I learned to fear God and my sexuality in church basements. In recovery, everything changed.
By Timothy Schraeder Rodriguez
Most of the most profound moments of my life have happened in church basements. In my early formative years in the musty, fluorescent-lit rooms beneath the sanctuary of my childhood church in the Midwest, I first learned about spirituality, God, and salvation under the care of Sunday school teachers and flannelgraph.
As a gay man struggling with addiction, decades later, I found my way back to those humble spaces in the basements of cathedrals in New York City, where I discovered that the path back to recovery was also a road back to faith.
As a youth group kid in the 1990s, I was the cringy kid with the WWJD bracelets, always eager to share my faith and invite others to church. I didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs. But that boisterous faith would soon be challenged as I stepped into adulthood and began to grapple with my sexuality.
For most of my twenties, I worked as a professional Christian in Evangelical Christian megachurches. I also found myself in church basements with other people like me who were grappling with their faith and sexuality, hoping God could change us through conversion therapy.
Of course, that didn’t work, but I had enough faith to believe God could change me if God wanted to. When the change I was praying for didn’t happen, I never doubted the efficacy of the program or God’s power. I just assumed there was something wrong with me. It took me a while, but I finally had the courage to walk out of the dark church basements and into the bright lights at gay nightclubs.
Being incredibly socially awkward, I used alcohol (and eventually other substances) to feel comfortable in my own skin and connected to this new world I found myself a part of. It helped calm my nerves, ease the pain of losing my job in a career that I loved, and fill the spiritual void after my departure from the church.
Don’t get me wrong, it was fun for a while. I had a decade of lost time to compensate for, and I didn’t waste a moment of it. I found myself out at bars singing showtunes until 2 a.m. or dancing the night away with new friends. But, over time, all of that started to take its toll.
Going out once or twice a week turned into an almost everyday occurrence. A cocktail or two turned into blacking out and not remembering how I got home or how many drinks I had. My work suffered. Friendships began to fray. And I found myself spiraling. I was losing myself all over again, only this time it wasn’t to religion; it was addiction.
Of course, I didn’t think my drinking was a problem. I thought the problem was everything and everyone else around me and decided the best course of action was a change of scenery. So, I moved to New York City for a fresh start.
In theory, it was a good idea. I didn’t know many people there so I didn’t go out nearly as much. Instead, I found myself drinking at home on my own and on a first-name basis with the staff at the liquor store around the corner from my apartment.
When the pandemic shutdown was looming in 2020, when sensible people were running to get groceries, face masks, and Clorox wipes, I found myself stocking up on cases of wine to see me through. And through the darkness of the early days of the pandemic, I came face-to-face with the harsh reality of my addiction.
Scores of empty bottles, drinking nearly around the clock, missed Zoom meetings at work, and the end of a situationship were all of the proof I need to see my problem clearly. I knew I needed to make a change before things got worse than they already were.
Because I’d seen a friend of mine post regularly about being sober on social media, I reached out and asked him how he did it. He told me to find my way to a recovery meeting, and as much as I didn’t want to go, I found my way to the basement of a church in New York City.
Part of me felt triggered by the dark room, folding chairs, prayers, and talk about spirituality. For a minute, I thought I had time warped back into a conversion therapy group. Yet, strangely, something felt comforting about it all. The rhythms and language echoed something familiar but sounded brand-new. In that meeting, I raised my hand and confessed aloud for the first time, Hi, I’m Tim. I’m an alcoholic.
That was the beginning of what’s been a three-year recovery journey so far.
I learned to fear God and my sexuality in church basements. That fear and shame led me away from church for a long time. I dealt with the pain of that loss with alcohol, trying to find community and connection when I felt so disconnected.
When I hit my “rock bottom,” I found myself in the place where it all started—only, this time, I was surrounded by gay people who were talking about how having faith in God or a Higher Power kept them sober. Those recovery meetings allowed me to bring my whole self and find the acceptance, love, community, and connection with God I had longed for all those years. All in a church basement.
Four or five times a week, in unison with those gathered with me at the close of our 12-Step meetings, I repeat a simple prayer:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
There are many things about my past I cannot change. There are years lost I can never gain back. But, I can change my relationship with the past and the people and places that were a part of it. As the prayer reminds me, the wisdom lies in knowing the difference.
I never thought the healing from the trauma the church caused me or the cure for my addiction would be found in a church basement, but I guess that’s pretty on-brand for me (and for my Higher Power).
Sobriety has given me a new frame of reference for spirituality and spiritual practices. I heard someone in a recovery meeting say once, “Religion is for people who’re afraid of going to hell. Spirituality is for those who’ve already been there.”
I can attest to the truth of that and have seen it in my own life. As I’ve walked the path of recovery, my sobriety hasn’t just saved me from addiction; it’s opened the door to a relationship with a Higher Power that I never thought possible.
Today, when I descend those familiar stairs into a church basement, I’m not filled with fear or shame, but with gratitude and hope. Sobriety didn’t just lead me back to spirituality—it led me back to myself. And, in finding myself, I found a connection to something greater, a sense of purpose, and a faith that encompasses all aspects of who I am.
Timothy Schraeder Rodriguez is Midwesterner-turned-New Yorker who writes about life, gay stuff, spirituality, sobriety, and everything in between. He is currently working on his first book, a memoir entitled: Good Church Kid, releasing in 2026. Follow him on Substack or Instagram.
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