What the Gospel Means to Me
By Alexander Atkinson Jr.

I’ve been sitting with this thought for quite some time: What does the Gospel mean to you?

For me, the Gospel isn’t just a message—it’s a journey. A love story, really. One that started way back when I was just a child attending Sunday school at the William Duncan Memorial Church, back when it was still a Methodist church. That’s where I first heard the name Jesus. There were good lessons—stories about kindness, miracles, and this man who loved people deeply. But as a kid, I didn’t fully grasp it. I heard the stories, but I didn’t feel them yet.

Years passed, and when I was 18, my family—Mom, Dad, and my sister—started attending the same church again. Only now, it had become an Assembly of God church. And wow… it was different. The place felt alive. I mean really alive. The music, the energy, the joy—it was contagious. I remember seeing the youth group around town, and something inside me stirred. I couldn’t explain it then, but it was like my heart whispered, They’ve got something I need.

I felt the same thing watching my parents. A kind of peace. A light. A quiet strength. I wanted that.

Then one cold October evening, everything changed.

My cousin, best friend, and I were walking near the Duncan Church when we heard music spilling out the front doors. Guitars, singing, voices full of life. The church was packed. I felt this strong pull, like something—or Someone—was calling me in. I said, “Hey, let’s go inside. It might be warm in there.” (That was the excuse I gave, anyway.)

So we walked in and found a seat near the back. I felt a little awkward but strangely at home. The singing was electric. The preacher was full of fire and joy. I don’t remember the message or what he preached that night—but I do remember the moment that came next.

He gave what’s called an altar call, an invitation for anyone who wanted prayer or to make a decision to follow Jesus. And in that moment, I knew: This is it. This is what I’ve been searching for.
My hand went up. I thought I’d just get prayed for from afar.

But then came the challenge: “If you raised your hand, come forward.”

My heart was racing. My palms were sweaty. But I went.

I knelt down at the front pew, completely unsure of what to do. I didn’t know how to pray. I didn’t even have the words. And then—tap on my shoulder. A man with a big smile knelt next to me. He was the youth pastor. “Can I pray with you?” he asked. I nodded, a bit nervous. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted.

He just smiled and said, “That’s okay. I’ll help.” And he led me through a simple, honest prayer.

That night, something changed in me. It wasn’t about religion. It wasn’t about tradition. It was about love. Real, overwhelming, unconditional love. A kind of love I didn’t earn—but was offered freely.

That’s what the Gospel means to me.

It’s the kindness of a youth pastor.
The warmth of a crowded church on a cold night.
The way music can stir something deep in your soul.
It’s hope when you feel lost.
It’s grace when you feel unsure.
It’s a fresh start when you didn’t know you needed one.

The Gospel isn’t just something I believe—it’s something I experienced. A love that found me, called me in, and changed everything.

And I’m still on that journey.

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“The Gospel is not just good news—it’s the greatest invitation ever given, whispered straight to the heart.”