Dear God,
I’ve got questions—lots of them—
the kind you claim to answer in scripture
but somehow never really do.
I was taught to hold fast to that iron rod,
to cling until my knuckles went white.
But I did it—
I obeyed, prayed, starved my flesh with relentless fasting—
and still found nothing but emptiness.
When they sent me to France for two years,
one of the most atheist places on the planet,
they said, “Every man must serve a mission. It’s universal.”
But it wasn’t for me.
I’m autistic, God, and you know that—
two years, 24/7, with a stranger I couldn’t choose?
A constant assault of small talk and forced social grace.
Still, I tried to soldier on, my only sanctuary a cold bathroom stall,
my tears falling on tile I prayed wouldn’t echo.
I was spit on—
words laced with venom, searing my sense of self,
spit at, shouted at,
punched in the gut with a thousand doubts.
I blamed me, because that’s what they teach:
“The natural man is an enemy to God.”
So, of course, it was me.
I scrawled my supposed flaws in 50-cent notebooks—
front and back, line after line,
down to tiny details like how I loved it when someone clasped my hand
with their other hand, like a hidden hug,
but I never reciprocated—so maybe that’s why I was miserable.
And the suicidal thoughts crept in—
soft as a whisper, lethal as gas.
I stood on the rooftop, looking at the drop, wondering,
Would I at least feel free for a second on the way down?
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to die,
but I needed an end to the crushing guilt that tasted like rust.
Then, I came home, battered and bruised,
but they looked at me with puzzlement, rewriting their script:
“Oh, well, a mission isn’t for everyone. We never said that!”
Yes, you did. It’s etched in my bones.
When I told them reading the Book of Mormon daily made me feel
less of you, not more, they asked,
“Who said you had to read it every day?”
I said, “the prophet.”
They shrugged, told me,
“Just read a verse—then go and study something else.”
Where was that clarity when I was drowning?
Why does your church—this supposed universal truth—
seem tailor-made for middle-aged, straight, married men
with perfect haircuts and zero visible cracks?
Why does it splinter on the broken, the queer,
the neurodiverse, the ones who can’t fit the mold?
They say, “The Church never taught that!”
But if I misinterpret, isn’t that your fault, too, God?
You built me flawed. Then you blame me for the flaws?
I lost a brother to suicide at sixteen,
and I asked you, Why?
Silence.
Was I not begging for answers the way you taught me—
kneeling, trusting, obeying?
Eventually, I realized you don’t dwell in the rigid walls they built for you.
If you’re there at all, you’re bigger than those sanitized chapels—
bigger than the guilt, bigger than the brand new suits and pressed ties.
I see a church that preaches universal love
but thrives on universal conformity,
that claims new revelations even while discarding your children
who see a different vision.
They say, “It’s for all nations, tongues, and people,”
but it feels more like an exclusive club.
So I walked away.
Call it apostasy, call it sin, call it a fatal guess—
I call it survival.
I used to fear the moment I’d stand before you,
but I can see only two outcomes at my judgement:
You’re just and good,
and you’ll greet me saying, “Briggs, you sought truth where your soul led you.
You used your agency—your own battered heart—to find Me.
You’ve only ever always been amazing.
Welcome.”Or you’re a vengeful, punishing God,
glaring down, saying, “You broke covenants. You guessed wrong.
You’ve only ever always been corrupted.
Eternal damnation.”
And if the latter’s the case—if I see your face twisted in fury—
I’ll meet your gaze and say,
“Well, fuck you too.”
Because I can’t worship a God who builds mazes
then punishes those who get lost.
I can’t love a church that binds you in bureaucratic knots.
I can’t live under a system that sees my brokenness
and decides it’s my burden, my cross, my problem to fix.
God, I hope you understand that letting go of the iron rod
was never about abandoning you—
it was about finally finding you in the open air,
free from the rusted bars I once clutched so desperately.
And if you don’t understand,
well, I’ll say it again:
Fuck you too.
It’s number one.