Spiritual Consent

Chapter 1 — The Moment It Clicked

Something I’ve been thinking about lately is this: why is it that in the workplace—and in society in general—we’re told not to talk about politics, religion, or sex, yet in group settings like sporting events, meetings, and social gatherings, we often assume everyone believes the same thing?

We navigate these topics carefully one-on-one, but collectively, that caution seems to disappear.

We are more diverse in belief now than we have ever been. And yet, in these shared spaces, that diversity is often ignored—or worse, overridden. That tension is what pushed me to start looking at this more closely.

Before I go any further, I want to be clear about something: I come from all angles of this.

I have been the evangelist. I have knocked on doors. I have written scripture on receipts. I have told people they were going to hell for who they are. That is not easy to admit, and it is something I have had to work through—and eventually forgive myself for.

At that time in my life, I genuinely believed I was doing the right thing. If I did not share the gospel, then I was not obeying Jesus. If I was not obeying Jesus, then I was not going to heaven. And if that was true for me, then it had to be true for everyone else.

It did not matter if I knew someone well, or even if I loved them. If I encountered them, I felt responsible—responsible for their eternity.

As I grew older, that perspective began to change.

There is a passage I grew up hearing from Paul: when he was a child, he thought like a child, and when he became a man, he put away childish things. That idea stayed with me, and over time, I began to recognize a feeling I did not yet have language for.

It did not feel right to impose something that personal onto someone else—especially when they had not chosen to have that conversation in the first place.

That feeling kept returning in a simple but persistent thought:

I did not choose this.

I did not choose to talk about this.
I did not choose to engage in this moment.

And yet, somehow, I was in it.

That realization led me to a different question:

What would it look like to have consent in these kinds of conversations?

I am not saying that people should not have beliefs, and I am not saying that people should not share them. Just like I would not tell someone not to confess their love to another person, I am not arguing for silence.

But no one starts there.

You do not walk up to a stranger and lead with that.

There is context. There is relationship. There is mutual willingness.

There is consent.

And that is when the idea started to take shape for me:

Maybe the issue is not belief.

Maybe it is access.

Chapter 2 — We Already Understand Consent

Growing up, we learn what consent is—even if we do not always call it that.

We are taught not to take things that do not belong to us. We are taught to ask before we hug someone. At a basic level, we learn that other people have boundaries—and that those boundaries deserve respect.

As we get older, that understanding deepens.

Movements like Me Too have pushed society to take physical consent more seriously. While we are far from perfect, there is now a much clearer expectation that access to someone’s body requires permission. We hear phrases like “my body, my choice,” and we increasingly recognize that autonomy matters.

At the same time, we have started to take emotional boundaries more seriously as well. We learn to recognize when relationships are unhealthy. We give ourselves permission to step away from people who harm us. We begin to understand that not everyone is entitled to our time, our energy, or our vulnerability.

Consent shows up in everyday ways too.

We respect a “no soliciting” sign on a front door. We understand that asking someone out involves the possibility of rejection. We recognize that access—whether to a person’s home, their time, or their emotions—is not automatic.

It must be offered, not assumed.

None of this is perfect. Violations still happen. Consent is still ignored. But as a society, we have reached a point where we can at least agree on the principle: there are consequences when consent is not respected.

So if we understand consent in physical spaces, and we are learning to respect it in emotional spaces, and we honor it even in something as simple as a sign on a door…

Why does it disappear when the topic becomes spiritual?

Just like I do not give access to my body to just anyone, and just like I do not give access to my emotions to just anyone, and just like I do not give access to my home to just anyone, I do not think I am required to give access to my spirituality to just anyone either.

And maybe it is time we start treating that the same way.

Chapter 3 — What Is Spiritual Consent?

Seeking understanding is part of being human. It is one of the few things we all share.

None of us asked to be here, and yet here we are—trying to make sense of a life we did not choose, with no clear instructions on what the goal is or how to get there. So we look to others. We look to people who seem wiser, more experienced, or more certain than we are.

We ask questions that do not have easy answers.

Will I see the people I have lost again?
Why does suffering exist?
Why is there such disparity in wealth, access, and privilege?
And if this is all there is… is that enough?

Those questions can be unsettling. They can be frightening.

They were for me.

