When God Left

Father Daniel sat in the dimly lit rectory, the weight of silence pressing against his chest like an old, unwelcome friend. The Bible lay open before him, its gilded edges catching the glow of the lamp. He traced the familiar words of Matthew with his fingertips, but they felt like echoes from a faraway place. He had read these passages a thousand times, preached them from the pulpit, guided others through their meanings. But now, as he stared at the verses, they seemed to stare back at him, hollow and distant.

Doubt had taken root in his heart, swelling from a whisper into a chorus. He had always harbored questions about religion—about the way mankind had shaped it. Daniel’s questions, however, were always about doctrine and ritual, not divinity. But Father Daniel was stoic, a steadfast man rooted in faith. Faith wasn’t about certainty—it was about trust. That was what he had told himself. Now, trust felt like a house built on sand. And he couldn't let his congregation see him slipping.

He rubbed his temples, exhausted. The burden of hiding his doubt was becoming unbearable. They looked to him for certainty, for guidance. They saw him as a man of unwavering belief, a shepherd leading his flock. If they knew—if they saw the cracks forming in the foundation of his faith—they may doubt as well.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Father?” Emily Morrison stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face taut with frustration. “Do you have time?”

Daniel gestured to the chair opposite his desk. Emily sank into it, exhaling sharply. She didn’t wait for an invitation before launching into her thoughts.

“I need to understand something,” she said. “I’ve been reading about how the Bible was assembled—the councils that picked which books stayed and which got cut. And all the contradictions. The Gospels don’t even agree on what Jesus said half the time. It feels manufactured to control people, not to guide them in faith.”

Daniel studied her face, recognizing the same doubts he had carried for so long. “I won’t lie to you, Emily,” he said slowly. “Those decisions—they were made by men. And men are flawed. There are contradictions, no doubt. But faith isn’t about answers—it’s about choosing to believe even when the questions have no easy answers .”

Emily’s eyes were filled with frustration, her voice rising. “But how can you still believe in something this broken? How do I sit in a church where people think God wants them to control women, hate immigrants, and treat gay people like dirt? My father—” She stopped herself, shaking her head, her fists clenched in her lap. “You know what he says. You know what they all say. And none of them are questioning any of it.”

Daniel leaned forward, his voice soft but firm. “Faith isn’t certainty, Emily. It never has been. It’s a choice. It’s the decision to believe even when the world around you seems to be breaking apart. But if you don’t wrestle with those questions, then the faith you hold on to won’t be real. It’ll just be a comfort blanket. And you deserve more than that.”

Emily looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Thanks for not lying to me.”

She left as abruptly as she’d arrived. Daniel exhaled slowly. He had given her the best answer he could, but something gnawed at him. Was it enough? And what about his own faith? Was it enough?

That evening, Trevor Phillips slumped in the same chair, his hoodie swallowing his lanky frame. Unlike Emily, who had a fire in her that seemed to challenge every word Daniel spoke, Trevor was quiet, searching for something—anything—to believe in.

“I don’t think God is real,” Trevor admitted. “But I don’t think my dad is wrong, either.”

Daniel studied him, recognizing that quiet searching—not anger, not certainty, just a need to understand. “Sometimes, we just need to be a part of something bigger than ourselves,” Daniel said. “It’s about hope. Maybe for now, that’s enough.”

Trevor nodded slowly, mulling over the words. There was no urgency in his questions, no demand for answers. Just a quiet exploration of what lay ahead.

Long after Trevor left, Daniel sat in the flickering lamplight. He felt like a coward. He’d preached hope, but hope withered without truth. And truth was this—his church did not welcome questions. Doubt was not a space for growth, but a poison to be cut away. He knew what was coming. He could feel the storm brewing.

