Something I'm working on

Kenny had always wondered if he would wake up if someone broke into the house at night.
Or during the day.
He never considered the housebreaker might sit down at the edge of his bed and gently shake him awake.
His first thought was that he was sick and someone was here to help him. That was why he didn't reach for the Springfield XD 9 mm that hung on a nail above the nightstand.
He couldn't remember how, or if, his last trip had ended.
Was he in the hospital?
No. His blue acrylic throw with the huge horse was wound tightly around his hips and the familiar blue nightlight glowed from the bathroom.
His first impression of the man seated on the edge of his bed was of a caretaker with a bedside manner, perched lightly so as not to disturb the patient, perhaps to take a temperature, or administer medicine; very calm and reassuring. 
Kenny lay still, his eyes half open, waiting for the dream to end, or the memory to come back...
It started to seem odd that the man remained silent, his gaze narrow and expectant, his left hand on his left thigh, his right on his right hip.
Seconds passed, and clarity began to dissipate the confusion in Kenny's sleep numbed mind, but with the clarity came a different level of confusion, and with that confusing clarity came fear.
As the last bit of sleep paralysis faded from his mind like breath from glass, the alarm must have flashed in his gray eyes.
For before his triceps could even begin to tighten to lift himself to a less compromising position, the housebreaker shook his head slightly, just a barely perceptible twist: a warning.
But it was too late. Kenny's reflexes had reached his brain, and the recently awakened organ was not fast enough on the turnaround. He couldn't stop it any more than he could open his eyes while sneezing. The man moved. It didn't seem as if his movement was sufficient to cause the shocking impact in Kenny's throat, but Kenny's arms flailed to his throat. His mouth opened in a simultaneous attempt at gagging and screaming, but he could do neither.
He lay flat on his back again, mouth opening and closing. Finally, air rasped through his larynx in a shocking groan He retched, dry heaving, then bile filled his mouth. The convulsions brought no response from the housebreaker. Kenny rolled slowly to his side, and raw, burning bile dripped from his mouth. He gagged and spit again. He stayed on his side, his mind stumbling through a list of very limited options.
He rolled his eyes upward. The Springfield was gone. He was in no position to use his feet to kick. The blue horse blanket was tangled around his legs.
The man let him lay that way for some time.
Kenny finally rolled onto his back.
The man spoke.
"Kenny, you are about to die."
Kenny exploded into a useless flurry of arms and legs but stopped when he found the barrel of a revolver somehow inserted into his mouth.
As Kenny fought to control his instincts, the man removed the barrel and placed it firmly on his lip just under his nose.
He continued, "There is absolutely nothing you can do to prevent it. Every man dies, mot never see it coming. But you will. And it is a gift."
Tears fled from Kenny's eyes, sobs surged against clenched teeth.
"I'll give you a minute to accept it. Don't struggle or you wont know the exact instant. You won't be ready..."
Kenny lay still, his mind exploding in supernovas of desperate confusion. There was nothing rational to do, so his mind began to consider the irrational. The man shook his head. "Don't. Please. For your own sake"
Kenny's mouth opened, silent sobs escaping, shaking his body.
"WHY?!"
The man nodded. "That's it. Accept it. And I'll tell you why."
He slowly reached in to his left pocket and withdrew a pocket watch. Opening it, he laid it on the night stand, with the clock face facing them.
"Look at the watch."
Kenny looked. It was a simple brass case with a Roman numeral dial There was an inscription on the upper side. # 35 33 34.
Then, the man reached into his shirt pocket and took out a curling wallet size photo. With a slightly tremulous hand, he held it inches from Kenny's face.
Recognition was instantaneous, and Kenny was fighting for his life again. His left arm lashed out and was blocked but he used the opposing force to shove himself to the other side of the bed, rolling off the side, and scrambling to his feet, fighting loose of the blanket. He crashed into the bathroom doorjamb, Legs churning, he pulled himself upright and lunged toward the doorway that led out into the living area, but the bed slammed into his shins, pinning him against the wall next to the closet.
The man stared across the bed, the revolver held low but steady in his right, the photo still in his left. He shook it slightly, urging Kenny to look at it again.
"You are about to die, Kenny. There is absolutely nothing you can do to change that. I just want to give you a chance to die the right way. When you're ready. Are you going to accept it, or do I just shoot you now?:
The look in the man's eyes was surreal. Concern was evident, even poignant. It was as if he simply had no choice, and was being as considerate as possible.
Kenny said nothing, and didn't move.
The man laid the photo face up on the bed between them. With the gun still held steady, he bent and retrieved the watch where it had landed on the floor. He laid it beside the photo.
"When the second hand reaches 12, you'll have exactly 5 minutes. During that 5 minutes, I want you to think about what is going to be happening when that second hand is on the other side of 12 after the five minutes is up."
Kenny stared, uncomprehending.
"Don't say anything. Don't talk. It will distract you from your thinking. Think about whether you believe in life after death. You have five minutes, starting............now."
Kenny spent the first 30 seconds still considering a method of escape. Once again, the man seemed possessed of a preternatural knowledge of his thoughts.
"I'm telling you, Kenny, that you will die. Any attempt to escape will only cut your life shorter."
Kenny began to sob again. The man fell silent.
Thoughts of hellfire as long rejected as thoughts of hearing the ocean roar in a seashell, he frantically tried to focus on. It hadn't seemed likely for such a long time, but.....now, he was being forced to consider a practical impossibility. Could there exist the smallest chance that seconds after the bullet crashed into his brain, he would still exist, that his mind, his........soul, yes, soul would still be alive, would be.....somewhere.
Kenny was not a proud man, not even stubborn really, and he began to accept the idea quickly. But then, he wondered frantically, would he just be dead if he refused to accept the enormous possibility? If he accepted it, there might be a reward, but if he refused, mightn't he just be dead? Cease to exist?
You could live forever, but you could only die once. If there were hellfire, wouldn't he just be burned alive and then be dead?
Now he looked at the clock. Three minutes had passed.
This wasn't fair. No one could answer the biggest question of their lives in five minutes with a gun pointed at their head.
The man spoke again, softly. "If you're right, then you will simply die and never feel anything again. But, if you're wrong......"
The new wrinkle threw a fevered desperation into Kenny's tortured mind. Only seconds longer did his wagering continue, before he threw over any idea that did not encourage him to play it as safe as possible. He began to beg, aloud, for his soul's destiny. Swearing, sweating, shaking, sobbing, he promised the Man Upstairs that he wassins, his freaking sins, his, anything he did that God didn't like, and that if he were to live, he would never do anything again that God didn't like. He would pray all the time and read the Bible through and go to church and- "OH GOD I SWEAR IT!!! I SWEAR ON THE BIBLE, ON MY MAMA'S GRAVE, ON MY LIFE, I SWEAR!!

