This review may contain spoilers
If God Teaches Us to Love — Then What's the Point?
The series has become a massive global phenomenon, breaking records and sparking conversations in more than 160 countries—and honestly, it's not hard to understand why. It's visually stunning, full of careful symbolism and subtle visual storytelling. One shot that immediately stuck with me is when Barth tells Tanrak they're completely alone, only for the camera to slowly pull back and reveal Jesus on the cross behind them. They're never actually alone. It's a beautiful reminder that, in Tanrak's eyes, God is always present—even in the moments he's trying hardest to hide.
The visual storytelling is consistently this strong. Tanrak presses every daisy Barth gives him between the pages of his Bible and, with each bouquet, quietly paints another flower onto the ceiling above his bunk—the same bunk he's slept in since arriving at the seminary, where nothing in his life had ever truly changed until Barth walked into it. Even the bathroom becomes symbolic: it's where Tanrak retreats whenever his world begins to fall apart. It's where he first seeks refuge during his crisis of faith, desperately trying to find comfort in the only thing he's ever known.
Episodes five and six completely broke me.
Watching Tanrak burn the notes they wrote to each other, the pressed flowers hidden inside his Bible... I couldn't stop thinking about how much fear, shame and guilt someone must carry to believe they have to destroy something as innocent as the proof of their first love.
The series also handles Father Arnon brilliantly. He begins as a calm, compassionate mentor, almost a father figure. But as Tanrak's feelings for Barth deepen, Arnon slowly transforms into something far more intimidating. The scene where Barth and Tanrak hide between the stacked mattresses while Arnon's shadow creeps across the wall—introduced only by the shine of his leather shoes—is genuinely unsettling. He becomes almost ghostlike, constantly watching, constantly present. More than anything, though, it's a reflection of Tanrak himself. The institution that once gave him purpose slowly becomes the very thing he fears most.
Kongdech's confrontation with Tanrak hit just as hard, albeit for very different reasons. When he tells Tanrak that what disappoints him most isn't being lied to, but the fact that Tanrak apparently no longer wants to become a priest alongside him—and then asks, "Don't you want to see your parents in heaven anymore?"—I honestly had to pause the episode.
What an unbelievably self-centred thing to say to someone who's already drowning in guilt.
Instead of asking his best friend what he's going through, Kongdech unknowingly reinforces every fear Tanrak already carries. You can literally watch Tanrak break under the weight of those words.
What surprised me most, though, is that this isn't actually a story about religion rejecting queerness.
It's a story about two boys falling in love.
That distinction matters.
The series never frames Tanrak's love for Barth as something inherently wrong. He never denies loving him. He never even denies desiring him. His struggle isn't that he believes love itself is sinful—it's that he fears abandoning the people and the life that shaped him. Over time, his feelings stop being framed as lust and become what they've always been: love.
By the final episode, Tanrak doesn't choose between Barth and God.
He chooses both.
I can absolutely understand why this series has resonated so deeply with queer people who grew up religious. For many viewers, I imagine it feels genuinely healing to see faith and queerness coexist without one destroying the other. Even the inclusion of the trans woman in the finale quietly reinforces that idea: faith can still belong to people who've spent their entire lives being told otherwise.
For me, however, it's a little more complicated.
I didn't grow up religious—if anything, the opposite—and my relationship with the Catholic Church has always been deeply sceptical. Because of that, the ending felt just a little too optimistic.
Throughout the series, Tanrak's shame feels painfully real. His fear feels earned. His guilt feels believable. But when everything is finally resolved, it almost feels as though the institution quietly steps back and says, "We never actually had a problem with your sexuality. That was simply your interpretation."
That was the one moment where the series lost me.
I would have preferred it if the Church had remained exactly what it often is for many queer people: an institution capable of causing profound harm without needing to be redeemed by the narrative. Sometimes the damage is real. Sometimes the shame isn't self-inflicted. Sometimes it's taught.
There's one scene in the finale I still can't get out of my head.
After Tanrak and Barth spend the night together, Tanrak wakes before Barth, walks silently into the bathroom and begins holding the cross of his rosary against the flame of a lighter. The scene cuts away before we see what happens next.
My interpretation was that he was trying to punish himself.
It's such a devastating image of internalised shame that the almost utopian ending which follows feels like it's happening to a different version of Tanrak altogether.
Even so, I think Ticket to Heaven is one of the most impressive Thai BLs in years. It's beautifully acted, visually confident and emotionally fearless. It isn't perfect, but it's the kind of series that stays with you long after it's over—not because it has all the answers, but because it's willing to ask difficult questions.
