I walked away from the institution, but somehow faith followed me home.
Alright… let’s talk about the thing we’re not supposed to talk about at brunch unless someone’s had at least two mimosas and one emotional breakthrough:
Religion.
Yeah, I said it. Don’t clutch your pearls—unless they’re vintage, in which case, respect.
I usually avoid this topic because religion, like a bad ex, has a way of turning a simple conversation into a full-blown emotional crime scene. It’s messy. It’s loaded. And everybody thinks they’re right in a way that feels… suspiciously aggressive for people claiming moral superiority.
But here’s the twist: I’m talking about it anyway.
Because lately? I’ve been struggling with it.
And not in a dramatic, “I’m joining a monastery and growing a beard” kind of way. More like… I like the idea of faith. I want something to believe in. Something bigger than me. Something that doesn’t ghost me when life gets hard.
But let’s be honest—the “religious” options for the G.L.O.W. community?
Sparse.
Limiting.
And about as welcoming as a circuit party with a strict dress code and no guest list.
I was raised Roman Catholic. Heavy on the guilt, light on the nuance. I went to church, said the prayers, stood up, sat down, knelt like I was training for liturgical CrossFit.
But I’m not practicing now.
And once you actually study the Bible—like, academically, not just “highlight your favorite verses for Instagram captions”—you start to realize who wrote it, when it was written, and why.
And suddenly… your patience evaporates.
I have very little tolerance for people who treat the Bible like it’s an IKEA manual for life. Step one: assemble morality. Step two: tighten screws of judgment. Step three: blame the gays.
And don’t even get me started on the cherry-pickers. The ones who treat scripture like a buffet—“I’ll take a little Leviticus to justify my opinions, skip the parts about kindness, and double down on hypocrisy, thank you.”
Because let’s not kid ourselves.
Any way you slice it, the gays have no place in it.
But honestly? How Catholics interpret the Bible socially is the least of the institution’s concerns.
Let’s talk about the elephant in the sanctuary.
The hypocrisy.
The scandals.
The ongoing, seemingly endless revelations of sexual misconduct within the church hierarchy.
It’s not shocking anymore—it’s exhausting.
And that’s when I checked out.
I gave up on organized religion the day I turned 18 and realized I could legally stop going to Sunday mass without my mother staging a full Italian opera in the kitchen.
Liberation, baby.
Since then, I’ve called myself “spiritual.”
Which is code for: I believe in something, I just don’t want a committee telling me how to feel about it.
I believe in a higher power.
I believe in manifestation, in energy, in the idea that maybe—just maybe—there’s something out there nudging us, guiding us, whispering, “girl… not that decision.”
And I’ve simplified my belief system down to two commandments.
Not ten.
Not carved into stone.
Just two. Something that could fit on a chic little rock on your coffee table:
1. Treat others how you would like to be treated.
2. Don’t be an asshole.
Honestly? That covers a lot of ground.
We could’ve saved Moses a whole trip.
But here’s the part I don’t joke about.
I have faith.
And I didn’t expect that.
Because faith, for me, isn’t about rules or rituals or robes that cost more than my rent.
It’s about feeling less alone.
It’s about hope.
Hope that I’m not just out here raw-dogging existence with no backup plan. Hope that there’s something—someone—on my side. Something that sees me fully.
The good.
The bad.
The “we’re not going to talk about that night” of it all.
An entity that understands my thoughts—the ones I’m proud of, and the ones I wish I could delete like a bad tweet from 2011.
An entity that doesn’t meet me with judgment, but with understanding.
Not condemnation.
Not shame.
Just a quiet, steady whisper:
Do better.
And maybe that’s what faith actually is.
Not a rulebook.
Not a performance.
Not a place where you have to shrink yourself to fit someone else’s version of holiness.
Maybe it’s just that voice inside you—the one that calls you higher without tearing you down.
The one that says you’re not perfect, but you’re not beyond grace either.
So no, I don’t have all the answers.
I’m not here to convert you.
I’m barely here trying to convince myself half the time.
But I do know this:
If your version of faith makes you feel small, ashamed, or excluded… it’s not faith. It’s control.
And baby—we didn’t fight this hard, live this loud, and survive this much just to hand our power back to anyone.
Even God.
So believe in something.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if it’s evolving.
Even if it doesn’t come with a choir and a collection plate.
Believe in something that makes you kinder.
Stronger.
More honest.
More you.
And if all else fails?
Remember the commandments.
Don’t be an asshole.
And try—just try—to do better.
That’s a religion I can get behind.
Thank you for reading. If you’d like to comment on this piece or suggest topics you’d like to hear in future articles, please reach out at RyanRockfordNYC@gmail.com.
Also, I’ve started a new adventure, and I’d like you to come along with me. Check out my new website at OffTheRecordAfterHours.com. There, you’ll find a hub of new types of material for you to enjoy, including my new Podcast and Blog series. Stop by and leave a comment, or say hello. You’ll find even more of the snaky NYC Gay Daddy style you’ve come to love. No judgement – no bullshit. Just Us.
