Gabriel took the path through the forest. It was narrow and sometimes boggy ground blocked the way. The path veered off through the clinging undergrowth but someone or some people had been before him. He was not alone.

Would this person know the truth? Would he lead him down treacherous paths? Could he trust him? But this at least was a path. The trees were shady. But was it all an illusion: the woodland plants and herbs, the cool water – for he pondered on today’s words:

I know the ones I have chosen… someone who shares my table rebels against me.

Gabriel was tired now and he sat down to eat his sandwich.

Gabriel was still sitting there and he met teacher.

How can I reach the sheepfold? All the others seem to be able to find it, he asked.
But teacher lived in the twenty-first century.

There’s no one way. There are many guardians if the ways all are equally valid. There is Buddha, Muhammad, Jesus, Abraham. There is your conscience. Seek your faith no longer in one faith.

Indeed, now Gabriel saw that his road had come to a junction. Many roads now veered to left and to right, to north, south, east, and west. Some broad, flat, and easy, some narrow, sunny, and winding, rising, it seemed, into barren hills.

Teacher was still talking “But realise that what matters is to understand all people. All thoughts to trust in all.”

But Gabriel still thought on the words he had read for today:

The light have come into the world, so that whoever believes in me need not stay in the dark anymore.

Now it was indeed growing dark. What was the way?

Under the great beeches, it was warm. Gabriel gazed down at the small stream pottering through the woods. He longed to paddle in its cool waters.

He knew now why the gate was so far away.

He looked at the book he carried in his rucksack.

The works I do in my father’s name are my witness.
But you do not believe.
Because you are no sheep of mine.
(John 10:22-30)

So that was the problem. He could not yet enter the sheepfold promised on Sunday because he lacked faith.

But how could he acquire it?

Did it come with reading? He read.
Did it come with walking? He walked.
Did it come with praying? He tried to pray.
And he walked forward.

Gabriel was still walking towards the sheepfold. The sheep too were walking towards it. Once he entered into that sheepfold he would be safe. But as fast as he walked, so the fold sank away. He ran. It ran away. He walked. It walked away.

But the words he carried in his book for today were so clear:

I am the good shepherd
I know my own.
As my own know me.
(John 10:11-18)

But because the gate grew no nearer, Gabriel felt sure he was not known. Was the gate real? A mirage?

Surely not. In that green English valley. The green was now so bright it hurt his eyes. Great trees, birches, now enveloped his path.

They towered up beautifully arching the road.

Of this world, of nature, but the gate was now obscured totally.

Gabriel looked across the narrow valley at the sheep grazing quietly. His small cottage lay dozing in the sun as it had done for over 100 years. He was content, but wanted to find out more. So he walked down his path and closed the gate. All he had was his knapsack. He was thinking of these words of today that he had read earlier:

I am the gate
Anyone who enters through me will be saved.
(John 10:1-10)

But where was the gate?
He could see no gate.
It could only be in his mind.
But was it a real gate? If he could not see it, how could it exist?
He resolved to search for the gate.
There was something on the horizon. Small, black, almost indistinct.

I went to the English watercolour exhibition at the Tate Britain. Two pictures caught my eye.

The first was Edward Burra’s “Mexican Church”. It is all in black and gold with despairing, black-clad women around a suffering crucified Christ.

My kind of religion is summed up by another picture in the exhibition. It is Samuel Palmer’s “A Dream in the Apennines”. The colours are warm. A beautiful girl looks across a darkening valley to a sunlit city.

The watercolours give the picture a dreamlike quality.

A major study at universities this week concludes that the brain is hard-wired into believing in God. It is ingrained in us. We tend to follow a belief in the supernatural if we can.

But who or what put this urge into our brain? Was it God or nature? But if nature, is it in the interests of the survival of the fittest to encourage faith in anything other than the real and the immediate?

If you are walking down a jungle path and dreaming about God in the dawn of time instead of thinking what might be behind the next bush aren’t you more likely to be eaten by a lion?

So perhaps God did put the thought there.

I had another dream and it illustrates the mind’s complexity and its duplicity. My dream was that, for some unaccountable reason, I was trying to repair a laser beam and it caused me a nasty injury in my eye. I woke up to find my eye irritated by the pillow it was lying on. But why did the brain create such a complicated and wrong story to explain something that was wrong?

