"You shall have no other god to set against me"
(Exodus 20.3).

One bitter lesson we all have to learn is our failure day by day to live the high ideals we set before ourselves. St Paul diagnosed this tragic flaw in human nature precisely when he wrote:

We know that the law is spiritual; but I am not: I am unspiritual, the purchased slave of sin. I do not even acknowledge my own actions as mine, for what I do is not what I want to do, but what I detest. But if what I do is against my will, it means that I agree with the law and hold it to be admirable. But as things are, it is no longer I that perform the action, but sin that lodges in me. For I know that nothing good lodges in me - in my unspiritual nature, I mean - for though the will to do good is there, the deed is not. The good which I want to do, I fail to do; but what I do is the wrong which is against my will.

He goes on to discover the principle that when he wants to do the right only the wrong is within his reach. In his inmost self he delights in the law of God, but in his bodily members there is another law, fighting against the law that his reason approves and making him a prisoner under the law that is in his members, the law of sin (Romans 7.14-23).

To many people, especially in the currently permissive society of the West, St Paul's agonizings are tedious, if not frankly morbid. To enjoy oneself sensually in the flow of each moment seems to be the most desirable end of existence - but what is this end? Reflection shows the inevitable advance of ageing, disease and death. If this is the height of human endeavour, man takes his place merely as the most gifted of a vast assembly of animals, but with no vision measurably higher than theirs.

Throughout recorded history, however, there has been a cloud of spiritual witnesses who have lifted the veil of materialistic delusion from the faces of their fellows to point to a destiny that transcends this fleeting mortal life and finds its summation in a fulfilment of shared existence in eternity. I believe there is a centre of awareness in all rational creatures that knows dimly, yet incontrovertibly, of a higher goal that embraces meaning and community, whose code name is God. In St Augustine's immortal words, "You have made us for yourself alone, O God, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you". In the end the agonized self-confrontation articulated by St Paul cannot be dismissed from our thoughts, no matter how fulfilled and emancipated we may consider ourselves. What are we, and what are we to become? This question lies at the root of all human existence, both individual and communal.

The basic requirements for civilized living are respect for our fellow creatures and a dedication of ourselves to the common good. When we give of ourselves in unstinted integrity to the community, it prospers by our contribution and in turn affords us its support and blessing. On the other hand, the mark of uncivilized behaviour is an exaltation of the self above the interests of the community. In this way we deal dishonestly with others, eventually injuring them, so that we may prosper at their expense. But this prosperity is won at a great price: the communal goodwill on which we all ultimately depend is gradually eroded until we find ourselves much disliked and isolated. This isolation from the common concern is not merely material, it also has psychic undertones. And as we cut ourselves off from human solidarity, so we find ourselves disconcertingly separated from a more subtle, pervasive source of life. This is the power of God, his Holy Spirit, on whom all life depends, from whom all life proceeds. If we are to survive, we have to acknowledge the supremacy of civilized values, ruefully perhaps, but also categorically.

But if we determine to live in a socially acceptable manner in order to gain the benefits inherent in community, we will soon slip into a way of calculated egoism that may prove as unsatisfactory as a course of frankly anti-social behaviour. Everything we do will have a price attached to it: we will expect due recompense for our communal concern, and be aggrieved if this is not forthcoming. We will tend to judge others according to our own standards, and be displeased when those less admirable than we believe ourselves seem to prosper at least as well as we do. Two possible unworthy attitudes can easily follow from this consideration: one is a puritanical separation of ourselves from all that is unclean, so that we begin to constitute a righteous elect, and the other is an insidious descent from the pinnacles of our newly-acquired morality so that we too begin to serve two standards. The one standard is what our minds approve and the other the requirements of the present moment, so that we may practise petty dishonesty when we believe we are unobserved, under the pretext that everyone else does it whenever possible and that taxation and other economic afflictions always attack our particular social class especially unfairly. In this way we slip unobtrusively into the state of divided moral consciousness that St Paul described with such topical insight. The drama of human life is the conflict between the will of the ego that strives for immediate survival in a seldom very easy environment, and the will of a higher power residing in us, around us and above us. This is the source of meaning in a larger frame of reference that embraces the individual, the community and the whole scheme of cosmic reality. In the end both wills have to coincide, for the one is incomplete without the other. If there is indeed a higher meaning to life in our incomprehensible universe, it must involve all individual creatures, and especially the human being in our little world. This is because the human mind and spirit out-distance any other sentient power on earth, and are to direct all other forms of life towards their final completion in God.

