Dear god, where are you?
Dear god, I turned 18 today. This doesn’t particularly mean anything to me, but by society’s standards I am mature enough to make my own decisions. I don’t have many decisions to make, but there is one I want to settle: Where are you?
Dear god, I have been told who you were – my whole life long. I’ve completed each sacrament according to your timeline: Baptism, Reconciliation, Communion, Holy Orders, and Confirmation. I have two left, god: Matrimony and Last Rites. God, I have some questions regarding the former, where can I find you to inquire?
- Dear god, I don’t remember my baptism, is that a sin?
- Dear god, I hated having to reconcile, for how have I failed you?
- Dear god, fret not; Eating a piece of your body was my favorite part of mass. You’re so yummy. But god, maybe I am a sinner: I hated drinking your blood.
- Dear god, I loathed being an altar server; Was my praying never enough?
- Dear god, I lied when I got confirmed.
Dear god, is it excusable? Please, at least hear me out. At twelve years old am I to know? I should want to devote myself to you? I wasn’t sure, I still am not. My confirmation cohort was told, time and time again: “if you are not one hundred percent certain, please refrain this year and next. Do not say yes, do not pass go, this cannot be undone.” Dear god, I swear I knew it then. I reached out, you didn’t answer, what else should I have done? I couldn’t tell my family, the few who had done that already were shunned, at least informally so. I couldn’t tell my mom, my dad, or my siblings, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, please god, where could I have turned? So god, I did it – got confirmed in nonbelief. I wrote the archbishop, chose my saint, and was anointed. I know that is a sin, so today, I write to confess: I am sorry I got confirmed, in this church I don’t believe, but god please let me know, do you call catholicism your home?
Dear god, I know it’s not. Not yours and not mine. Each sunday I attend with my parents, by force and that, they know. Sunday morning, not my preference – I’d rather go at four. Afternoon mass was a delight, a bit longer, colder, and less full. But god I never went in, I’d sit in my car, fuck around on my phone, read a book, call a friend. And when I did go, siblings and parents beside, I never felt you there, never prayed, followed along, but of course, I’d always sing – anything to pass the time.
Dear god, you know what comes next. Matrimony; better yet, I’m queer. Do you love me? Do you support me? Will you bless me? Will you be there? I’m told not, and no, never, negative. That doesn’t seem like you, god, but who am I to say? Dear god, I don’t want last rites – certainly not, if you weren’t there.
Dear god, am I a failure? Just two sacraments shy, a staunch seventy-one percent.
Dear god, for so long now, I have begged you to respond. To answer me. To show me. To just help me believe.
Dear god, I decided a few years ago: you longer need to. I do not know you, I have not found you, I do not believe in you. So if you ever see this, read this or hear this, please know I tried for a while, and a bit more.
But, dear god, I cannot do this any longer.