And when people find what they believe to be answers, those answers are often shaped by where they were born, who raised them, the communities they grew up in, and the environments that surrounded them. None of that is inherently wrong. It is part of how humans make meaning.

But something else happens too.

When someone becomes convinced they have found the truth—the meaning of life, the right belief system, the correct path—they often feel obligated to share it.

Not just to share it.

To spread it.

Because if they do not, they risk losing something themselves—a reward, a promise, a sense of certainty.

I understand that mindset because I lived it.

If I was not spreading the gospel, then what did that say about me? Was I even doing what I was supposed to do?

That question drove me more than I realized at the time.

Which brings me to what I mean by spiritual consent.

Spiritual consent is about access—access to someone’s beliefs, their identity, their sense of meaning, and often, their fears about ultimate consequences.

If I had to define it simply, it would be this:

Spiritual consent is permission to engage someone in matters of belief, identity, and ultimate meaning.

And I want to pause on identity for a moment, because it is a key part of this—even though this concept goes beyond it.

Identity is who someone is. It can include sexuality, gender expression, personality, values, culture, heritage, and the ways someone understands themselves in the world.

Over time, we have started to recognize that identity is not something that should be dictated by someone else. It is not something that can be assigned or corrected from the outside.

No one else gets to decide who another person is.

Spiritual consent extends that same principle. It acknowledges that a person’s search for meaning—their beliefs about life, purpose, and even eternity—also belongs to them.

Without consent, spiritual engagement stops being a conversation and starts becoming an imposition.

It takes something deeply personal and treats it as if it is open for access at any time, by anyone who feels justified.

I want to be clear about what I am not saying.

This is not about banning conversations. It is not about silencing belief. It is not about removing religion from public life.

It is about removing the assumption that anyone has automatic access to something this personal.

Because belief is not the issue.

Assumed access is.

Chapter 4 — Why Evangelism Ignores Consent

As a former believer and minister, I want to be clear about something: this is not a dismissal of anyone’s belief system.

In fact, I can genuinely hope that everyone is right about what they believe when it comes to spirituality.

That hope costs me nothing.

But evangelism operates from a different place.

At its core, evangelism is built on exclusivity. It claims that there is one correct way—one path to truth, one path to reward, one path to a life that is ultimately right.

Whether that reward is described as heaven, blessing, prosperity, or belonging, the message is the same:

This is the way.

And when someone truly believes that, it creates something powerful.

It creates urgency.
It creates responsibility.
It creates a sense of care—even love—for other people.

Because if you believe you have the answer, then not sharing it can feel like harm. It can feel like neglect. It can feel like failure.

I understand that because I lived it.

I have not been in a church service in close to a decade. I have not opened a Bible in just as long. And yet, I still remember the scriptures. I still remember the routines. I still understand the internal logic of the belief system I was a part of.

I know what it feels like to believe that sharing your faith is not optional, but required.

From the inside, evangelism feels like obedience.

But from the outside, it can feel very different.

If someone passionately promotes a belief we consider fringe—something we might label a cult—we are quick to question it. If someone pushes a multi-level marketing scheme, we recognize the pressure and the tactics. If someone aggressively promotes a political movement we disagree with, we call it out.

In those cases, we understand that belief does not grant someone unlimited access to others.

And yet, when it comes to religious evangelism, we often make an exception.

We accept the knock on the door.
We accept the billboard warning us about hell.
We accept public platforms being used to tell us what we should believe about eternity.

We treat it as normal—even when it crosses the same boundaries we would question in any other context.

That is the power of exclusivity.

If someone believes there is only one correct answer, then they will feel justified in sharing it everywhere, with anyone, at any time.

Not just justified—

Obligated.

“If I do not spread this, I am failing.”

That belief does not come from cruelty. It often comes from sincerity.

But sincerity does not remove impact.

Because even if the intent is care, the result can still be intrusion.

And this is where the line matters:

Intent does not override consent.

Chapter 5 — My Breaking Point: The Problem of Eternity

What happens when someone dies?

The first thing we feel is loss. We miss them. They were part of our lives—our routines, our conversations, our sense of normal—and suddenly they are gone.

That absence creates a kind of silence that invites questions.

Was that it?
Was a full lifetime reduced to a date on a stone?
Is there anything beyond that?