It becomes increasingly evident as we learn more about ourselves in the chequered course of our lives, that of ourselves we can do little that is good. Occasionally we may attain near-perfection, as when we are punctual for an appointment or perform a task exactly according to its specification, but we fall from this high standard in due course. Likewise, our relationships with others, so cordial and open in love on one occasion, soon falter in insensitivity, unawareness and frank indifference. Some of us may have experienced peaks of intimate knowledge about the nature of reality, but soon the shadow of worldly desire falls and we find ourselves shrouded in a mist of darkness and inquietude. In those peaks of near-perfection we are especially close to God by his grace and through our, unwonted openness. But this grace cannot be bargained for, let alone taken for granted. What we have been shown in a moment of illumination has now to be bought to become our own. The price is far beyond money; nothing less than our own being can suffice. We begin to discern the first truth of life, that only in the power of God can we fulfil the requirements of civilized life constantly, joy-fully, and above all communally. Therefore the first great commandment is to worship God alone, because until he is with us as a conscious presence, all our other endeavours will fail in practice and remain mere ideals of wishful thought.

But how do we know God? He cannot be conjured up, delineated or compared with any sensual or conceptual image. As soon as we try to describe God we simply describe our own view of life or our image of perfection. If we could limit or define God's presence we would bring God down to our level and start worshipping our own mind, or even a construct of that mind. Of God nothing can be said, and yet he is the source of all knowledge. He is the secret force from whom all creation flows, yet he cannot be known with the mind. But once he is known, he informs the mind, which then becomes increasingly aware of his presence. Until we have become like him, we can approach him rationally only in terms of paradox. He is so unlike anything we know with the senses that he can be spoken of only in negative terms, of what he is not. And as we move into the "apophatic" theology of complete negation, so we become more transparent ourselves, and the solid ego gives way to a centre of luminous peace within us where God can be known. As the writer of The Cloud of Unknowing says, "By love may he be gotten and holden, but by thought never".

Yet love itself cannot be contrived; it comes from God, being indeed the essential energy of God to his creatures. The knowledge of God's love is the basis of our love to him and to our fellow creatures: we love because he loved us first (1 John 4.19). It follows therefore that the essential, indeed surpreme, human action is a willed openness to the present moment. It is a right mindfulness in which we are empty of conceit, all previously held views, and all certitude so that we can take in the glory of the moment in hand, where time intersects with eternity. In the words of the Magnificat, "The hungry he has satisfied with good things, the rich sent empty away" (Luke 1.53). The rich are sent away empty of the one thing necessary for life because they are crammed with inessential dross, whereas the hungry are empty of self-importance, being eager only for the knowledge of God's presence. It not infrequently transpires that this hunger follows a course of disaster when the inessentials are forcibly stripped from us and we are left so bereft that God can at last make his presence known to us. But fortunately this cataclysmic course to a knowledge of God is not inevitable: if we could but practise the awareness of the present moment, we would also be practising the presence of God, to quote the title of Brother Lawrence's famous book. "If you search with all your heart, I will let you find me, says the Lord" (Jeremiah 29.13). This searching with the whole heart means a total self-giving to the moment in hand and to all the people who have their existence in that moment.

In order to attain this single-pointed vision at all times, the practice of contemplation is necessary both as a preliminary exercise and as a constant accompaniment in whatever situation we may find ourselves. Once we know God in silent communion he will be with us no matter where we find ourselves: he is always everywhere but until he is with us as a conscious presence, we will never know where we are or what we should be doing. Even though we may be involved in frantic activity, we will not be in command of ourselves or in control of our life. The experience is not unlike that of a sleep-walker on the path of life. Once, however, the practice of God's presence is the central action of our life, we discover that we can cope with whatever situation confronts us, for resources previously dormant in us are now awakened and can be called upon. In one-pointed vision, the gates of eternity open up for us as do the minds of our fellow creatures in this world.

