I was out walking in the Lincolnshire hills and started talking to an old countryman about where one was and wasn’t allowed to walk. He told me that there was an ancient law that whenever one was in the countryside, when the church bells rang out one could make a direct line to the nearest church. It is interesting to observe that so many of our “rights” are rooted in our Christian teachings.

He then told me another interesting anecdote. When he was young he had spoken to an old shepherd. The shepherd had told him that when he himself was young there were 16 men working on the five-hundred-acre farm which he worked. Now he was the only one. In those days all the shepherds were required to go to church on Sunday by their boss. I made no comment on whether that was a good or a bad thing! It’s just fascinating how these two social customs have changed and how within living memory the countryside was such a different place, with its religious obligations thoroughly embedded. Now the countryside has become nothing more than a dormitory for the cities.

The Archbishop of Canterbury the day before on television had, in his powerful and soothing tone, stressed the value of prayer.

Today, for once, I arrived early for Mass. I had nothing to read, nothing in particular to do and not much apparently to think on. So, perhaps inspired by the Archbishop, but admittedly somewhat reluctantly, I went to the Blessed Sacrament chapel and looked at the crucifix and simply prayed. I tried to concentrate uniquely on the crucifix. The solid gold figure seemed to grow in significance and presence. This powerful feeling brought the Archbishop’s words into my reality. Then disappointingly the moment passed and it was time for Mass.

Recently there was a programme on television about the history of the Reformation. As we know, Luther’s principal contribution was to argue justification by faith. He argued that the giving of indulgences, which was common practice by those hoping to get to Heaven during his time, was useless because we do not achieve salvation by good works, but by faith.

Where does that leave those of us of questioning faith? Often when I look at the night sky I am filled by doubts that no single intelligence could have created a universe of such magnitude. But Luther may have a point. Anyone can do good in their lives. An atheist can be as “good” a person as a fervent believer. By doing good does he get to Heaven quicker than the believer who has done less good? Can we get to Heaven without believing? I do not know. I just know that we just have to go on working on our belief.

I had a dream that I was attending a hearing of the House of Commons Committee of which I am Chairman, the PAC. It was all a bit of a disaster. First I started fighting with one of the other committee members, literally grappling on the floor, for fun!

Then I asked a Catholic priest to say prayers before the hearing began. (Prayers are said immediately before the daily debates in the Commons Chamber, though not prior to committee hearings.) However, he did it in a ludicrously over the top manner, in Latin, with the full works and dress! This inevitably led some of the more atheistic members of the Committee to start grumbling.

I then looked down to my desk and realised I had left my briefing notes in my office. My mind went blank and I had not the slightest idea what to ask the distinguished witnesses who sat patiently before me. There was an awkward silence, but fortunately I then woke up!

All this begs the question; does this dream reveal a deep insecurity? Or is it simply the result of my different thought processes becoming intertwined?

Today’s reading describes the travails of the Ark of the Covenant. It was lost after Solomon’s time and the tablets which had been given to Moses and upon which the Ten Commandments were inscribed have never been found.

What would we make of them if they were discovered today? No doubt that we would insist that they were carbon dated. Let’s just accept history as it’s written and be thankful.

I had a dream that I was transported back in time one hundred years to a Victorian church I know well. What was strange about the dream was that I was obviously in the Victorian era, the building was brand new and period characteristics such as horse and carts rolling past outside confirmed this. Yet the internal decoration of the church, its participants and liturgy were aspects and people I knew. It was as if the dream was an allegory, that the church transcends time and can be in all eras at once.

Ask, and it will be given to you;
Search, and you will find,
Knock, and the door will be opened to you. (Matthew 7: 7-12)

I think today’s reading is my favourite. It always reminds me of William Holman Hunt’s painting The Light of the World. The painting, which now hangs in a side room off the chapel of Keble College, Oxford, depicts Jesus carrying a lantern and preparing to knock on an unopened door. It is a favourite of mine because it’s not about having faith but seeking it.

I was thinking of today’s psalm.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
Lord hear my voice
O let your ears be attentive
To the voice of my pleading. (Psalm 129)

Three of my best friends, including my two best friends from university, have already died and of natural causes. I was lying awake and thinking of them. I just knew that they were present, not in a spooky, ghost-like way, but in an intellectual and emotional presence.