Wanting more than that is human. Wanting to see the people we love again is human. It makes sense that so many belief systems center on reunion—on continuation—on something beyond the limits of a single life.

I understand that deeply.

When my brother died, I was in ministry. I spoke at his funeral—not just a eulogy, but the message.

In front of hundreds of people, I told them that if they wanted to see my brother again, the way I believed I would, they needed to give their lives to Jesus. That without that, they would not inherit that same outcome. That they would be separated—not just from him, but from anyone they loved who believed the same way.

That message did not just affect the people in the room.

It affected me.

Because suddenly, eternity was not just an abstract idea.

It was personal.
It was urgent.
It was tied to someone I loved.

And the logic of it created tension I could not ignore.

On one hand, eternity was presented as compassion. Life on earth would be difficult—there would be pain, loss, and suffering—but if you endured and believed the right things, you would be rewarded with something eternal.

On the other hand, if you did not believe the right things, the consequence was equally eternal—just in the opposite direction.

That contrast stayed with me.

Because belief is not formed in a vacuum.

Most of us inherit it. We absorb it from our parents, our communities, our environments. We are shaped long before we are fully capable of questioning what we are being taught.

It is not malicious.

It is how humans learn.

But it raises a difficult question.

If someone grows up in a different place, with different influences, and arrives at a different belief—are they wrong in a way that deserves eternal consequence?

Not because they were harmful.
Not because they were cruel.
Not because they rejected goodness.

But because they searched—just like I did—and found a different answer.

That was the breaking point for me.

I could not reconcile a system that asked me to believe that my answer was correct, and theirs was not, when both of us arrived there through the same human process of searching, learning, and trusting what we were given.

So I started asking questions I could not un-ask.

Who is right?
Who is wrong?
What are the consequences of getting that wrong?

And more than anything:

Is it justifiable to assign eternal consequences to people who were doing the same thing I was—trying to understand?

Chapter 6 — The Question That Changed Everything

As my faith began to shift, I did what a lot of people do in that space—I tried to talk it through.

I wasn’t looking to walk away. I was trying to understand, to reconcile, to hold onto something that felt like it was slipping.

And in those conversations, one question kept coming up:

“What if you’re wrong?”

It’s a powerful question.

And it lands.

Because it isn’t trivial.

This isn’t about being wrong on something small—like a prediction, a preference, or even a major life decision.

This is framed as eternal.

The stakes are as high as they can possibly be.

So when I was asked that question, I had to take it seriously.

And the honest answer is:

It still gets to me.

I can’t say with absolute certainty what happens after this life. I don’t think anyone can.

And when the consequences are framed as eternal—heaven or hell—that uncertainty carries weight.

But after sitting with that question, my answer became clearer:

If I’m wrong, then I will accept the consequences of my decision.

I’ve tried to understand. I’ve read, listened, questioned, and searched.

Whatever the outcome is, it belongs to me.

And then a different question emerged—one I couldn’t ignore:

Why isn’t that same question asked before trying to bring someone else along?

Because if I’m wrong, the consequences are mine.

But if someone evangelizes, and they’re wrong—

They’re not just wrong alone.

They’re wrong with others.

That thought changed everything for me.

I couldn’t carry that responsibility. I couldn’t accept the idea that I might influence someone’s belief about something as significant as eternity—and be wrong about it.

Because then it’s not just my decision anymore.

It becomes theirs.

Shaped by me.

And that felt like a line I shouldn’t cross.

When exclusivity is the foundation—when there is only one right answer, and everything else is wrong—the pressure to bring others with you is built in.

But so is the risk.

And I realized I was no longer willing to take that risk on behalf of someone else.

Chapter 7 — I Refused to Baptize

When I was in ministry, I did a lot.

I preached. I went on missions. I worked camps and service events. I led a student organization. I showed up whenever the church doors were open. I tried to serve people with love and compassion and point them toward Christ for salvation.

But there was one thing I never did.

I never baptized anyone.

It wasn’t because the opportunity never came up—it did, a few times. And it wasn’t because there weren’t people available to do it—there always were. Pastors were more than willing, and often I wasn’t even in my home church when I was preaching.

But even when I could have stepped into that role, I didn’t.

At the time, I didn’t have the language for why.

Now I do.

It felt like I was signing someone else’s contract.