The way of contemplation is one in which we give our total being, soul and body, to God and listen inwardly to what his Spirit tells us. In order to attain that absolute dedication, the mind should first be filled with good things, things provided by God himself for our welfare. This is where God's word, the great scriptures of the world, and especially the Bible, play such an important part in bringing us to him. The pious Jew has found that meditating upon the Law is an excellent way of focusing his mind upon God himself; Psalm 119, the longest of all the psalms, is a monument of meditation on the divine revelation, almost every verse of which mentions God's law of life, growth and fulfilment. St Paul's exhortation that we should fill our minds with all that is true, noble, just and pure, all that is lovable and gracious, excellent and admirable (Philippians 4.8) is especially apposite to a knowledge of God in the heart. As our thoughts are occupied with good things, so we enter a state of silence in which we approach the source of all that is good, God himself. And then we can be open to him who is always there, even when we are far away in thoughtless frivolity. At this stage the works, words and energies of God merge into a living void of silence. In that silence deep speaks to deep in the mighty roar of God's cataracts, a tumultuous silence in which the voice of God is heard by the inner ear of the soul, while the loving warmth of his embrace renews and transfigures the whole person.

To know effectively is to establish direct union with the other person. In the Scriptures, husband and wife know each other in tenderest sexual union before a child of promise is conceived. This knowledge can be attained only when the self is yielded in love to the other person, who in turn gives of himself to the beloved. In this mutual self-surrender God the Holy Spirit makes himself known. He so transmutes the consciousness of those who take part in the renunciation of self that they can know God directly in that same union. As we give of ourselves in selfless service and sacrificial concern, so we know God and can sustain that relationship as long as we remain in an attitude of humble self-giving to the other.

"How blest are those whose hearts are pure; they shall see God" (Matthew 5.8). In this beatitude Jesus sums up in a single phrase the requirement for knowing God: a heart that is empty of guile and single in dedication to the one thing needful for abundant life - the service of God. A pure heart is unsullied by selfishness; it is chaste and obedient to its highest calling. When God reveals himself to the ardent soul, he fills that person with a warmth of caring that far transcends human concern at its most passionate. It is in this experience of union with God that we can use the personal pronoun to describe the divine relationship with the creature. It may be argued that the masculine image evoked by the pronoun he ignores the tender, feminine aspect of God's love, but, on the other hand, it does emphasize its executive power. In the end, all words fail to do justice to God's presence, and we can grasp ineffectively only at what is given us. Whenever we say that God is love we are affirming our acceptance of a personal God. This is because love can never ignore the individual, no matter how small and insignificant it may appear to others. All were created by God, the noxious no less than the serviceable, and their resurrection is part of the mystery of life itself. As we enter into the divine darkness where God shows himself to the naked soul, so these rationally impenetrable mysteries become acceptable, almost logical, in a broader frame of reference. The mind of God can alone penetrate the suffering of the created universe to see the glorious unfolding of the divine will for all his creatures. As we enter this realm of light in contemplative prayer, so God's grace inflames our soul with renewed love and heightened understanding, and we too can begin to see eternal truth.

Once we know God in the fellowship of silent dedication, we come to be filled with his Spirit and to resemble his Son, in whom humanity and divinity reside in perfect union. "And because for us there is no veil over the face, we all reflect as in a mirror the splendour of the Lord; thus we are transfigured into his likeness from splendour to splendour. Such is the influence of the Lord who is Spirit" (2 Corinthians 3.18). Indeed, in this unobstructed vision, "God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all" (1 John 1.5). As we contemplate that light, so the darkness that is in us and in the world around us is outlined, accentuated and concentrated. But as it is confronted in the light of God's love, it is cleared and transfigured. In this experience of the healing power of God's uncreated light we believe that all that is unhealed will finally be brought close to the divine presence in supreme radiance.

