A narrow Devon lane with hedges so high that they almost meet overhead leads from our rented cottage to the harbour, which consists of an ageing stone wall, a couple of rough ramps and a stream that flows under the road and between two low walls, out towards the sea.

An ancient house stands on one of the ramps, its gable end facing toward the waves, defiant. There is nothing smooth here, nothing nicely finished. Out in the bay, pieces of cliff are left to form grass-topped stacks, dangerous, unreachable.

The lane sweeps steeply down on both sides of the village, reflecting the rollercoaster cliffs that stretch east and west between Ilfracombe and Woolacombe. A combe is a wooded valley, but that sounds too pleasant, round and countrified for what you see hereabouts: deep cuts in the landscape, sharp and clinical.

Yes, there are trees, but they are dwarfed by the majesty of the cliffs. And on the beach the rocks again reflect that majesty: we follow the steep smugglers’ path from cove to cove at low tide, almost wanting to be caught by the sea, just to witness its power at first hand.

Sharp hands of slate reach up from the beach, with pools and tiny waterfalls created by this magical juxtaposition of rock and sand. My granddaughter climbs fearlessly up the jagged edges, her bare feet and fingers secure.

Later we watch the sea reclaim the beach, inch up and eventually smash against the harbour walls, as if to say: “You weren’t fooled, were you? All this is mine.”

This is my kind of beauty, and it reminds me again of the poet Rilke’s words, “For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror that we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us.”

The right reaction to beauty is surely just that: a sharp intake of breath, a kind of astonishment at its near-perfection and a fear-tinged wonder at what could be at the other side of it.

Top-class literature or drama can have the same effect, as can a song – a song like Leonard Cohen’s Alexandra Leaving or Dylan’s Visions of Johanna.

I  get the same feeling of awe, it has to be said, from the words of Jesus and from the idea of redemption and resurrection, the story that appears over and over again in the world’s literature and will not go away.

What does it all mean? Where did it all come from? Somewhere else, that’s for sure.

The following list of phrases and their definitions might help you understand the mysterious languages of science and medicine. These special phrases are also applicable to anyone working on a PhD dissertation or academic paper anywhere. I received them from Casey Research.

• “It has long been known” = I didn’t look up the original reference.
• “A definite trend is evident” = These data are practically meaningless.
• “While it has not been possible to provide definite answers to the questions” = An unsuccessful experiment, but I still hope to get it published.
• “Three of the samples were chosen for detailed study” = The other results didn’t make any sense.
• “Typical results are shown” = This is the prettiest graph.
• “These results will be in a subsequent report” = I might get around to this sometime, if pushed/funded.
• “In my experience” = Once.
• “In case after case” = Twice.
• “In a series of cases” = Thrice.
• “It is believed that” = I think.
• “It is generally believed that” = A couple of others think so, too.
• “Correct within an order of magnitude” = Wrong.
• “According to statistical analysis” = Rumour has it.
• “A statistically oriented projection of the significance of these findings” = A wild guess.
• “A careful analysis of obtainable data” = Three pages of notes were obliterated when I knocked over my coffee.
• “It is clear that much additional work will be required before a complete understanding of this phenomenon occurs”= I don’t get it.
• “After additional study by my colleagues”= They don’t get it either.
• “Thanks are due to Joe Blotz for assistance with the experiment and to Cindy Adams for valuable discussions” = Mr. Blotz did the work and Ms. Adams explained to me what it meant.
• “A highly significant area for exploratory study” = A totally useless topic selected by my committee.
• “It is hoped that this study will stimulate further investigation in this field” = I quit.

We are now at the exciting time of year that falls between Easter and Pentecost – otherwise known as the climax of the football season.

Interestingly it has elements of resurrection, as apparently doomed clubs spring to life; and speaking in tongues, which is what goes on across the terraces, on the pitch and in the commentary boxes. It also has promotion to a higher form of existence and relegation to the depths of non-league purgatory.

But here the similarity with any kind of Christianity ends, because football is basically a dishonest game.

Beautiful, yes, but basically dishonest. You can tell this very easily, almost every time the ball goes out of play. Both sides will appeal for the throw, corner of goal kick, despite the fact that those nearest the ball almost always know exactly who touched it last.

