This series documents rural roadside religious signs found across the American South—plywood sermons, often hand-painted and sun-bleached, declaring eternal truths in all caps: FEAR GOD WHO HAS POWER TO SEND YOU TO HELL, IS YOUR MOUTH FULL OF CURSING?, GOD IS NOT MAD AT YOU NO MATTER WHAT.
These signs aren’t subtle. They’re not trying to be. They’re attempts at conversion by volume—meant to startle, to convict, to save. They function like modern-day burning bushes, though considerably less discreet.
For me, their power lies not in theology but in theater. I’m drawn to their certainty, their stubbornness. They’re relics of belief nailed to the landscape, shouting into the void as eighteen-wheelers scream past.
I photograph them not as a believer, but as a curious passerby on the road to Damascus, so to speak. Still wondering who paints these signs, and whether anyone has ever pulled over, moved by the message.
This is less a spiritual journey than a cultural one. A visual archive of roadside revelation—both sincere and absurd—gathered on a long, strange drive through America’s eternal altar call.