To acknowledge God as the source of all that is loving, truthful and beautiful - the platonic triad of virtues that leads the rational mind through the soul to God - is to put him above all else in one's estimation. It means consecrating oneself to live the life of love, truth and beauty, and filling the world around one with the radiance of that beauty. With God in one's heart and understanding, this supreme human endeavour at last becomes more than a counsel of perfection; it can take off from the ground and become a living venture. And the wonder of it all is this: God can be approached at will by the simple exercise of clearing one's mind of all thoughts, asking a burning question, and waiting in rapt attention for the answer, as if about to hear a world-shattering pronouncement. In the silent waiting, in the awe of the present moment, God is eternally known. In the suspense of that moment the mind is empty of all guile and full of dedication in anticipation of meeting the truth. In its stillness it receives the still small voice of God himself. Prayer itself is in essence a waiting on God. Indeed, in the life of an aspiring person all conversation with God is progressively transfigured into luminous silence in which the divine will is manifest. We learn that we do not have to ask God for things so much as to offer ourselves to him in service, so that through us the whole world may be filled with those things. This in turn can come about only as the consciousness of all people is raised above selfish demands for comfort to a peak of self-giving service for their neighbours. Then alone will we cease to do evil and learn to do good. Then alone will the divided consciousness that St Paul described so poignantly be healed and mankind live as an integrated whole in constructive unity with all living forms.

For this visionary state of self-transcendence to be attained, let it be said at once that there must be social justice. The individual's demands for comfort are not in themselves to be derided, let alone decried. Until all people have the means to live in health and dignity, there can be no spiritual advance for the world as a whole. It is when personal comfort takes precedence over all other considerations that it becomes destructive, because it assumes a selfish, ultimately predatory insistence, battening on other people and on all life. In this lies the strength of Jesus' command, "Set your mind on God's kingdom and his justice before everything else, and all the rest will come to you as well" (Matthew 6.33). The explanation of this spiritual law is that when the mind is set in confidence and dedication on God's Kingdom and his law, his Holy Spirit infuses us with special strength and we are enabled to do things that would previously have been beyond our capability. When our own ego is the determining guide to action we become anxious, neurotically obsessive, emotionally unstable and increasingly despotic in our relationships. The more we strain, the less we gain. But when we are open to God, inner resources become unblocked, and we are amazed at our own strength. At last we need strive no longer only for our own well-being, but can give of ourselves in concern for our neighbour also. In this way rivalry and competition can gradually yield to co-operation and solidarity with others without there being any slackening of activity or dulling of ideals of perfection. To serve becomes life's supreme joy; to work in harmony with one's peers becomes a constant source of happiness.

When the experience of God's love permeates our very being, we begin to see clearly for the first time in our lives. For it is then that the Holy Spirit renews our body, illuminates our mind, purifies our emotional life and ennobles our soul, which is the seat of moral decisions and the point where our true self is revealed. The experience of God shows us who we really are and sets us free to be ourselves and become what we were destined to be - sons of God in the image of the eternal Word, which Christians see enshrined in the person of Christ. When we can respond rationally to that image, we begin to see how privileged we are to be born human. Then we realize how unacceptable we are until we give ourselves, body and soul, to the service of the world and the healing of all that is in pain. Such are the thoughts that God's presence inspires in our minds; such is the impetus to the will that follows from these considerations. Only as we return to God with many others in our care will we fulfil the high destiny of mortal life.

True religion brings the human personality to the threshold of immense splendour. It reveals the futility of a life that evades the burning issues of meaning and destiny. These existential questions of life can never be fully answered by the reasoning mind, but as we enter the divine grace, so new insights are vouchsafed us. As we partake of them, so we actualize a little of the divinity latent in us also, for we are all potential Christs. Once the vision has been opened to us, we may never turn our backs on it, for then we will have committed the sin against the Holy Spirit, and life itself will recede from our grasp. It is indeed a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God (Hebrews 10.31), for now the absolute demand is made on us: become fully human, as Jesus was human. But if we evade this challenge, we remain self-absorbed animals, whom the earth will in due course swallow up as it did Korah and his followers (Numbers 16.31-3). It is at this juncture that God's love and justice come together, and we see that he controls the darkness, even though he is visible as uncreated light. In that dual dominion of God lies our mortal hope.