Similarly, except in extreme circumstances, everyone nearby will know whether or not the ball has crossed the line for a goal. The referee may be unsighted, but the players nearby will know. Use goal-line technology by all means, but it wouldn’t be necessary if the goalkeeper who has seen the ball bounce behind the line didn’t carry on and pretend it hadn’t.

There are more extreme examples: the player who goes down as if poleaxed when his opponent looks at him askance; the forward who deliberately trips over the defender in the penalty area and goes flying; the defender who grabs a handful of shirt and then protests his innocence before anyone has even accused him.

All this dishonesty inevitably makes life difficult, if not impossible, for the referee, who is not God or any kind of omniscient being. Oddly the referee is expected to be totally honest: he would be crucified if he was shown not to be. But the players are expected to dive and deceive the referee in any way they can.

I know some other sports are going the same way: no-one expects a professional cricketer to “walk” any longer, even if he knows he is out. But many sportsmen are still honest. A snooker player will call a foul on himself, and a golfer will give himself a penalty – and these are high-paying sports, so it can’t just be the money. Extremely high standards are demanded of Olympic athletes.

On one of my rare outings as a soccer referee at a very amateur level, I was faced with a situation where I suspected a defender of handling the ball, but I hadn’t actually seen it. So I asked him if he had – and he wouldn’t tell me. I knew him personally (as I did many members of both teams), and he was an upstanding, honest individual. So what was going on?

What is it about football in particular that encourages dishonesty? Maybe more than any other sport it reflects a self-centred society with a morality bypass: one that believes anything is legal – as long as you don’t get caught. Cameras may be the solution, but they shouldn’t be necessary.

Now that all our Easter shopping is over and we think it’s safe to resume normal life – whatever that is – I thought I’d buck the trend of which I’m so often a part, and give a passing thought to what it was really all about.

Many, many years ago Graham Kendrick wrote a moving and effective song called Paid on the Nail. It is not widely known now, but it came to my mind on reading an article sent to me by a friend, which contained some harrowing details about what it meant to be crucified.

I expect that you, like me, would rather think about the love of God for all of us and how, in the words of my local mystic Julian of Norwich, “all will be well, and all manner of things will be well”.

That’s true, of course, but I do also happen to believe that it took something terrible and miraculous to get us to the point where we can connect with God. If the Resurrection isn’t true, there’s not much point in Christianity, but what did the Crucifixion mean? The following details come partly from the article I received, but mainly from a health website.

At that time in history, death by crucifixion was reserved for only the worst of criminals. Large sharp nails, about 15 to 20 cm long, each with a point of 6 cm, were hammered into the pulses – not into the palms, as the flesh of your palm would simply tear from the weight of your body.

In the pulse, there’s a tendon that extends to your shoulder, and when the nails were hammered in, it would break that tendon. This forced Jesus to use all the muscles of his back in order to breathe, as the air was forced from his lungs by the weight of his torso. So Jesus had to support himself on the single nail hammered into his feet, which was bigger than those driven into his pulses, as the feet were carved together.

Since his feet could not endure for a long time without tearing, Jesus was forced to alternate that “cycle” in order to breathe.

It is believed Jesus endured this cruelty for three hours. A few minutes before He died, he was no longer bleeding, for he had no blood left in his body. He was simply pouring water from his cuts and holes.

The human body is composed of nearly 3.5 litres of blood. Jesus shed every drop of His blood for us. He had three nails hammered into him; a crown of thorns on his head; and a spear plunged into his chest by a Roman soldier. Added to his suffering was the burden of carrying his own cross, weighing nearly five stone, for well over a mile while the crowd spat on his face and threw stones.

Christians believe Jesus had to endure this experience so that we may all have free access to God. Not so that another religion could be created: the access is available to everyone. Not so that Christians could impose their beliefs on anyone: again, it’s simply a gift. Jesus was a Jew, and people from all races and religious backgrounds have accepted what he did.

That’s it. No strings, just nails. Oh, and a resurrection.

I was aware that the warm and sunny weather might come to an end; so I collected some sun each day and kept it in cans in my garden.