Do our brains and thoughts always delude us?

Is belief in God a complex delusion?

Todays reading struck me in this context

Everybody who believes has eternal life.
(John 6:44-51)

The Lincolnshire W.I. came to the House of Commons today and I spoke to them in Committee Room 11.

Then something happened which again I had never seen before in this place. At the end of the meeting they asked if they could sing “Jerusalem” and they did so beautifully. Forty lusty voices singing these immortal lines in this grand committee room were a lot more inspiring than my last visit there on Monday when I had been chairing a meeting of the European Scrutiny Committee!

The reading from the Acts of the Apostles is a violent one of the stoning of Stephen. But one line always strikes me.

With these words he fell asleep

It seems a gentle way of dying.

I had a dream tonight that I was dead or thought that I was dead. Apparently one cannot actually dream that one is dead or killed. It was quite a pleasant experience. I wasn’t alone and everyone else in the room seemed quite content but on waking therefore I almost felt lonely. Perhaps death is like that. Like Stephen we just fall asleep and we are not alone.

We had a Cornerstone dinner for Conservative MPs today and for the first time ever at a Conservative dinner — and I have been to countless ones over the last forty years — someone, not me, suggested that we say grace. No one minded, we just stood up and said it.

The readings of Easter are coming to a head. They are like a wave or swiftly running water, wearing away our disbelief, lapping insistently at our worldlinesss, asking, confronting the uncertainty of history with real people, with wounds being touched and food grilled and eaten before our eyes.

So we wonder at our questioning and then as the readings draw to a close question again. Appropriately, today’s reading is the walk from Emmaus and the blindness of the followers until their eyes are opened.

Seve Ballesteros, the golfer has died. There were wonderful pictures of him on television, a kind of God, good looking, smiling, doing the most amazing shots, winning, then rarely but movingly shown of him in hospital at the end, desperately weak, a huge horrible tumour on the side of his bald head.

It comes to us all, however strong.

That night, pleasantly exhausted, after a nine-mile walk from Market Rasen, I thought again of these mysteries.

I still don’t believe utterly, but where do all our notions of a mighty cosmos lead us? Just to an inflexible pitiless and unknowing machine governed by the laws of physics. But at least religion brings us art, beauty, hope, and ultimately – if we are lucky – belief.

Do I believe that Jesus walked the earth, died and subsequently showed himself to his friends? Yes, I think I do. But do I believe that he made personally these billions of stars? That I do not know, but I will go trying to believe and assume belief.

But secondly, exhausted, I felt again even more strongly, especially after watching the fate of Ballesteros, the difference between body and spirit.

That the body was slipping away, a useless envelope, much posted and soiled, but the letter inside, the inner message remained as yet barely read.

NOW AT LAST we arrive at its proper place at the end of these great speeches the feeding of the 5,000.

Trains, meetings, polling stations, and late-night counts but a quiet moment in the tiny local church in the gathering gloom before it was locked.

Today is the day of the great speech to Nicodemus:

“God gives him the spirit without reserve.”

I went to Mass expecting readings for Wednesday of the second week in Easter and I got instead the feast of SS Philip and James, Apostles and Martyrs and the first words of the Gospel:

Jesus said to Thomas, “I am the way the truth and the life. If you know me you know my father too.”

The day was full of meetings but ultimately the question most worth asking is contained in these simple lines.

I asked a question today of the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. They were essentially the same. In Libya, we should pursue peace and a ceasefire rather than regime change, even if the country ends up divided which of course it was for many centuries anyway until the Italians united it in the 1930s.

That, I suspect, is what most Libyans want anyway: peace rather than any particular regime. And in my view it is only a just and moral war to the extent that it promotes peace. I believe that most of the world’s miseries in history are down to people thinking that they have a superior moral right to determine what governments foreigners should live under.

In the reading today (John 14:27-31), Jesus starts with these words

Peace I bequeath to you
My own peace I give you.

On Sunday evening I stood next to Walesby Old Church and watched one of the most perfect sunsets that I have ever seen.

The light all day had been brilliantly clear, almost translucent. The Laburnam in the garden was the brightest yellow I have ever seen it, the Lilac the mauvest of mauves. Now at exactly 8.30 in the evening the sun, a huge orange globe sunk directly into the horizon, something one sees very rarely around here. The whole sky gradually changed into a bluish grey colour.

