Yesterday, on two different social platforms, a pair of not-so-kind followers told me, in no uncertain terms, to “stick to photography and leave religion out of the picture.”
I won’t. I can’t. I don’t know how.
Of course, I told them both—very politely and respectfully—to fuck off.
Here’s the thing: photography, for me, is inherently autobiographical. Lens and life are intimately connected. The way I see the world through my camera is inseparable from the way I experience the world in my inner core. When I say I approach photography “autobiographically,” I mean that every image I take reflects a part of me—my journey, my emotions, my doubts, my insecurities, my dreams, my hopes, my appreciations and celebrations, and even my contradictions.
It’s like writing an autobiography, but instead of ink on paper, I use light and shadow, color and form. Every frame tells a story about where I’ve been, who I am, and, sometimes, who I’m trying to become. It’s deeply personal, this act of photographing because I’m not just documenting the world as it is—I’m showing you the world as I feel it.
That’s why this divide people want to draw between photography and religion doesn’t make sense to me. Over the weekend, I wrote a fictional post (yesterday) about photographing a portrait of Jesus of Nazareth. It stirred something in me, something I hadn’t fully appreciated until then: photography and religion, whether good or bad, right or wrong, intentional or otherwise, are joined at the hip.
I’m a humanist. I don’t believe in a personal god. But here’s the rub: what I’ve sought from both photography and religion, in all their forms, is the same thing. Curiosity. Humanity. Humility. Intimacy.
Think about it. Religion, at its best, asks us to look inward and outward with awe and wonder. It asks us to examine our lives, to connect with something bigger than ourselves, and to see others with compassion and reverence. Isn’t that what photography does, too? Isn’t that the heart of pointing a lens at someone or something—not to take, but to witness?
When I photograph, I’m asking questions. Who are you? Who am I? What does this moment mean? My best work comes from a place of humility, of acknowledging that what’s in front of me is worthy of attention, of care. It comes from curiosity, from an openness to seeing the world as it is, not as I think it should be.
And intimacy—well, that’s the magic of photography. When I’m behind the lens, I’m searching for those moments that make me feel close to life, close to truth. Whether it’s the light falling across someone’s face or the quiet solitude of an empty street, I’m chasing those connections that remind me I’m alive.
So no, I won’t separate photography from religion or life or anything else that matters to me. The two are inseparable because I’m inseparable from them.
To photograph autobiographically is, to be honest, to embrace the messy, beautiful entanglement of what you see and what you feel. It’s an act of faith, in its own way—a faith in the power of an image to reveal not just the world, but yourself.
If anything, photography is religion.
Click.
Jack.
