God Sent Me a Message… and Then Blocked Me

A modern tale of divine ghosting and emotional roaming

I don't quite remember when I lost faith. Maybe it was the day Aunt Lilian gifted me a Bible wrapped in greasy salami paper. The pages still smelled like peppercorn for weeks. Or perhaps it was when my ex said, "It's not that I don't love you, I just like you better when you're quiet," while buttering toast like nothing had happened. Or maybe it was one lazy Sunday, the kind where the air feels thick and lukewarm, when I made myself a watery coffee, sat down in pajamas with a pâté stain on the chest... and opened an email that changed everything.

From: God

Subject: Urgent. We need to talk.

Message:

"Hey, Ana. Not joking. I know you think I'm a myth, but seriously - we need to talk. You've got something in your teeth, and we're losing signal."

I stared at my chipped coffee mug. Started at the screen. I sniffed my armpit - faintly floral, faintly panic - and wondered if my brain had finally fried itself on microwave dinners and midnight doomscrolling. I clicked "reply" and typed: "If you're really God, prove it. Make the smudge disappear from my glasses."

Three seconds later. Ping. My glasses, which had been festering in a drawer under unpaid bills and a condom from 2012, were spotless. Lens-clear. Like they'd just been baptized in optical holy water. A small sentence shimmered faintly across the bridge between the lenses, like a neon whisper on fogged glass: "See? Now listen to Me."

The following 24 hours were… let's say, biblically chaotic. My laptop restarted itself to the sound of Gregorian horror chants - like monks in a horror film trailer. The fridge clunked and blinked, then spit out nothing but broccoli and a sweating chunk of cheese shaped vaguely like a crucifix. Alexa responded to everything with "That's not for you to know, Ana."

At 3 a.m., the front door creaked open by itself. The hallway light flickered once, then gave up. A man stood there. Or something that looked like a man. My brain, now overcooked and lightly sizzling, registered him as a freelance prophet: an imam in sneakers, a priest with a lip ring, and a scent like strong rakija* and regret. His eyes were sharp and tired, like he'd just come from delivering bad news to a saint.

"You're Ana?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"Divine message delivery."

"From whom?"

"God."

"Uh-huh. And how did He say that exactly?"

"He sent me a GIF. The one with Morgan Freeman raising his eyebrows."

***

The messages kept coming: "Stop eating chocolate when you're sad. That's not hunger, that's an emotional hole. Give the pharmacist a chance. He sees you."

The pharmacist?! The one who always offers me condoms with my blood pressure meds, like he's doing me a twisted courtesy? And out of nowhere - the block.

I was on the bus, sticky with summer sweat, thighs glued to the seat like deli meat, when the notification came: "God has blocked you."

WhatsApp. Messenger. Instagram. Gmail. All gone. The GPS stopped working. The screen pulsed with a gray blob and a single message: "Location not available. Question is: are you?"

***

I called the local priest. The one who uses a projector during mass and opens with, "Let's vibe with Luke 9:23."

"He blocked me too last year," he said solemnly, staring into the distance like a war veteran recalling TikTok trends that went wrong. "Since then, I haven't been able to reinstall Hallelujah."

I called my psychiatrist. Told him God blocked me.

"You mean… emotionally?"

"No. Literally. On all platforms."

"Interesting," he said, scribbling on his clipboard.

Then he paused. "Oh my God."

"Excuse me?"

He turned the screen toward me. A notification glowed: "Dr. Feelgood is too rational for divine presence. Temporarily suspended due to cynicism."

***

In my search for meaning, I went to a support group for the spiritually abandoned. We sat in folding chairs that squeaked when anyone shifted. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, like flies in a hospital. That's where I met Dolores. Former astrologer for the local newspaper. God apparently let her go after she mispredicted Mercury retrograde, and three people of the same sign lost their homes. Now she writes horror novels. Her latest book is titled: "God Doesn't Reply, but Sometimes He Sees You."

***

I tried to summon Him the old-school way. Prayer. Chamomile tea with too much honey. A Spotify playlist titled "Divine Vibes" with harp music and thunderstorm ambiance. All that for nothing. Not even an identity crisis worked.

Online tests diagnosed me as "insufficiently likely for divine contact." And one test just crashed halfway through and whispered: "Try again after soul reboot." Finally, I sat down and tweeted:

"God, if you can see me - my heart hurts, my soul's thumping. Come back. I promise I'll complain less when it rains.

P.S. I deleted Tinder."

One like. From a guy selling beard-growth vitamins.

***

Then, one evening, as I tried to stream a movie - probably something about assassins or unhealed childhood trauma - the radio suddenly glitched and switched stations. A song started playing. Old. Crackly. The kind of song that smells like warm dust and memories. The one my dad used to play on road trips when I still thought everything was fixable.

I never knew its name. Only how it felt. Like being safe in the backseat while someone else drives.

The screen said: "'Silent Presence' – Author: Unknown." And yeah, I cried. Not the loud, cinematic kind. Just tears, slipping out quietly, like they had business to do. Because you know what? That wasn't Spotify. That wasn't YouTube. That wasn't anything. That was an answer. Quiet. Subtle. No notification. No GIFs.

Now I don't look for signs. I don't beg Him to text back. I make tea. I water my plants. I fold the laundry slowly. No Googling. No therapist. No "God, help me." Just me. And honestly? I feel like God is watching my stories from a burner account. And I blocked Him back, just in case.

If someone asks if I've ever had a spiritual experience, just tell them: "Yeah. But we're not really in touch anymore."

*rakija - brandy