That instinct didn’t come out of nowhere.

When I was baptized, it was alongside my younger brother on Mother’s Day. The week before, I had gone to a youth revival at a different church. If you’ve ever been to one of those, you know the atmosphere—music building, emotions running high, a speaker who knows how to hold a room.

It was intense.

It was different from my normal routine. Different from my home church. Different from anything I was used to.

I remember sitting there, head down, gripping the pew, feeling overwhelmed.

And underneath all of it was fear.

I didn’t want to go to hell.

So when the invitation came, I went forward.

The preacher met me with a kind confidence and told me he knew I was coming—that’s why the music hadn’t stopped yet.

In that moment, it felt like confirmation. Like God was involved. Like everything I was feeling had a purpose.

I gave my life to Christ that night.

When I got home, I told my little brother. He was already half-asleep, but I woke him up enough to tell him what had happened—that I was saved, that I was going to heaven, and that I wanted him to as well.

He told me he had almost done it the week before, but had waited.

So I did what I had just learned.

I led him in the same prayer.

The next week, we were baptized together.

Standing side by side, we made a public statement—not just about belief, but about belonging. About sharing the same future.

The same eternity.

That moment stayed with me.

Years later, when my brother died, it stayed with me even more.

Because that baptism wasn’t just a ritual anymore. It wasn’t just a symbol.

It was a declaration I had participated in—one that connected belief, identity, and eternity in a way that felt permanent.

And I realized something I hadn’t been able to articulate before.

I didn’t want to recreate that moment for someone else.

Not because I didn’t care.

But because I wasn’t willing to be the one who sealed it.

Chapter 8 — The Harm We Don’t Talk About

When spiritual consent is not considered, we often fail to recognize who is actually in the room.

Not everyone is experiencing those moments the same way. Not everyone is hearing those words from a neutral place.

Some are carrying religious trauma from things that happened to them as children—things that should never have happened. Some carry the weight of trying to save someone who died before they “accepted” the right belief. Some are navigating identities their church told them were wrong.

Others have been told—repeatedly—that their beliefs are invalid, their lives misguided, their existence somehow outside of what is acceptable.

And some are simply trying to move on—

and are not allowed to.

We are used to certain phrases.

“I’ll be praying for you.”
“You’re in my thoughts.”
“God will bless you.”

These are often said with good intentions. They are part of what people have been taught to say when someone is hurting.

But intent does not erase impact.

For someone who does not share that belief—or someone who has been hurt within that system—those words can feel less like comfort and more like assumption.

Like their experience is being filtered through someone else’s framework without permission.

There is another layer to this as well.

Sometimes people are not seen as people—

but as projects.

Someone struggling with addiction, someone trying to reconcile a mistake, someone in a vulnerable moment—these situations can become opportunities for intervention rather than moments for understanding.

It can feel like there is something to gain in their transformation, as if their story becomes part of someone else’s validation.

And this is not only an issue between believers and non-believers.

Spiritual consent matters between believers too.

Different interpretations. Different expressions of faith. Different ways of processing grief and pain.

These differences exist even within the same belief system.

And when one version overrides another without consent, the harm is still there.

I remember the days and weeks after my brother died.

I remember how lonely that felt.

Because that level of loss—real, human loss—could not be softened by doctrine.

It could not be explained away.
It could not be resolved with certainty.

And even though my church cared, it wasn’t enough.

Not because they didn’t try.

But because what I needed in that moment wasn’t explanation.

It was space.

Chapter 9 — The Line I Won’t Cross

Some people might read this and think I’m making too big of a deal out of something simple—people caring about others and wanting them to go to heaven.

And maybe, on the surface, it looks that way.

But for me, it isn’t small.

Nearly twenty years later, I am still working through—and forgiving myself for—who I was when I was evangelizing. When I told people that because of who they were, they were not going to heaven. When I told people that because of what they believed, they would not share the same eternal outcome as me.

Even if I had been right then and I am wrong now, I still don’t believe it was my place to make that determination for someone else.

And if someone reads this and wonders whether I am saying that no one should believe anything at all—the answer is no.

Not at all.

What I am saying is this:

If something is true—if a belief system is real and meaningful—then arriving at it should be an individual process.

It should come from lived experience, observation, reflection, and personal conviction.

