Iced Coffee and Religious Dissolution
From growing up Christian to understanding my secularism — a pretty basic story.
Like ice corroding the bold and perfectly milky flavor of your favorite iced latte, the taste of religion diluted on my palate at about the time I came out as a lesbian. At the time, I was so subdued with internalized homophobia that I could hardly utter the “L word” in reference to others, let alone myself.
My iced latte of religion was concocted by my religious upbringing. My grandparents are prominent pastors in my hometown of El Paso, Texas. The widely revered frontmen of the church, which my parents softly obligated us to attend growing up. Soft, being the operative word here given that my siblings and I were never forced to participate actively, and even the lowly standard of weekly attendance dilapidated over time. The most comprehensive memories I have of the Sunday mornings that we attended consist of me sitting in our usual sequestered row of seats perpendicular to the stage and only a few steps from the side exit, strategic placement for discreet late arrival and early leave. I sat in random order alongside my three siblings where each of us were absorbed by our phones, my brother and I often playing geometry dash or whatever mobile game was hot at the time while my sisters scrolled through social media. Needless to say, the biggest blessing of it all was that we were never required to accompany our visits with any meaningful level of attendance, not to mention read scripture, although depending on the week we’d be met with a brief but stern scolding for not engaging with the service.
Even before I understood my queerness and came out, I had already earned the reputation of most defiant among my siblings. So it was no surprise that this demeanor carried over to religious doctrine. This “demeanor” toward Christianity is not to be confused with disrespect for educational authority. I considered it an easy task to venerate any given school instructor for their tactful funneling of historical, scientific or philosophical knowledge, and with wholehearted authenticity might I add. I enjoyed school and so did my grades. I simply maintained some imperviousness to theological dogma.
While I lacked the experience and tools to understand the roots of my detachment, I knew it wasn’t much use resisting, especially in a house thats every ritual relied upon its foundation
Much like concealing my sexuality became second nature, so did my adherence to ideological expectation. Praying, which we did in the car every day before school, was always akin to eating broccoli for me, an obligation necessary for proper nutritional balance. In the same way, I understood it wasn’t the only option to achieve this balance. Many people with more than adequate fiber intakes don’t eat broccoli at all. They enjoy a daily dose of spinach in their smoothies or a side of brussel sprouts with their dinner. I would carry this skepticism every time I was implored to invite divine presence in my routine.
That skepticism deepened as I began to grapple with the simultaneous realization of two truths: my own queerness and the way gay people were treated by those upholding their Christian faith. . Understanding my attraction to women, and lack thereof to men, cast those teachings in a harsher light. I was forced to question their authority in my life.
With this, catapulted a journey of deeper education. Historical precedents for queer discrimination, political marginalization, and societal alienation emerged as central to my understanding of oppression and my commitment to leftist, socialist principles of liberation. I began unpacking the intersections of religion, politics, and white supremacy in the policing of all identities.
As the ways in which religion is weaponized to uphold systems of power and justify disenfranchising policies on a national stage became clearer to me, I realized the deep incompatibility between those doctrines and my principles.
At Donald Trump’s inauguration, Bishop Mariann Budde stood as a rare and powerful example of the kind of conception of religion I will always support. When she publicly condemned Trump’s policies and rhetoric as antithetical to Christian values, she reminded the world of the potential for faith to stand in opposition to power, rather than conspire with it. As both an institution and a practice, religion is lost on me. But any expression of faith that is used to disseminate empathy, foster community, solidarity, and advocate for the dignity of all people is something I will always respect and uplift.
My journey to secularism, including the Christianity that shaped it, has taught me empathy in a way no other source has managed to do so significantly. Both the extensions of kindness and the striking amounts of self-righteously deployed scrutiny that I’ve witnessed within the confines of organized religion have compelled me to relentlessly champion the inherent value of every individual and their accompanying personal liberation. It has also taught me, more than anything else, about the urgent necessity of material groundwork. Too often, religion serves to dissuade from tangible needs, ignoring mental health crises, economic hardships, and structural inequalities that many face daily. To authentically and meaningfully honor the dignity of every person, we must address these realities directly, creating spaces where collective stability is prioritized.
In this way, I carry forward lessons from both faith and secularism. At the end of the day, I maintain my principles of commitment to equity. Wherever your conviction stems, progress demands a focus on tangible solutions