I know there is a chance that it might explode, but I think it is worth the risk. Now, when the sun is hidden behind clouds, I shall be able to open my cans, pour out the contents and enjoy the light and warmth.

Some people became irrationally angry when I queued up to collect sun and got in their way. They said I cast a shadow on their day.

Others laughed at me. But they will soon be laughing on the other side of their face, wherever that is.

I have not been making unnecessary visits to petrol stations, because everyone knows that petrol never runs out. Nor does water. I have lived in this country for well over 60 years and during all that time, petrol and water have never run out.

But sun often runs out; so I am hoarding it.

I was listening to the latest Leonard Cohen album in my car the other day, when the genial Canadian was interrupted by a local radio station giving advice on traffic conditions.

As surreal experiences go, this one is right up there. One minute I was immersed in deep poetic insight accompanied by gentle harmonies; the next I was being shouted at by alien beings operating on a totally different level and at breakneck speed.

Surprisingly I did not hit anything, though if the radio announcer had been closer to me, I might have been tempted. The superficiality meter was going through the roof.

Some would say I was being brought back to reality, but I disagree: I felt I was being dragged away from it by a hysterical white rabbit that was late for something, and was concerned that it might be hampered by slow-moving traffic on the ring road.

Which of these two realities is really real? Many people would, I suspect, say that anything dealing with traffic and the urgency of getting from A to B is much more real than poetry about the mystery of the spiritual life – in the same way that science seems more real than religion.

But scientists do not necessarily agree that reality is ordinary. J B S Haldane, a biologist (and incidentally a Marxist) said: “Reality is not only stranger than we suppose, but also much stranger than we can suppose.”

Poetry and mysticism are one way (or perhaps two ways) of dealing with that. Many people have mystical experiences, but they are often discounted, or – worse – put on a par with mental illness. Unsurprisingly, the evidence contradicts this.

A survey made of people who had experiences of God (that is, mystical experiences) showed that the relationship between such experiences and psychological well-being was extremely high.

Richard Holloway reports in his book A New Heaven that this was dismissed by mental health experts.

The scientists who conducted the survey reported: “We confess to being somewhat dismayed when professional colleagues dismiss our findings with an abrupt certainty: ‘Those people can’t be having religious experiences.’ Maybe not, but they’re having something, and whatever the hell it is they are having, it correlates with mental health at a very high level.

“If we had found any other correlate, the mental-health establishment would be knocking down our doors demanding to know more.”

Of course, listening to traffic directions is much easier. It just drives you crazy.

“I accept chaos,” said Bob Dylan drily many, many years ago. “I’m not sure if it accepts me.”

Most of us are unhappy with chaos. When even the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can start a storm on the other side of the world, you have to be a little uneasy about contemplating any kind of disruption, particularly at much more obviously provocative levels.

So perhaps it is prudent not to get involved in uprisings of any kind, even the kind that seem to release us from tyrants.

The problem is that while we want to be free, we would also like to be safe – and the joy of freedom can quickly turn into the terror of chaos.

Is the freedom worth it? It depends who you are. Certain people have the innate tools to benefit from chaos, because they impose their will on it. They are the kinds of people who dominate meetings: quick-thinking and quick-talking. They do not necessarily have the best ideas, but they carry the day.

This is (again) another way of saying that the wrong people are in power because they would not be in power if they were not the wrong people.

That is why you get the French Revolution, why certain bankers ruined the economy and why the Arab Spring could easily turn back into a winter of fear.

“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss”, as Pete Townshend so eloquently put it.

Yes, chaos is risky. It is a life-or-death environment. That is why most people see democracy as the perfect form of government, and the rule of law as vital.

In fact, the latter is more important than the former. Whoever is in power, if the law is bigger – and securely separate – then we can rest easy in our beds. Unfortunately, human nature is such that this can never be guaranteed, or even expected.

Belief in a God of love goes a long way to counteract the human tendency toward self-interest and self-justification, but belief in a God of vengeance has the opposite effect.

All you need really is love. It stills the storm, and brings freedom. Sadly, we don’t believe it any more. Perhaps we never did.