Letter From Kappus

If you've read Rilke's famous letters to Kappus, a year or so ago, my cousin Blake Hunt messaged me and suggested a writing exercise for both of us: a hypothetical letter FROM Kappus to Rilke, in particular the letter preceding Rilke's most well known sixth letter to Kappus.

The first letter you'll read is Rilke's actual sixth letter and then you'll read what I imagine prompted Rilke to write his stunning sixth letter.

"To Franz Xaver Kappus

Rome, December 23, 1903 

My dear Mr. Kappus, 

you should not be without a greeting from me when Christmas and if you, in the midst of the feast, your loneliness heavier wear than usual. But if you then realize that it is big, so you can look at its ; For what (so you ask yourself) would be a solitude that would not be great; there is only a solitude, and which is large and is not easy to wear, and there are almost all the hours because it would like to exchange it for any more banal and cheap commonality against the appearance of a low compliance with the second best, With the most unworthy... But perhaps these are just the hours when loneliness grows; For their growth is painful as the growth of the boys, and sad as the beginning of spring. But that must not make you mad. What is necessary is only this: solitude, great inner solitude. Walking in and not meeting anyone for a long time - that must be achieved. Being lonely as a child was lonely as the grownups wandered around with things that seemed important and great because the big ones looked so busy and because they did not understand anything about their actions. 

