A cousin of mine, an erratic church-goer but dependable friend, told me while discussing the looming matter of his funeral, 'When it comes to God, I'm tone-deaf and when it comes to music, Crimond will be fine.' I rather liked his modesty - the description of his fragile belief, without irony or qualification, as a failure of sensibility. My own weak faith was born of the realisation that biology has nothing to say about wickedness, nothing to say about the habit of perfection, can neither describe nor allow human intention or agency. It models a merciless struggle rising blindly from a listless past. For me the most pressing mystery is not 'The starry heavens above' but a modern equivalent of 'The moral law within': the intuition most of us have that were we to commit certain crimes we would damage ourselves irreversibly - or, as I find myself wanting to say, irretrievably. However rooted in biology it might be, our knowledge of right and wrong dwarfs the nature from which, if it does, it arises. 'No man is an island': we assume bonds of fellowship and love.