I didn’t plan to study religion.

When I was completing my class schedule for my first year at Appalachian State University, I approached it the way I handled most academic tasks back then—not irresponsibly, but without much direction. I was a solid student, usually earning A’s, but I hadn’t yet figured out what I was actually working toward. I needed to take a UCO (freshman seminar), and all of the good ones were taken. I scrolled down the list, jealous of the students in the fun and easy-sounding classes. Eventually, I gave up hope of anything exciting and picked one at random: "Your Home, Your Stories."

When I walked into class, I met my instructor—Carson—who introduced himself as a tour guide and museum manager at a nearby regional museum. I was more than a little confused. What was I supposed to get out of this class?

The entire course centered around Appalachian folklore. The only thing I knew about the Appalachian Mountains was that they were pretty and made for a decent vacation spot. I had no idea about the rich myths, stories, and beliefs that held such power in this region. Even something as simple as the tale of the Brown Mountain Lights, down in the Pisgah National Forest, had me completely enthralled.

What started as a scheduling accident became one of my favorite classes—and more importantly, it flipped a switch in my head. I wasn’t yet able to articulate the questions I was trying to ask, but my journey had begun.

I started seeking out classes that scratched that same itch. One that stood out was called “Religion and Imaginary Worlds.” It helped me realize just how deeply religion shapes not only what we believe, but how we live, how we build stories, how we create meaning. Apologies to the great academics who came before me—I’m merely beating the same drum you’ve been playing for ages. But I was hooked.

I declared a double major in History and Religious Studies, and I’ve never looked back.

I’m fascinated by how studying religion can illuminate society. It’s not just about belief—it’s about culture, power, memory, tradition, rebellion. Sure, we can borrow the life-defining questions from philosophy:
- “God or no God?”
- “Is morality objective or subjective?”
Or my personal favorite:
- “If I crave Cookout at 2 a.m., and then decide whether to go or not—was that a sovereign act of will, or just my gut biome battling my desire to stay home?”

These questions are endlessly fun to hash out over coffee (and yes, I’m always down to chat about them). But beyond the big philosophical dilemmas, religion gives us a framework for exploring everything from politics to pop culture.

Take, for instance, an image from a blog post I once came across about choosing the “right” urinal in a public bathroom.

On the surface, it's absurd. But when you think about it through a religious studies lens, it's revealing: spatial taboos, ritualized behavior, internalized codes that feel moral, even though they're social. Why does breaking the “urinal rule” make our skin crawl? Religion is one of the best tools we have for understanding how those invisible norms are built, enforced, and passed on.

That’s the power of religious studies: it lets us look at the ordinary—and the extraordinary—with new eyes. It gives us language and tools to study the structures that shape our worlds, whether sacred or secular.

Take my current area of focus: Appalachian Snake Handling. The history is rich. The theology is fascinating. The comparisons to broader Pentecostalism and American religious trends open up an entire world of exploration. There are legal, political, and ethical debates. You can approach it through fieldwork, archival research, interviews, or theoretical frameworks. Or you can simply sit and ponder.

That’s the beauty of it.

In short, even in a world where religion may seem to be on the decline, its value as an analytical tool is only increasing. From polygamy to protest, ritual to rebellion, religion is a consistent undercurrent in human history and culture. You don’t need a PhD or an Ivy League library card to start asking good questions—just a curious mind and a willingness to look closer. (Though, for what it’s worth, I’m fortunate to be asking mine from a pretty good library.)

Curiosity is enough.  

Whatever corner of this world you choose to explore—whether it’s sacred texts, snake handlers, or bathroom rituals—I encourage you to find the questions that keep you curious. 

And never, ever stop asking them.