It was intensely quiet and I walked slowly home over the Wolds waiting for the first stars to appear, the nearest street lamps five miles away there is no light pollution.

Today, Monday, we heard that Osama bin Laden had met his violent end.

In the readings this week Nicodemus seems to speak to all of us doubters. For him the practical and the seen is reality:

Nicodemus said “How can a grown man be born again? Can he go back into his mother’s womb and be born again?”

Jesus replies that we have to be born of the spirit.

Unless we can plumb the spirit within us we will never make progress.

All too soon and with great sadness the weekday readings of the encounter with Christ will come to an end. Why can’t they go on and on? Doubt gnaws at me. Could He not have shown Himself to hundred and thousands, to Pilate and Caiphas, to remove all doubt? Staying weeks, months, who knows.

Fellow doubter, just accept. As we read today (Mark 16:9-15):

But they did not believe her when they heard her say that He was alive and that she had seen Him.

The day of the Royal Wedding. I must confess to some excitement before the event – but as I stood on the pavement and saw the bridge and groom being driven past I felt profoundly moved.

As I was at the 8 a.m. Mass this reading of the meeting by the Sea of Galilee compared with the meeting on the road to Emmaus with its greatness and profundity. Unlike the two previous days, there are no sudden openings and understandings during the reading but a quiet acceptance of the beauty of holiness of the fish being grilled at the side of the lake.

As soon as they came ashore, they saw that there was some bread there, and a charcoal fire with fish cooking on it.

John 21: 1-15

It happened to me again. I was at Mass and at one point, only one part of the Gospel reading, my eyes were opened. I actually profoundly and absolutely believed and then as quickly as a bird flying above one’s head it was gone. How strange but reassuring.

It came as the reading described Jesus suddenly appearing asking the disciples:

Why are you agitated, and why are there doubts rising in your hearts? Look at my hands and feet.

Luke 24:35-48

Fellow doubters, I can only advise you: just have an open mind and heart. Who knows what might happen.

Now comes what is for so many including myself our favourite reading. We are so like the disciples on the road to Emmaus. We recognise in fits & starts.

Now while he was with them at table he took the bread and said the blessing: then he broke it and handed it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognised him.

Luke 24: 13-35

As this reading progressed at Mass today, at one moment in the passage I absolutely suddenly and completely believed. And then my eyes closed again for the moment and the belief passed.

Then he said to them: you foolish men! So slow to believe the full message of the prophets.

I always get mixed up this week with what Marys are seeing and doing. Here on Easter Tuesday, Mary of Magdala does not immediately recognise Jesus.

Jesus said ‘Mary!’ She knew him then and saw and said in Hebrew ‘Rabbuni’ which means ‘Master’.

John 20:11-13

But of course the whole point is that we don’t immediately recognise Jesus. Indeed for a natural doubter like myself it comes in fits and starts. You just have to go with the flow.

The readings of the Mass in this week are truly inspiring but all too quickly over. This is why they cannot just be read, every word has to be mulled over and considered. What does it actually say? What does it say to me? What do I say in reply?

But what caught my eye in the Office of readings today was the glorious hymn we sang at the end of the great Easter Vigil. I started to learn the words, repeat them, and sing them to myself. They bring back happy memories of the Easter Triduum and a depth of religious feeling rarely if ever surpassed for the rest of the year.

Why cannot this single moment, the triumph of life over death, endlessly repeat itself? But as I heard in the homily today, the Easter story is not just an historical event, it is for here and now repeated every day in our minds.

Finished the strife of battle now,
Gloriously crowned the victor’s brow:
Hence with sadness, sing with gladness:
Alleluia, alleluia.
After sharp death that him befell,
Jesus Christ hath harrowed hell:
Sing we lauding, and applauding:
Alleluia, alleluia.
On Easter morning he arose,
Shining with victory o’er his foes:
Earth is singing, heaven is ringing:
Alleluia, alleluia.

The liturgy in the Abbey is magnificent, culminating in a three-hour-long Easter vigil, complete with baptism.

An echo of the early church; but in the much smaller children’s service of Easter Sunday, one comment from the homily remains: As Mother Teresa said “love consumes the ego within”.

I had been concerned the evening before with the ego of the ceaseless certainty of the brain and the deeper true self beneath, this comment seemed particularly appropriate.