And there's one line I don't think I'll forget anytime soon:
"If God teaches us to love, but we're not allowed to love each other, then what's the point of having God in this world?"
That one sentence alone captures everything the series is trying to say.
The visual storytelling is consistently this strong. Tanrak presses every daisy Barth gives him between the pages of his Bible and, with each bouquet, quietly paints another flower onto the ceiling above his bunk—the same bunk he's slept in since arriving at the seminary, where nothing in his life had ever truly changed until Barth walked into it. Even the bathroom becomes symbolic: it's where Tanrak retreats whenever his world begins to fall apart. It's where he first seeks refuge during his crisis of faith, desperately trying to find comfort in the only thing he's ever known.
Episodes five and six completely broke me.
Watching Tanrak burn the notes they wrote to each other, the pressed flowers hidden inside his Bible... I couldn't stop thinking about how much fear, shame and guilt someone must carry to believe they have to destroy something as innocent as the proof of their first love.
The series also handles Father Arnon brilliantly. He begins as a calm, compassionate mentor, almost a father figure. But as Tanrak's feelings for Barth deepen, Arnon slowly transforms into something far more intimidating. The scene where Barth and Tanrak hide between the stacked mattresses while Arnon's shadow creeps across the wall—introduced only by the shine of his leather shoes—is genuinely unsettling. He becomes almost ghostlike, constantly watching, constantly present. More than anything, though, it's a reflection of Tanrak himself. The institution that once gave him purpose slowly becomes the very thing he fears most.
Kongdech's confrontation with Tanrak hit just as hard, albeit for very different reasons. When he tells Tanrak that what disappoints him most isn't being lied to, but the fact that Tanrak apparently no longer wants to become a priest alongside him—and then asks, "Don't you want to see your parents in heaven anymore?"—I honestly had to pause the episode.
What an unbelievably self-centred thing to say to someone who's already drowning in guilt.
Instead of asking his best friend what he's going through, Kongdech unknowingly reinforces every fear Tanrak already carries. You can literally watch Tanrak break under the weight of those words.
What surprised me most, though, is that this isn't actually a story about religion rejecting queerness.
It's a story about two boys falling in love.
That distinction matters.
The series never frames Tanrak's love for Barth as something inherently wrong. He never denies loving him. He never even denies desiring him. His struggle isn't that he believes love itself is sinful—it's that he fears abandoning the people and the life that shaped him. Over time, his feelings stop being framed as lust and become what they've always been: love.
By the final episode, Tanrak doesn't choose between Barth and God.
He chooses both.
I can absolutely understand why this series has resonated so deeply with queer people who grew up religious. For many viewers, I imagine it feels genuinely healing to see faith and queerness coexist without one destroying the other. Even the inclusion of the trans woman in the finale quietly reinforces that idea: faith can still belong to people who've spent their entire lives being told otherwise.
For me, however, it's a little more complicated.
I didn't grow up religious—if anything, the opposite—and my relationship with the Catholic Church has always been deeply sceptical. Because of that, the ending felt just a little too optimistic.
Throughout the series, Tanrak's shame feels painfully real. His fear feels earned. His guilt feels believable. But when everything is finally resolved, it almost feels as though the institution quietly steps back and says, "We never actually had a problem with your sexuality. That was simply your interpretation."
That was the one moment where the series lost me.
I would have preferred it if the Church had remained exactly what it often is for many queer people: an institution capable of causing profound harm without needing to be redeemed by the narrative. Sometimes the damage is real. Sometimes the shame isn't self-inflicted. Sometimes it's taught.
There's one scene in the finale I still can't get out of my head.
After Tanrak and Barth spend the night together, Tanrak wakes before Barth, walks silently into the bathroom and begins holding the cross of his rosary against the flame of a lighter. The scene cuts away before we see what happens next.
My interpretation was that he was trying to punish himself.
It's such a devastating image of internalised shame that the almost utopian ending which follows feels like it's happening to a different version of Tanrak altogether.
Even so, I think Ticket to Heaven is one of the most impressive Thai BLs in years. It's beautifully acted, visually confident and emotionally fearless. It isn't perfect, but it's the kind of series that stays with you long after it's over—not because it has all the answers, but because it's willing to ask difficult questions.
And there's one line I don't think I'll forget anytime soon:
"If God teaches us to love, but we're not allowed to love each other, then what's the point of having God in this world?"
That one sentence alone captures everything the series is trying to say.
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