And if one day one realizes that their occupations are pathetic, their occupations are frozen, and are no longer connected with life, then why not look more like a child than upon a foreigner, out of the depths of their own world, Own loneliness, which is work itself and rank and profession? Why would a child want to exchange wise, non-understanding, against defenses and contempt, since non-understanding is aloneness, defense and contempt, but participation in what one wants to divorce with these means. 

Think, dear Lord, of the world that you carry within yourself, and call this thinking as you please; It may be a reminder of one's own childhood or longing for one's own future, but be attentive to what is rising in you, and set it above all that you observe. Your inner life is worthy of all your love, you have to work somehow and not lose too much time and too much courage to clarify your attitude to the people. Who says you have one at all? 

I know your profession is hard and full of contradiction to you, and I foresaw your complaint and knew that it would come. Now it has come, I can not soothe you, I can only advise you to survive, if not all professions are so full of claims, full of enmity towards the individual, so to speak, with the hatred of those who are dumb and grumpy The sober duty. The state in which you must now live is no more burdened with conventions, prejudices, and errors than all the other classes, and if there are some who show greater freedom, there is no one who is far in himself And spacious and related to the great things that make up real life. Only the individual who is lonely is placed as a thing under the deep laws, and when one goes out into the morning that raises, or looks out into the evening, which is full event, and when he feels what is happening, So all the standings fall from him, as from a dead man, even though he stands in the midst of pure life. What you, dear Mr. Kappus, should now learn as an officer, you would have felt the same in each of the existing occupations, and even if you had been looking for easy and independent contact with society alone, Have been spared. 

It is so everywhere; But that is no reason for fear or sadness; If there is no common ground between people and you, try to be close to the things you will not leave; Nor are there the nights, nor the winds that go through the trees, and over many lands; Nor among the things and among the beasts are all the events of which you are allowed to participate; And the children are still as you were as a child, so sad and happy, -and if you think of your childhood, then live again among them, among the solitary children, and the adults are nothing, and have their dignity No value."

My imaginary letter from Kappus

The book was returned to me, in a state that suggests it was serving as a riser for some large, animated child clad in exceedingly coarse cloth. As to your sentiments regarding the Italian mail service, I can testify to a similar level of Austrian inefficiency. In Verne's wildest conjuring, might not he have created a method of correspondence that did not rely upon disinterested mortals.

This new station of mine makes a mockery of the romance of the soldier. The idea that there can be anything poetic about the life of a soldier is either proof of the skill of certain writers and bards or of the willingness of so many readers and hearers to be so misled. The routine is destructive to the very ambition that led me to seek out this particular vocation in hopes it would be favorable to finding myself while it attended my material needs. The shock of the unfamiliarity that was at first so invigorating has dulled now that I discover how quickly everything becomes contemptuously familiar. I have at least though realized some success in my quest to quiet my mind. But I am finding even that quietness discomforting.

For I am finding the solitude you value so highly a burden. I realized sometime last week that I was thinking of solitude as an end in itself, despite my best intentions. It's very difficult not to romanticize solitude, in the brooding light of the lonely surface of the deep before the Spirit of God began to trouble it. And perhaps that is more appropriate than I realize. For I am finding solitude anything but an end. It is instead the most restless place I've ever been, a void very like the one which languished for untold eons before God Himself, in all His arbitrariness, chose to disturb the hateful placidity at a time of His own inscrutable choosing. I can recognize the value of this existence only as a forge, the minutes falling like the hammer, sleep as the cooling sand pit.Although I see nothing taking shape, (indeed, my mind feels like less of a useful tool all the time, my soul seems at times to be molten) and my faith in your faith and even my doleful conviction that hardship must be useful, if only as a foil for ease, is being beaten out, day after day, with no sign of being re-forged. I fear this lonely crucible of time will find out in me a worthless piece of ore, a slab of slag with a fatal flaw, and that I shall be cast aside or at last beaten into nothing, a final shower of sparks that flies up and fades down and leaves the smith with empty tongs.

