Finding God in a Bar

Religion, shame and purpose.

Coming off Easter Weekend, it felt right to post this.

There are moments where I miss church, not everything, but more so the community aspect of it. Being black in Brooklyn and seeing people out of church on Easter Sunday, it’ll do something to you. It reminds you of where you used to be, puts life into perspective. Seeing beautiful families together in their Sunday best, it takes you to a time from yesteryear.

Religion and I have a strained relationship, almost as if religion is a former lover. A coquette. You stopped seeing each other, life took you in different directions, no bad blood, just different paths. Then Easter happens, and you run into her at a dimly lit bar. You’re ordering a Negroni and boom, you both lock eyes.

There’s no awkwardness, just familiarity. A playful, wholesome flirting between you two, that unspoken thing between two people who know each other’s souls. In a past life, you were intimate, passionate, deeply connected. You learned from each other, grew because of each other. But in this life, you’re in different places. You sit, you talk briefly, she reminds you of something you forgot about yourself, and then the night ends. You both know you won’t see each other again for a while. There’s love there and always will be.

For the first almost two decades of my life, Christianity had a strong hold on me. I went to church, read my Bible, but somewhere along the line I fell out of love with it and have not returned since. Catholicism from primary school through high school, Pentecostalism from my parents’ churches, and a brief stint with the Celestial Church of Christ. There’s something pretty cheeky about growing up both Catholic and Protestant, mutually exclusive beliefs, but who makes these rules anyway?

She gave me a lot. Community, structure, a sense of belonging. But she also gave me shame. That particular gift that religion sometimes hands you quietly, without announcement, and you carry it for years before you even realize what it is. I was taught that certain parts of me were too much, too loud, too different, and so I learned to shrink. I learned to hide. I became shy in a way that went bone deep, not just around strangers but around opportunity, around rooms I deserved to be in.

Think about the greatest R&B artists in history: Whitney Houston, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, Brandy, Usher, the list goes on, but the thing is they were built by the church. That community raised their voices, gave them their stage, shaped everything about how they moved and felt and sang. But success, fame, and talent have a way of pulling you from the foundation that made you. The drift is never dramatic; it’s quiet and gradual, and before you know it, you’re somewhere else entirely. That’s me. I’m not close to the church as I once was.

Moving to New York City was the final seal in the drift from religion. It was an insane decision, moving with no community, no money, yet it was an ambitious and necessary change. I have encountered people from many religious, ethnic, and socio-political backgrounds and learned quickly that we are all the same on this journey. I love perspectives, especially those that clash. We are human; our very existence is contradictory. Religion is just a way to find sense on this floating rock, and I found mine in New York, through the professional work I’ve done, the experiences this city gives you, the conversations with strangers; through that, you slowly realize that nobody has it figured out.

But the city humbles you. Professionally, things are not where they should be; rejected for opportunities, emails not being replied to, and you start to feel a bit of psychosis. A bit deranged, wondering, why me? And then the deeper question creeps in, the one you learned to ask in those pews. How can someone so powerful watch us struggle? What is the point of all this suffering? If God has a plan, then where is mine? The constant rejections, the silence, the feeling of being invisible in a city of millions. It makes you question everything you were ever told about purpose and destiny and what you deserve.

I still got demons from my younger days I wish I could shake ‘em, but they follow me

I’ve spent a good portion of 2025 and now 2026 reflecting, plotting, and trying to break through. Self-analysis is crucial when you are trying to elevate and achieve your wildest dreams. I’ve always thought of myself as a late bloomer, but in a very awkward, self-conscious way. I get in my own way, trying to control things, and I often retreat into a shell instead of letting things be. Most people who know me in person find it funny whenever I say that I am shy, but who knows you better than yourself? That shyness, that hiding, I know where it comes from now. I learned it young. I learned it in church.

I recently redid my portfolio; part of the process was stripping myself to the bare bones. What makes me tick, what are my motivations, and how did I get here? The hard part was the self-analysis. Stripping yourself to the bones and acknowledging your shortcomings is a bitter pill to swallow. Over the last decade, I’ve been blessed to work with some amazing humans on some beautiful projects, from strategy to writing to production, to on-air talent, to selling cars and brand-new luxury clothes; my career has zigzagged.

A few weeks back, I had a conversation with a friend I consider a brother. We debated life, professionally, personally, and what comes with the burden of being a black creative. He said we are professional zig-zaggers, taking the scenic route to our destination. Others have a clearer path to success, but some of us keep digging and digging; it feels like it’ll never come. I’m stuck. Stuck trying to find work, stuck trying to get out of my head. Comparison is the thief of joy.

What inspired this post was aimlessly scrolling, and someone tweeted about Ecclesiastes 9:11:

“The fastest runner doesn’t always win the race, and the strongest warrior doesn’t always win the battle. The wise sometimes go hungry, and the skillful are not necessarily wealthy. And those who are educated don’t always lead successful lives. It is all decided by chance, by being in the right place at the right time.”

That’s what she reminded me of, sitting at that bar. Time and chance. She slid the lesson across like she always did, quietly, without making a fuss. That’s the thing about a former lover who truly knows you; she knows exactly what you need to hear and when. Not a promise. Not a prosperity gospel. Not a plan. Just the truth, plain and unglamorous.

Ecclesiastes 9:11 spoke to my soul, stirred something up, and made me feel alive. Time and chance. Not the sharpest, not the fastest, not the most connected. Time and chance. I’ve had crazy writers and creativity blocks. When that wall comes up, boy, you’re praying for your November 9, 1989.

I write, I produce, I do strategy. I’m putting myself out there, back into the creative spaces that made me. As I climb back to relearning myself, I think about how the night ended. I finished my Negroni as she slid the Bible-shaped glass across the bar, put on her coat, and smiled. No grand goodbye. Just “you already know what you need to do.” A book older than time, reminding me that the race was never just for the swift. That shame she handed me all those years ago, I’m leaving it on the bar. I don’t need to carry it into whatever comes next.

So, as I chase this Negroni with water, the strings of D’Angelo’s “Found My Smile Again” play:

Here’s a toast to those figuring out themselves, flirting with the idea of success. Run towards it, you owe it to yourself.