by Jeremy Burner
A simple message to Mormons.
A young man once left his father’s house to serve the poor in distant lands. Before he departed, his father said, “Write to me often, my son. I will answer every letter myself so you never forget my voice.” The son promised he would. At first, everything was as it should be. The son wrote faithfully, and the replies came—warm, wise, and full of his father’s love. Those letters carried him through lonely nights and gave him courage to continue. Then one day, after a long delay, another letter arrived. The seal looked the same, the handwriting familiar, but the return address was different by a single number. The tone was nearly identical, so he assumed his father had simply moved and forgotten to mention it. From that day forward, he wrote to the new address, and the replies continued. Like always they where loving, reassuring, but subtly changed. The writer praised the son’s good works more than the father’s will, spoke of his greatness, his worth, and the glory waiting for him. “When you return,” the letters promised, “the whole household will be yours. You have earned it.” The son still received occasional letters from the old address—short, sober, urging humility and faithfulness and eagerly awaiting his next response. Sometimes urging him to come home. He read them, but they felt heavy compared to the encouraging voice was growing to prefer.
Thirty years passed. At last he returned home, worn from the road but proud of all he had done. His father met him at the gate, tears bright in his eyes. “My son!” the old man cried. “You’ve come home at last. But why did you never write? I waited for your letters.” The traveler froze. “Never wrote? Father, I wrote to you every month. You answered every one.” The father shook his head. “I sent you many letters—pleading for you to come home—but you never replied. The ones you hold… those are not mine.” The son looked down at the bundle in his hands. The handwriting, the seal—so familiar. But as he opened them, he saw how the words had changed him. The real letters had asked him to serve in love; the false ones had taught him to worship his own name. He sank to his knees. The letters slipping from his hands and scattering on the ground—the true, and the false. He realized then that he no longer knew his father’s at all.
Author’s Note
I wrote The Letters from Home as a gentle response to a sincere question I’ve heard many times from my LDS friends: “Why would the Devil inspire something that teaches people to love God, follow Jesus, and live good lives?”
It’s a fair question—and one that deserves an honest answer.
The parable explores the idea that deception isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes, it’s just a shift in address. The danger isn’t in abandoning good things—but in unknowingly exchanging the true voice of the Father for one that closely imitates it.
This story isn’t meant to attack, mock, or accuse. It’s a call to listen carefully and to test the spirits, as Scripture says. My hope is that this invites reflection—not condemnation.