This disappointment is all the more bitter, as I have always intuited that if I could escape once more to the starkness of childhood, where everything fell easily into it's category, where even exceptions reinforced the rule. I accepted things with an assurance I am sickened to now suspect as mere complete credulity-the emptiness that gnaws like acute hunger at the realization that home was an illusion .God was more than just a given. I swear that he spoke to my child's mind. I swear it by all that I know to be true. But I have lost him. I have lost him to a confusing melee of facts. I know that if God exists, he cannot be the simple God Always On My Side that I felt as a child. That God has too much against him, too many inconsistencies blindingly obvious to the powers of observation that he ostensibly gave me, and he is far too weak to stand to be crucified by the logic with which he constructed my mind. Is memory so false, or do humans simply cease one mode of existence before passing into another. (Does a larvae really die instead of transforming?)

I can tell you that not a single foundational stone of my childhood is unmoved. Nothing is the same. I have sought that singleness of purpose, even trying to forget myself. I know that I am an exceptionally self aware person, and have no reason to doubt the charitable when they say that the key to happiness is self forgot. I have tried to believe that the increasing awareness of the world around me and my exact relation to everyone in it was, in reality, itself an illusion. That manhood had brought a sort of fever to my soul, clouding vision and populating the world with things that weren't really there.

But in the dark silence, the solitude is only loneliness. The spectres of doubt refuse to dissolve, and I am accompanied, always, by what I hope is fear of the darkness but dread is nothing.

The Darkest Night of the Year

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Darkest Night of the Year

There are plenty of people around who will be happy to tell you the celebration of Christmas is a farce, rooted in pagan rituals and bedecked with all sorts of trappings of non-Christian customs; Christmas tree, evergreen wreaths, Santa Claus.
FYI, the Christmas tree custom is said to have been derived from pagan tree worship. I wasn't surprised to learn this because ever since I was a little tyke, I have felt an irresistible urge to genuflect every time I passed the lighted tree.
The evergreen wreaths and boughs have a similar origin, and Santa Claus, well, now he's something else altogether.
Old Saint Nick, we call him.
Well, of course you know that "Old Nick" is another name for Satan.
There you go.
Christmas is a big tree-hugging orgy culminating in a midnight visit from the devil himself, who breaks character by giving things rather than taking them and inexplicably drops down the chimney instead of rising from the frozen ninth circle of hell.
(Wait, the frozen ninth circle . . . . cold, North Pole, I've found another connection! And you have the striking, eerie similarity between "ninth" and "north." In fact, you only need interchange two letters to reach the same spelling.)
And the crowning glory of the 25th of December haters is the very date itself.
December 21st marks the winter solstice, a day that has held such significance for so many non-Christian cultures that I couldn't possibly name all the different rites and feasts. Essentially, it has to do with Dec. 21 or 22 being the shortest day of the year, and the turning point for lengthening days. Stonehenge, Sun gods and some ancient Greek festival dubbed "Festival of the Wild Women," all figure in, among many, many other pagan icons.
So, I say, what a glorious wonderful day to celebrate the earth-bound birth of Jesus Christ, our Savior.
In the midst of all the secular and even satanic ritualistic high days, December 25th sets a holy fire burning, raining light down like a certain mysterious "conjunction of planets" over 2000 years ago.
Beset like the oppressed Jews under Roman rule, we struggle here in the darkest night, the longest eclipse we can remember, longing for the coming of our Redeemer.
And in the middle of the darkness a spark is struck, and suddenly, the darkness is only a foil for that beautiful, blinding fire that grows and pulsates and will one day consume the whole new earth with it's brilliance.
"-and I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last." said nephew Fred "So, a Merry Christmas, Uncle!"
"Good afternoon!" said Scrooge.
"And a Happy New Year!"

