ill child—churches knew how to do that. But addiction was different. It was something on the national news that allowed folks in Carter County to take comfort that they didn’t live in a big city. Churches had no custom of coming together in support of an affliction that many in the congregation believed would give them a bad name, or seemed to reflect the member’s weak faith, or was the choice and fault of the person affected. Some churches hid from uncomfortable facts. Others didn’t know what to do. Many felt their responsibilities extended only to their congregations and no further. Whatever the case, their silence hid how widely addiction had spread. “I was tired of being quiet,” Angie told me. “Silence is what’s killing people. We put on the pretty face that’s the look of church: everybody’s dressed, looking great—‘How you doing?’ ‘Wonderful!’ But if we can get people to start opening up, can you imagine what we would learn?”