The voices of his congregation grew louder, more certain, as they rallied behind what they saw as a victory for their faith—an act of divine justice. Father Daniel listened as they spoke with unwavering conviction about the sanctity of life, as if it were a sacred duty to strip away the rights of women, to control their bodies in the name of morality. He had always believed that faith was about love and compassion, but now it seemed to be weaponized, twisted to serve a cruel agenda. His people—his community—were so sure of their righteousness, so certain that this was God’s will. And yet, all he could feel was a deep, gnawing discomfort, as if the very foundation of his beliefs was crumbling beneath him. He wasn't sure he could stand by when they used God's name to justify such suffering. Staying silent in the face of so much cruelty wasn't the answer. But no matter how much he struggled with these questions, no matter how much his heart ached for the women whose lives would be upended by this decision, none of it mattered. The Supreme Court had spoken. Roe v. Wade had been overturned. The storm had broken, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The country convulsed. Cities erupted into protest. Women marched, screamed, wept in the streets. Some held signs demanding justice, others set fire to the symbols of a government that had abandoned them. Sirens wailed as police clashed with demonstrators. A nation that once promised liberty now tightened its grip, suffocating half its people under the weight of a ruling that had been decades in the making.

Inside the churches, they celebrated.

He was cornered by Emily’s father and a few of the elders. Their smiles were triumphant, their eyes alight with righteousness. Mrs. Greene adjusted her "Choose Life" brooch as she dropped a stack of crisis center pamphlets on his desk.

“God's will has been done, Father,” Emily’s father declared. “And justice prevails.”

Daniel hesitated. “And the women who will suffer?”

“They made their choice,” an older woman scoffed. “A little morality wouldn’t hurt this country.”

That night, Trevor returned. He sat in the same chair, his face pale, his hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie. "My sister’s leaving the state," he said. "She didn’t tell our dad." He swallowed hard. “Is this really what the church believes? That suffering is just fine? That women dying is justice?”

Daniel had no answer. He looked at the boy—lost, searching—and felt the weight of his own failure. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I'm not sure anymore.”

Father Daniel returned to his desk later that evening, his mind churning, heart heavy. He sat there long after the room had gone quiet, his pen moving over paper, scribbling down thoughts that felt more like musings than wisdom.

He thought about gleaming—how the Bible commanded it in Leviticus, how the poor and foreigners were allowed to gather leftover grain. How Ruth, a foreigner, had found favor in the fields of Boaz. He thought about how the women had gleaned, their need more important than the wealth of the landowner. He thought about the way Naomi had loved Ruth with such devotion that it transcended race, culture, and gender. It wasn’t just about survival—it was about care, love, and selflessness. He weaved this idea into his sermon, building a case for love over exclusion, for service over selfishness.

He finished late into the night, hoping his words would land somewhere, anywhere.

When Sunday came, he stood at the pulpit and spoke of gleaning—of how, in Jewish law, the poor and the foreigner were granted the right to gather what was left in the fields. He spoke of Ruth and Naomi, of a society that made room for those in need. “Faith is not cruelty,” he told them. “Faith is not withholding from the suffering. It is a call to love, to care, to make room for those cast aside.”

His words did not spark rage. They did not spark revolution. They simply fell flat. The congregation sat, listening politely, filling out their bulletins. They made plans for the next potluck and spoke about their grandchildren, about the weather. They never seemed to hear the message.

After that, Daniel spent more time in the rectory than he did at the church. The sermons grew harder to prepare. His words felt empty even as they left his mouth.

Father Daniel looked at the congregation week after week and realized they weren’t listening to him. They were listening for comfort, for validation, for the same certainty he no longer had.

The faith he once held so firmly in his heart had begun to slip away, like sand through his fingers. The doctrines he’d devoted his life to were wielded like weapons—against women, against the poor, against anyone deemed other. The God he loved had been twisted into a banner for cruelty, and the church, once a refuge, now felt like a gilded cage.

A grim certainty settled over him. If Jesus returned today, they’d call Him a socialist and crucify Him all over again.

He couldn’t live the lie. Not anymore. But he also couldn’t stand before his congregation and unravel the faith that sustained them—even if that faith had hardened into something unrecognizable. They needed their certainty; he could at least spare them his doubt.

So, without ceremony, he laid his stole across the altar, the embroidered cross catching the dim light one last time. No grand speech, no shattered vows—just the quiet click of the door behind him. The church would endure. The potlucks would go on, the hymns would still rise on Sunday mornings, and the world would turn, unchanged.

Life went on.