There is a line in the New Testament that has always stayed with me: faith without works is dead. It is a sentence that cuts through abstraction and moves directly into conduct. It is not concerned with metaphysics. It is concerned with behavior. And in many ways, that distinction is what has shaped my complicated relationship with organized religion.
I grew up Catholic. The architecture, the ritual, the symbolism — all of it left an imprint. Catholicism understands visual drama. It understands atmosphere. It understands the power of light and shadow as metaphors for moral struggle. Those aesthetics have undeniably influenced my artistic sensibility. But as I grew older, I found myself increasingly uncomfortable with how often religious identity centered on belief declaration rather than behavioral transformation.
Belief can become a badge. It can function as shorthand for virtue. But the line about works refuses that shortcut. It demands embodiment. It asks whether compassion is practiced, whether humility is exercised, whether forgiveness is extended. Those questions are harder than theological debate.
Over time, I noticed a pattern in broader religious discourse: fixation on miracles, on literal interpretations, on defending doctrine. Far less attention seemed devoted to the practical moral imperative — treat people better. Care for the vulnerable. Resist cruelty. The central ethical thrust sometimes appeared overshadowed by ideological maintenance.
That tension is one reason I hesitate to identify rigidly with a specific religious label. Not because I reject spirituality, and not because I dismiss the possibility of transcendence, but because I am wary of confusing affiliation with integrity. It is possible to proclaim belief loudly and live poorly. It is possible to question metaphysics quietly and behave with decency.
There is also a paradox that I have wrestled with: how can one claim devotion to Christ while bristling when a contemporary religious leader quotes Christ’s own words? When compassion, mercy, or generosity are framed as political rather than moral teachings, something essential has been lost. The teachings become filtered through tribal identity rather than ethical reflection.
For me, distancing from formal identification is less an act of rebellion and more an act of caution. I would rather struggle sincerely with uncertainty than perform certainty for the sake of belonging. I would rather attempt to embody principles imperfectly than declare allegiance perfectly.
This posture leaves room for doubt, and doubt is often portrayed as weakness within religious structures. But doubt can also be intellectual humility. It acknowledges that belief is complex, that life resists simple explanations, that certainty can become arrogance if unexamined.
The spiritual realm remains compelling to me — aesthetically, philosophically, emotionally. I continue to explore religious imagery in my work because it carries archetypal weight. But I resist converting exploration into proclamation. If faith has substance, it should be visible in conduct. If it does not translate into how one treats others, then it is ornamental.
And ornament, however beautiful, is not enough.