The Things Which Are Not

Darkness, because daylight hides the unknown.
The moon, because the sun cannot be looked upon.
The worst, because the best is yet a lie.
The sigh, because the song will end.
Violence, because peace is fragile.
Savagery, because civilization is the refuge of cowards.
Chaos, because order is a prison.
The unspoken, because words have spaces in between.
Broken, because perfection is an illusion.
The awake, because the dreaming must awaken and the awake must soon fall asleep.
The present, because the past and the future are non-existent.
The mystery, because the obvious is treacherous.
The lament, because the ode must never hit a false note.
Death, because life slips away.

For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together

There was a Christmas special run on Focus on the Family years ago called The Innkeepers Dream. It was about a gregarious, humorous devout innkeeper swamped during the census. The entire play is a monologue. It is Ahkim, the innkeeper, telling his friend Julius about the most magnificent dream. He dreamed he'd been patronized by a young couple named Joseph and Mary in town for the census. He also dreamed that later that night, he went up into the hills to deliver some food to his brother in law who was a sheperd. There were angels. And the angels told them that Messiah was born and lying in a manger in a stable. The innkeeper was dumbstruck when his was the inn and the stable to which they were directed. He was deliriously happy when Joseph told him that he could hold Messiah. But first he wanted to go in the inn to bring out more blankets and fresh water. That was when, he told his friend, the dream ended. Then, he saw a pitcher of water and fresh blankets sitting by the door, waiting to be delivered to the stable. Manheim Steamrollers beautiful version of Silent Night plays as the dawning realization steals over him that the most stunningly incredible dream he has ever had, that anyone has EVER had, has come true. 

Imagine that.

I'm not what you'd call your average optimist. I have a saying, It's always darkest when you have your head stuck in the sand. Meaning, don't pretend. Sometimes things are horrible. And I've also never been a big fan of the Well, it could be worse, look at THAT poor guy bandaid. For one thing, if I say that about THAT guy, and he says it about someone else, SOMEWHERE down the line, there's gonna be some poor soul who says Well, yeah, it's bad, but at least-- and then he looks around to find he's the last one in line. Then guess what? His only comfort, his ONLY solace is Christ.
And what a solace! It's as if things were really as bad as they could ever get. And they were, for all of us. Because of the gulf fixed between us by sin, we were bound for a fate more horrifying and despairing than any nightmare.
And then, a plot twist. And now, our wildest dreams cannot account for the glory to be revealed in us.

There is so much expectation these days, perhaps more than ever, of the return of Christ. And it does indeed seem that conditions have never been more favorable. Seems like the perfect storm. But, you know what, if He doesn't return for another million years, it DOESN'T MATTER!!
WAKE UP!! Your dream has come true. 

To A Hammer...

A pair once as well crafted as youth could fashion, with enough young untested muscle to pad the artistry with an untried, tentative masculinity: a perfect storm of potential.
Now near the completion of two-thirds of a life characterized by hard, unskilled labor, the potential seems realized, if amused at how. The muscle has swollen in the web, looking like excess, but in reality only just enough to perform daily duties. The half inch scar from a dull accident with a dull machete on a dull, hot afternoon, once a dull white, is now a duller brown.
The fingernails still bitten down from nervousness, from economy of time management, from distaste of white, from disregard for hygiene.
Stress shows on the inside edge of the thumb cuticle; a gnawed, picked rawness that gets tucked under the palm in certain circumstances.
They look strange when hanging in pictures, unnatural, uncomfortable with idleness, cocked at an angle inconsistent with the curve of the forearm, ready for they know not what, apt tools of a restless mind.

