A week ago, I attended Evensong at Jesus College, Cambridge, where the Small Boy is a chorister. I hadn’t been to church in a while and it took me a few seconds, waiting for the faith muscle-memory to kick in. The choir sang. They say the Devil has all the best tunes. Well, they’re wrong; Jesus has Hubert Parry and Johann Sebastian Bach. We knelt. We stood, then knelt again. We sang “Immortal Invisible God Only Wise”. We turned to face the altar. “We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth.” I’m not sure what I believe, but I do know every word of the Creed, and when I say them I feel I am joining myself to generations who spoke those words centuries before I was born, and that custom is deeply consoling. I thought about my friend, stranded in New York by snow when her son was hurt in a car crash. Ann hadn’t prayed for years, but she slipped into a church on Fifth Avenue, “I can’t manage it alone,” she emailed, “I know that sounds strange.” Religion is strange, infinitely mysterious and easy to mock, but all I can say is that its rituals feel full, not hollow, as so much of modern life does. The Dorkists argue that you don’t need organised religion to hand down the wisdom of ages or a system of morality. Don’t you?