Not from being pulled into it without consent.

There is no way to say this without it sounding dramatic, but the reality is:

There is no decision a person can make that carries more weight than what they believe about eternity.

Whether there is something beyond this life.
Whether we are reunited with those we love.
Whether there is continuation—or not.

Those are not small questions.

And because of that, I have drawn a line for myself.

I am responsible for my spirituality.

I am not responsible for anyone else’s.

And I will not take that risk for someone else.

Chapter 10 — What I’m Not Saying

I want to be clear about what this is not.

This is not an argument against religion. It is not an argument against belief systems. It is not even an argument against having conversations about the biggest questions any of us will ever face.

Those conversations matter.

They are part of what it means to be human.

But they should happen with consent.

If there is a relationship—if this is someone you truly care about, a friend, a family member, someone you share life with—and those conversations naturally move toward belief, meaning, and spirituality, that is not only acceptable—

it is healthy.

That is how understanding grows.

What I am pushing back against is not expression.

It is imposition.

You can have your beliefs.

You can live your beliefs.

But imposing those beliefs onto someone else without their consent crosses a line.

So if there is a framework for this, it is simple:

Share, but do not assume access.
Care, but do not override boundaries.
And when it is time to speak, speak where there is openness.

Because the truth is, all of us are searching.

Every day, in different ways, we are trying to understand our lives, our purpose, and what comes next.

I can hope that the answers people find bring them peace, clarity, and meaning.

But telling someone their answers are wrong—or giving them answers before they have had the space to search for themselves, without consent—

that is the issue.

That is what this is about.

Chapter 11 — If It’s Real, It Doesn’t Need a Megaphone

When I travel—whether I’m in an entertainment district, at a festival, or at a conference—there’s often a familiar scene on a street corner:

Someone with a megaphone, a sign, and a Bible, speaking to anyone who happens to pass by.

It’s a public space.

But the message is not neutral.

And more often than not, the message isn’t about compassion or love.

It’s about warning.
About judgment.
About who is right, who is wrong—and what the consequences will be.

I’ve seen it in a lot of places, but especially in spaces like Pride, where people are already navigating identity, belonging, and visibility.

In those moments, the message being amplified is not one of care.

It’s one of condemnation.

And it raises a question for me:

If this is the most important decision any of us will ever make—what we believe about life, meaning, and eternity—why would it be reduced to a moment on a street corner?

Why would something that significant be handed out through a megaphone, printed on a shirt, or packaged on a table with slogans and merchandise?

If what someone believes is genuine—if it is rooted in truth, in care, in something meaningful—then it doesn’t need to be delivered that way.

Because belief that is real and authentic doesn’t come from volume.

It comes from relationship.

It grows through trust. Through shared experience. Through mutual curiosity.

Through conversations where both people are allowed to ask, to question, and to arrive at understanding together.

The human experience is already complicated enough.

And when belief is introduced without consent—when it is imposed through noise instead of offered through connection—it can do more harm than good.

Not because belief itself is harmful.

But because the way it is delivered ignores the person receiving it.

And that matters.

Chapter 12 — The Door

When I think about spiritual consent, I think about the most private space we have:

Our homes.

In our homes, we get to be who we are without performance, without judgment, without an audience. It’s where we can exist without needing to explain ourselves.

That’s why the idea of the “closet” became such a powerful metaphor—because it represents a space that is meant to be private, but isn’t always allowed to be.

I see spirituality the same way.

The search for meaning, belief, purpose, and identity is deeply personal. It happens in quiet moments, in questions we don’t always say out loud, and in experiences that shape us over time.

And in that space, access should be limited.

Just like not everyone has access to my body.
Just like not everyone has access to my time or my emotions.
Just like not everyone has access to my home.

Not everyone has access to my spirituality.

So what I’m asking for is simple:

Let that boundary be understood.

We already recognize a “no soliciting” sign on a door. We don’t take it personally. We don’t argue with it. We respect it.

Why can’t we do the same when the door is a person?

If someone wants access to something this personal, it shouldn’t start with interruption.

It shouldn’t start with assumption.

It shouldn’t start with intrusion.

It should start with relationship.

With trust.

With openness that is mutual—not forced.

So this is where I land:

You do not have access to my spirituality without my consent.

And I do not have access to yours.