Only You Can Prevent Ignorance

http://www.businessinsider.com/drudge-report-trump-2016-7

I have blamed conservative media for the rise and inexplicable failure to fall of Donald Trump's political viability.
I now double down on that accusation. I've linked to an article about one of the most interesting figures in modern media, Matt Drudge.
The title of the linked article is The Man Who Could Have Stopped Donald Trump.
The information offered in the article does not provide ironclad proof that Drudge alone could have spared us this torturous dragging out of a very bad joke, but it does indicate that there was certainly no attempt at objectivity on Drudge's part during the interminable 2016 primary season.
Matt Drudge is an interesting side effect of the internet. He is not a journalist. He is a news aggregator. He provides links to articles that usually support his narrative and sometimes provides the links with his own titles, often from quotes within the article, often from his personal conclusions drawn from the article.
I encourage you to read the article. It's very informative, and, from my perspective, damning, even though it seems as if it must have tickled Drudge's vanity since it was on his very web page that I first saw the article. And well it might puff the chest of a man who takes pride in his power to mislead. The Pied Piper could take piccolo lessons from this guy.
Here's a pertinent quote from the article.

I can only speculate as to Drudge's justifications for refusing to link to any article that cast Trump in any light that did not capture the essence of the illusion of the no nonsense Dirty Harry. Perhaps it was genuine belief in the billionaire. Perhaps it was crony capitalism. Perhaps it was a victory lap around the fallen walls of of the liberal monopoly of news. Perhaps it was only a Pavlovian hobby. Doesn't really matter. What is certain and what he even seems quite proud of  is that visitors to his website received only one side of the Trump story.
Now, what should we make of this information? First, we must establish that news is a product. Successful news networks, websites and aggregators treat their customers in a way that encourages return business. They give the consumer what is more likely to be consumed, and more importantly, digested, with no danger of uncomfortable heartburn or acid reflux.
Of no concern at all to the provider or the consumer is the clarity of the environment which is adversely affected by the excessive flatulence that such a diet sorely lacking in nutrients and fiber produces.
News has always been a product to be consumed and has always been subjective. Even if it were just you telling your friend about the Dallas Cowboys game, you wouldn't say they lost by 6 points.  You would say  they almost won. But now, just like cars, phones, emojis and football franchises, you can literally find the news product that suits you to a T and reinforces your views. And sometimes it's a very subtle shading that sells the consumer. The National Enquirer is the obvious snake oil salesman. If it were a car dealership, it would be called Honest Abe's Luxury Autos Under 1000$. Nobody's buying there unless they only HAVE a thousand dollars and 0 credit (ibility).
The respectable capitalists don't insult the consumer's intelligence. There are no outrageous claims that can easily be discredited like HILLARY CLINTON IS HONEST or DONALD TRUMP RESPECTS VOTERS INTELLIGENCE.
No outright lies be told. The good ones are simply very skilled fact selectors.
Of course, Drudge nor anyone else is under any obligation to tell me the truth. Caveat emptor. That is the first lesson I take from this. I'm responsible for the information I take in, and more importantly, I'm responsible for what I believe.
The very first thing to do is to know what you believe. That I tell you to do this BEFORE you consume information indicates of course that I posit that there are transcendent guiding principles that need no input.
I'm pretty sure someone will read this and roll their eyes and mutter Yeah, don't confuse me with the facts.
Let me clarify. You don't need facts or outside information to understand that people have inherent rights. You don't need facts/outside input to understand that asking the innocent to give up rights because of the actions of the guilty is wrong.
Where information comes into legitimate play is maybe knowing that a certain person in question has violated the rights of others, and so forfeited some of his rights
I'm aware that someone reading this may have some beliefs that directly oppose mine. That's perfectly fine. I have enough confidence in my core beliefs and enough confidence that those who earnestly seek truth will find it.
The next step, I believe, is shrinking your area of concern.
If news is only a distraction for you, carry on. I wouldn't presume that news about your city council meeting would be nearly as entertaining or expertly packaged as news about the UN Security Council. Some people watch news instead of soap operas. And that's fine, too, although it does imply that if the news you're viewing is as entertaining as fiction, it might conceivably BE fiction, or at best, "loosely based on a true story."
However, if you consume news FOR the information it professes to contain, and are the sort who then sometimes acts on that information, here are three good reasons to  think local.
1) You will never know all the information about any situation that involves anyone or thing apart from yourself. You may be an eyewitness to a crime, but you would still only have your perspective to rely on. But it stands to reason that the fewer degrees of separation between you and the situation being reported, the firmer grasp you will have on the facts. Every time the information goes from one person to the next, it gets filtered. Sewage can become drinking water, and vice versa.
2) I mentioned a city council meeting as opposed to a UN meeting. Another important difference between the two is you can actually ATTEND the next city council meeting, but if you tried to attend the next UN meeting without an invite, you will be met by men with guns that are far more functional than that miserable knotted symbol of peace that stands outside the UN building.
You can have an impact.
Some (not all) politics IS local.
3) You'll sleep better at night. Less obsession about things outside your control and more actual action taken in matters that are small enough to be affected by you will quiet your mind and strengthen your resolve.

