With a nod to Andrew Sullivan’s new book and his aforementioned endorsement of skepticism and doubt, I return to John Betjeman, whose centenary is today. Betjeman was a devout Anglican, but his poetry is full of doubts:

[On hearing some church bells at Easter, in the poem “Loneliness”]

…You fill my heart with joy and grief–

Belief! Belief! And unbelief…

And, though you tell me I shall die,

You say not how or when or why.

[On making small talk at a funeral, in the poem “Aldershot Crematorium”]

…And thus we try to dissipate our fears.

’I am the Resurrection and the Life’:

Strong, deep and painful, doubt inserts the knife.

[On thinking about his own death, in the poem “Good-bye”]

…But better down there in the battle

Than here on the hill

With Judgement or nothingness waiting me,

Lonely and chill.

[On the Nativity story, in the poem “Christmas”]

And is it true? And is it true,

This most tremendous tale of all,

Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,

A Baby in an ox’s stall?