Red Chapel St Stephen’s single bell is still, its call to worship missing from early Sunday sounds: a car door shutting, two dogs barking, that’s all— the porch door’s locked, the belfry’s out of bounds. Fondly named Red Chapel, it has stood a hundred and sixty years, perched on its knoll of sandstone. It proffered The Word with comfort food to christen, marry, bury, sustain, console. Flowers in pots bedeck each second step— wreaths of remembrance for former tranquil days— for now the sins of father-priest entrap the conscience of all, a societal malaise. The church must pay the price,…