Boy, if Garth Ennis had created a religion, I would sure like to

Hear, O seekers of story and spirit, the words of James Marsden, who declared: “Boy, if Garth Ennis had created a religion, I would sure like to be a part of that. It just makes sense, the way he tackles things in it. It's really heavy stuff and it's incredibly well written.” In these words is more than admiration for an artist—it is reverence for the power of narrative, the power of a voice that dares to question, challenge, and illuminate the hidden corners of human existence.

The origin of this saying lies in Marsden’s involvement with Ennis’s legendary creation, Preacher, a comic series that tore open the veil of organized religion, morality, and power. Garth Ennis, with pen as sharp as a prophet’s sword, crafted tales that held nothing sacred except truth itself. His worlds were filled with flawed heroes, merciless satire, and deep questions about belief and meaning. In this, Marsden saw not merely entertainment, but a system of thought—so compelling, so relentless—that it felt like a new religion, one stripped of hypocrisy and ornament, where honesty itself was the sacrament.

Consider the meaning. Marsden’s words remind us that true religion, at its core, is not ritual alone but the search for truth. If Ennis’s stories could inspire such devotion, it was because they cut to the marrow of existence, forcing readers to confront the realities of corruption, redemption, suffering, and love. This is why he speaks of it as “heavy stuff”—because it carries the weight of life itself, the burdens that every man and woman must face. The beauty of Ennis’s craft was not in easy answers, but in questions that would not let the soul rest.

History itself shows us how powerful stories can become a kind of faith. The myths of ancient Greece were once the lifeblood of their people, giving form to their fears, their hopes, their triumphs. The epics of Homer were not mere entertainment but education, shaping the character of generations. Likewise, Shakespeare’s plays shaped the moral imagination of England, teaching through fiction what sermons could not always reach. So too with Garth Ennis: his stories became modern parables, stripping away pretense and forcing the reader to wrestle with truth.

Marsden’s admiration, then, is not merely for the craft of Ennis’s writing but for its courage. In an age when many shrink from questioning the sacred, Ennis confronted religion head-on, exposing both its abuses and its potential for grace. This honesty, though sharp and even blasphemous to some, had the rare quality of sincerity. It made sense, Marsden said, because truth always makes sense, even when it is painful. That is why he spoke as though he would join such a faith—because it felt real, unmasked, and alive.

The lesson is profound. Seek the stories that make you wrestle with truth. Do not settle only for tales that flatter or soothe, but embrace those that disturb and awaken you. For in the discomfort, in the heaviness of thought, lies the seed of growth. Religion, art, philosophy—all are vessels for truth, and truth demands courage. Marsden’s praise of Ennis is a reminder that sometimes the truest prophets are not in temples, but in books, plays, and songs.

Practical wisdom follows: read deeply, not just for escape but for awakening. Honor the storytellers who dare to confront what others avoid. Question bravely, for no belief worth keeping should fear scrutiny. And above all, let your own life be a story that, like Ennis’s work, is honest, courageous, and well written.

Thus let Marsden’s words endure: “If Garth Ennis had created a religion, I would sure like to be a part of that.” For in them we hear the truth that great storytelling is itself a kind of faith—a guide, a challenge, and a light in the dark. Let us live, then, as disciples of truth, wherever it may be found.