grace from an agnostic believer

16-Sep-2025

The author of this soliloquy and the soliloquy itself are, of course, fictional.¹ Nevertheless, the author exists in all of us. His experiences are inspired by our experiences. As the title may suggest, he is an agnostic believer and it is from his rambling, hastily educated, and—above all else—passionate perspective that this address is presented. I ask you, hear him out. He is one representative of man that is still living out life. And so, I implore you, imagine you're at lunch or dinner with him. Please, ask him to say grace. He is eager to respond.

“Well, this is unexpected but…

the first time I prayed, I was a child. My brother took off after a fight with my father and for a variety of reasons that I don’t care to recount, I feared he would do the unimaginable…

For an hour, I remained at home, paralyzed…

It was then—in my ultimate futility and desperation and powerlessness—that I dropped to my knees, hands clasped, head bowed, seeking the Lord.

‘Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy; Bring my brother back to me,’

The words were foreign on my tongue but as I recited them, I expected the supernatural. Instead, I found no holy light, no angels, no foreign voice in my mind—only the faintest pang of hope…

Where was I again? Ah…

So, I began searching for him, my brother, and to my delight, he was found mere moments after I set out. I asked for him and there he was, returned and unscathed. For many, this may be good enough proof of His kindness. But not for me, tsk… you see, I needed more—I demanded more! This occurrence was coincidence. If you would allow me to proffer: Mere dicta! Post hoc ergo propter hoc. I will not be the victim of some low-minded ‘plague of the mind!’ I was above ‘that.’

I would not pray again for years…

Brothers, I confess, I am a louse. God granted my pleadings, but I couldn’t care less! My mind was fixed on this material plane and its fleshly pleasures—on feeding the noxious insect dwelling within us all meals of corruption and sensual lust until it consumed my very being. It was most pleasurable, and I relished in my degeneracy.

In this enjoyment, I found guilt… though in this too, I found pleasure.

‘I am better than these lowly degenerates,’ I would say. ‘I feel guilt, so I know what I am meant to be. I’ve felt that faint pang of hope, of the touch of Someone more. With His spark, I am superior.’

Do you see it? Even at my basest, I clung to the dream—to the faint pang beating from my core as a ghost note to Heaven. I knew there was something more to me, to man. Forgive my pride, forgive my loquacity, ignore these trifles and listen: We were made to be higher than the angels, but we’re lower than the apes—and we know it. How else do we explain that desire to reach for something higher? If man is a pure beast, how can he aspire for greater? How can he invent something as wonderful as God?

Learned men will quickly respond with their science and mathematics. ‘It is quite simple!’ they exclaim. ‘As surely as 2+2=4, man must strive to be greater! It is biology, how can we, as a species, otherwise proliferate without ideals geared towards cooperation and “higher good”?’ Alternatively, they guffaw ‘God is an invention, consider the psychological benefits of a wholly insulated epistemic framework!’ These are quite powerful statements and to your chagrin, I’m sure, I will offer no direct intradomain response—how can I? I’m words on a page.

Instead, I say: for how complicated man is, reducing him to mere processes is a fool’s errand; confine him to being numbers and mathematics and watch how quickly 2+2=5. From this simple observation, I cannot and will not accept the hypotheses of the learned men. I reject them. Perhaps a most sophisticated formula will one-day emerge, capable of explaining ‘all’ but even then, their reason be damned; I will look back on my life and see meaning. I will not be an automaton; we must be higher than that loathsome insect within. I choose to see the invisible hand of God drawing my path, and so it shall be.

You understand now, don’t you? That I choose to believe—to sanctify a chapel on the faint beat of hope. That faith, in the Lord as my Shepard, remaining by my side—unseen but felt—coaxing me toward something greater. I’m certain that one day, as I stare back upon my life, the scales shall fall, and for the first time, I will see. It’s an indelible impression that the most modern, rigorous surgeries can never remove.

Please, please, I sense that I’ve gone on for so long so let me say one more thing. Put the fork down, please.

We live in a fallen world and so tragedy is abound. Quite recently, I passed by mankind and heard their cries over the world’s wails of despair:

‘God have mercy. Jesus have mercy.’

In a silent gesture, I joined in. Nothing supernatural occurred, but that faint pang has never firmer. And so, I choose to believe that in 100 years, in 1,000,000 years, in an uncountable number of years, I will be knelt over, hands clasped, head bowed, heart full, and singing:

‘Hosanna, Hosanna to the highest!’

The world has order, and I choose to believe it.

Amen.”