A Letter from Theodore: Searching for Kolob

   "The Creation of Adam" 1511-1512., Michelangelo

Faith is often described as a journey—a path we walk, sometimes with certainty, other times with doubt. But what happens when the very road we trust begins to shift beneath our feet?

This is a letter from Theodore, a young man struggling with questions about faith, scripture, and the authority of those who lead him. He does not reject belief, nor does he seek to tear down what he once held sacred. Instead, he searches for clarity, honesty, and a reason to keep trusting.

Below is his letter to his pastor, where he speaks of a specific place called Kolob, which his religion teaches to be a real dwelling place of the divine. Raw and unfiltered, his words reveal the weight of uncertainty he carries.

Dear Pastor,

I wanted to take a moment to share my thoughts on our recent discussion about interpreting scripture. Questioning the truths we hold dear rarely begins with a great upheaval. Instead, it starts quietly—like a river slowly altering its course, reshaping the landscape of belief not through a single forceful current, but with the steady erosion of certainty over time. The core of what is taught may remain unchanged, yet faith—fragile as glass—can be chipped away, not by the message itself, but by the hands that deliver it.

Faith, like the body, requires nourishment. Just as we choose carefully what we consume to keep our bodies strong, our spirits must also be fed with truth and light. Imagine being invited to a grand feast, one that promises the finest, most nourishing food. You arrive, eager and trusting, only to find a plate of fast food—repackaged and labeled as something wholesome. At first glance, it may look the same. But something feels off. The flavors are artificial, the substance hollow. And though it may fill your stomach for a moment, it leaves you unsatisfied, longing for something real.

This is how I feel when I look at certain teachings that have shifted over time. The doctrine I once embraced with certainty now carries shadows of contradiction. As a child, I was taught that our Prophet was chosen by God, that he translated the sacred book through divine inspiration. That belief was the foundation upon which my faith stood. But as the years passed, I encountered alternative accounts—stories of magic and a talking salamander woven into the narrative. And suddenly, the foundation cracked.

I do not question the gospel itself. Who am I to doubt the divine when the world around me is filled with wonders beyond my comprehension? A phone in my hand can summon voices from across the earth—why then should it be so strange to believe in a God who speaks across time? No, my doubts do not lie with the message, but with the messengers. I have watched as the stories of our leaders have been polished, reshaped, or buried altogether. I have seen history rewritten, inconsistencies smoothed over—not in the pursuit of truth, but in the preservation of authority.

I know the world outside our faith will always try to lead us astray, but what do we do when the deepest wounds are inflicted from within? That is why I ask about Kolob—not because I seek to chart the coordinates of God’s throne, but because I need to trust that those who claim to hold the map are leading us with honesty.

It’s not about pinpointing God’s zip code—it’s about believing that the hands holding the compass are steady and true.

I’ve been called a black sheep for daring to question, but if wandering makes me lost, then so be it. Sometimes, you have to step away from familiar pastures to truly understand where you belong.

I was once lost, then found. But now, I fear being lost again in a place that should feel like home. More than anything, I want to believe that Kolob is real—not just as a distant star in the heavens, but as a refuge, a sanctuary where truth stands unshaken, no matter how fiercely the winds of doubt may blow.

Sincerely,

Lost Boy Theodore.

Theodore never received a reply to his letter. Perhaps his questions were not deemed worthy of an answer. Perhaps a pastor, burdened with the weight of his own responsibilities, has no time for doubt. Or perhaps, like all of us, a pastor too is simply human—carrying within him the quiet tremors of his own uncertainties. And sometimes, the safest way to protect oneself from doubt is not to confront it, but to banish it entirely, to silence its whispers before they can take root. 

Image source:

   "The Creation of Adam" - Jonmarro