They may have died and been cremated but they still exist. I just knew it. They are not gone.

I followed the Hunt on foot, walking for over three hours, coming up after them and seeing the field streaming over the distant hills, brought closer and into sharp focus by my binoculars.

Finally, tired I came over the side of the Wolds with the Lincolnshire plains spread before me.

In the near distance, amid the subtle winter greys, greens and browns lay the steeple of Tealby church, beautiful and proclaiming under a blemished blue grey sky.

Today is St David’s day. He is of course the Patron Saint of Wales and he also holds the distinction amongst the other patron saints of the British Isles of being the only patron saint to have been a native of their country. At Mass today we were reminded that St David’s followers were called the Watermen. This was due to their penitential habit of standing up to their neck in freezing cold water and reciting all 150 of the psalms.

Having taken a dip in the Serpentine this morning I can vouch for the arduousness of their task. I only lasted about 3 minutes, scarcely long enough for a Pater Noster, let alone 150 psalms. I think that from this hardly scientific experiment we can safely conclude; 1. that the legend is a bit far fetched; 2. that St Benedict was wise to introduce a more benign routine for his monks. Joking apart, today’s psalm is beautiful:

Happy the man who has placed his trust in the Lord. Happy indeed is the man whose delight is the care of the Lord and who ponders his law day and night. (Psalm 1)

After the mass today we got our throats blessed. I have often wandered if the good that comes of this only comes to our throats because of St. Blaise’s special care for them. I hope not!

In the Old Testament reading today David dies.

David’s reign over Israel lasted forty years, he reigned in Hebron for seven years and in Jerusalem for thirty-three. (Kings 2:1-4 10-12)

This reading strikes me as showing the importance of dying at the right moment. David’s life has been far from perfect, not least his shameful murder by contract of his rival in love. And now after his heir, things in Israel and Judah were going to go pear-shaped, but he chose the right moment.

Today is the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, or Candlemas as it used to be called. I am reading Eamon Duffy’s The Stripping of the Altars. There is a long passage about the extraordinarily large role played but Candlemas in the life of the community. There were, for instance great parades of people carrying candles to illustrate the words of Jesus.

Now master, you can let your servant go in peace. Just as you promised; because my eyes have seen the salvation which you have prepared for all nations to see. A light to enlighten the pagans and the glory of your people Israel. (Luke 2:22-40)

To me this is one of the most beautiful parts of the whole Gospel. One can picture it in our mind, the old man, his eyes lighting up, the majestic poetry which he utters. What a contrast to the reading of the day before. Perhaps it is supposed to be.

This week I remembered what the days meant to me by recalling the following words: Pig, Candle, Throat, and David.

Today’s reading is about Jesus’ exorcising of the Gerasene demoniac whose spirit he freed through the device of transporting the demon into a nearby herd of pigs, who promptly hurled themselves off the cliff.

I have always asked myself “what have the pigs done to deserve this?” I suppose that to take this story literally is a mistake. It’s really about the Jewish notion of transforming evil to something unclean. To be honest I have never liked this story.

In the sung Saturday morning Mass in Westminster Cathedral, the sun shines through the east window directly into my eye. This means that the altar is blacked out apart from some twinkling lights.

The priest says Christ has abolished death and sin. Suddenly, for a moment I believe. It seems right and obvious.

I remember little of the words of the Mass, but that isn’t important because the priest celebrating it says the Eucharistic Prayer with such beauty and solemnity that nothing else matters. He says it in Latin not English, but pronounces every syllable carefully without a trace of affectation or pomposity, but with great sincerity and beauty. Who is he? Is he the visiting Abbot of a monastery? He has that sort of natural stature.

Richard Dawkins, writing in The Times, mocked Christian reactions to Haiti. Clearly the earthquake, he says, was caused by two plates of the earth’s crust moving. They are utterly indifferent to mankind’s trials. His prose is always powerful. There is no logical answer for how a loving God could permit this.

But again I found the day’s reading comforting.

What shall we say the kingdom of God is like, or what parable shall we use to describe it? It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest seed you plant in the ground. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants. (Mark 4:26-34)

We just have to accept that our understanding is the tiniest of mustard seeds.