Now, I don't expect you to leave off following national or global news. But, I would encourage you to try to keep it in perspective, balance it with local and state news, and, most importantly, let your conscience be your guide.

The Things Which Are Not

Darkness, because daylight hides the unknown.
The moon, because the sun cannot be looked upon.
The worst, because the best is yet a lie.
The sigh, because the song will end.
Violence, because peace is fragile.
Savagery, because civilization is the refuge of cowards.
Chaos, because order is a prison.
The unspoken, because words have spaces in between.
Broken, because perfection is an illusion.
The awake, because the dreaming must awaken and the awake must soon fall asleep.
The present, because the past and the future are non-existent.
The mystery, because the obvious is treacherous.
The lament, because the ode must never hit a false note.
Death, because life slips away.

For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together

Some Other Words For Grace Besides Amazing

No other word for grace but amazing.
But I would like to offer some runners up: inexplicable, incongruous, cognitively dissonant, perplexing, scandalous, subversive, disruptive, inconceivable, difficult, strange, humiliating, liberating, enslaving....
Grace is the biggest hurdle for the unbeliever, and for many believers as well.
What concept is more integral to humanity than merit? What could possibly be more disruptive to fairness than grace?
More impossible than acceptance of the supernatural to the sensibilities of a good person is the idea that no good we can do could ever determine our goodness, and that no bad we could do could ever place us outside the limits of redemption.
I have said before that modern secular humanists, with their incremental, legalistic creed of achieving goodness with no eternal ulterior motive, with no hope of reward, have taken pride to dizzying, unprecedented heights, but it seems I had forgotten a monument called Babel. I have expressed incredulity at the hubris of a current presidential candidate who said he believes in God, but has never felt he needed His forgiveness, but it seems I had forgotten myself.
It is the plain, insipid truth that pride is not merely in our DNA, it is both rails and each rung of the twisted double helix. We, I, will be good enough, or "I" will not. No proffered hand, no vicarious atonement will be tolerated. If I cannot be good, it is revolting and insulting to allow the possibility that something could be a Substitute, a Scapegoat bearing my sins sent into the wilderness while I go unscathed and guiltless back to camp.
Do the math. If I do more good than bad, I am good, even if, no, especially if, there is no scorekeeper.
It could be said that the good atheist is a spiritual libertarian, taking responsibility for his own goodness without incentive, and the good christian is the spiritual statist, abjectly grateful for every undeserved crumb that is thrown him.
Gratefulness is a vile anethema; self preservation a cowardly sellout.

And yet, here am I, the fiercely independent political libertarian, the UPS guy who dismisses all offers of assistance with numerous or overweight packages with "Nah, it ain't heavy." only occasionally aware of the filthiness and raggedness of my own goodness, but living by the almost subconscious certainty that grace is my only hope.