Surely the following reading is relevant to the debate on belief.

There is nothing hidden but it must be disclosed, nothing kept secret except it he brought to light. (Mark 4:21-25)

Do we have the courage to put our flickering camp-light belief on public display?

The Gospel reading at the ecumenical service on Sunday had been my favourite – the disciples talking to Jesus on the road to Emmaus. For me, belief is like them only recognising Christ in the instant of the breaking of bread. Suddenly, just for an instant, then it passes; then one tries again.

Today’s reading about the parable of the Sower points to the major challenge. It is not so much those on the path who never believe or those entangled by the thorns of life’s cares that are the problem. It is those who:

Have no root in them, they do not last; should some trial come or some persecution on account of the word, they fall away at once. (Mark 4: 1-20)

The “trial” is the modern notion of scepticism.

I have said this before, but a way forward to the quandary of belief lies in the ancient practice that behaviour and practice were more important than belief. That we should start with religious practice and obedience then belief may follow. After all, few people nowadays are fortunate enough to receive some unflinching belief as a bolt from Heaven.

Part of today’s Gospel reading is instructive:

Anyone who does the will of God, that person is my brother and sister and mother. (Mark 3. 31-35)

I reflected on this crisis of belief. One of the reasons for thinking people is the increasing realisation of the sheer size and diversity of the Universe. As JBS Haldane once said, “the universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose.”

I was reading the latest article in National Geographic magazine on the extraordinary discovery of some 700 planets in other solar systems over the last decade. The article compared finding these tiny distant objects to like looking for a firefly in a fireworks display. Astronomers now reckon that there may be a billion planets like ours out there. The article ended with a quote from the Spanish philosopher Miguel De Unamuno. The mysteries of the religious visionaries of old arose from an “intolerable disparity between the hugeness of their desire and the smallness of reality.”

Now the reality of the Universe is infinitely greater than our own imagination. Where does that leave the incarnation? How can the God that created the Universe of a billion planets like ours be the God that arrived in a manger in Palestine two-thousand years ago? This was the problem of the mismatch of belief that I was referring to at Market Rasen the day before.

I was a bit nervous at the thought of giving the address at Market Rasen’s ecumenical service. But I think it went all right. I made the obvious point that the things that divide us are minimal compared to those that unite us. But what interests me is the richness in diversity. The exuberance of a Latin Palestrina Mass, the poetry of Thomas Cranmer, the energy of the evangelical New Life Movements, the work, literally, on the street of the Salvation Army, and I said all this.

However, I feel the problem lies with the young. Churches assume faith too much, but faith for the young is a massive and growing problem. As someone who struggles with belief myself, we have to convince the young that you can’t believe in something only if it can be proved. Faith is a leap into the dark but if you make it, great joy can follow.

I went to mass in the evening. The reading was about the appointment, if that is the right word, of the Apostles. Nowadays we would make such a meal of it. “Open interviews” and “gender balance” spring to mind.

But here, for the twelve most important jobs in world history, people just came and approached Jesus. They either felt that they liked the look of him or just went on the word of John the Baptist, “Behold the Lamb of God”, and, without hesitation, devoted their whole life, and literally their life, to this man.

Simon Peter the fisherman, came to Jesus in this way. He had heard the word’s of John the Baptist and upon his very first meeting with Jesus he was ready to sign up to become a “fisher of men.”

This demonstration of the leap of faith by the Apostles is what we encounter daily in the search for faith. In the same way that we have no way of proving God exists, so the Apostles had no way of proving that Jesus was the Son of God. They simply had to rely on their faith to believe.

There were some words in the Gospel that stayed with me today.

The leper says: “Sir, if you want to you can cure me.”

It is worth remembering that these words, they can apply to us. For all our troubles great or small, God, you can cure me.

It is the faith of the leper which is striking.

I walk over the Lincolnshire Wolds on a misty, rainy day. A tree is black with water flowing down it, the glistening trunks snagging in every direction. It is actually quite beautiful, like a quivering animal about to leap.

Just taking a moment to stop and look at the intricate carving of nature is finer than any artefact of man. It is an almost spiritual moment.