In the name of God, No]

I OFTEN listen to Thought for the Day, which (as everyone must know) crops up halfway through the Today programme every weekday on Radio 4. Its soothing platitudes are useful for timing my toast at ten to eight. They certainly don't set it on fire - which is my complaint.

I object to the pusillanimous tone of voice that the speaker on Thought for the Day invariably adopts. It is as though he (it is usually a he) were saying: 'Gosh, sorry, boring old religion again. Never mind: won't last long, and I'll try to make it relevant, and chatty. I won't preach; I shan't mention God or anything embarrassing like that.' Instead, the day's news is trawled for a cosy pre-digested parable.

Amid so much that is ephemeral, trivial and commercial, the morning's Thought should be sobering and weighty; but instead of making listeners sit up and take notice, we are given cosy, fussy little parables. The name of God is rarely mentioned - perhaps because to do so would be politically incorrect - let alone the blazing presence and overwhelming visions experienced by mystics.

I would prefer grandeur and terror and awe. I want Job's marvellous horse, who 'saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting'. If I am to be given my daily dose of religion I'll take it unadulterated, full strength.

The newsreader doesn't say: 'A number of women of different ethnic backgrounds were unfortunately a bit roughly handled during an encounter in Bosnia yesterday, but never mind, I'm sure they're already feeling much better.' No pussy-footing around the facts where war's atrocities are concerned. On the contrary, we are likely to be told: 'Fifty- three Muslim women were brutally raped by Serbian soldiers yesterday. Many suffered appalling injuries, from which several have died.'

If news bulletins do not spare us the horrors or take into account the susceptible minds of kiddies spooning down their cereal, why the timidity when it comes to the terrible mysteries of religion?

In 1986 London Underground, to its great credit, began providing free advertising space for poems to brighten the lives of travellers. Were they filled with doggerel, limericks or jokey verse? They were not. We are given the great poets of the English language, from Chaucer and Dunbar to Blake and Dickinson. The innovation turned out to be hugely, amazingly popular. The book, Poems on the Underground, has sold more than 100,000 copies, an astonishing figure for a poetry anthology. Why not be equally bold with religion?

Thought for the Day has recently been cut back from three minutes to two-and-a-half. In that time, one can utter roughly 250 words: about one-quarter of the length of this column. Little enough, you would think, to catch the attention, let alone inspire the spirit with a Thought grand enough to bear examination for the rest of the Day.

Meister Eckhart, who wrote in the 13th century, can sound modern enough: 'Up then, noble soul] Put on thy jumping shoes, which are intellect and love, overleap thine understanding and spring into the heart of God.' The great mystics have always seen visions and dreamed dreams, and they make extraordinary reading.

There is the singing ecstasy of Thomas Traherne ('The corn was orient and immortal wheat . . .') or his awed reverence: 'The world is a mirror of Infinite Beauty, yet no man sees it. It is a Temple of Majesty, yet no man regards it. It is a region of Light and Peace, did not men disquiet it.' And what about St Augustine? 'The city of God is made by the love of God pushed to the contempt of self; the earthly city, by the love of self pushed to the contempt of God.' Now that's a Thought to last a whole Day.

Instead of giving us their organ resonance, most speakers concoct a dull little parable. A recent news item is recalled, gutted for evidence of moral purpose, the message filleted for easy consumption. Time to return to James Naughtie, Anna Ford and the rest. No room there for God.

I am not a churchgoer, but I do believe in God. A few years ago, when I was seriously ill, I was visited by a celestial dream. It did not contain any of the usual iconography, neither saints nor angels, virgins nor cherubs (though there were nuns, oddly enough). The images that swayed through my vision were filled with power and harmony and sweetness, so unlike any I could have dreamt up for myself that they confirmed forever my hitherto tentative belief in a divine power - which I call God for short, though you may call it Buddha or Mohamed or even Humanity.

Jacob wrestled with the angel. Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego went into the fiery furnace, Daniel into the lion's den. These stories - I cite the Bible because I know it best, but doubtless the Bhagavad Gita or Koran can provide more - are not soft, patronising images but thunderflashes that reveal for a moment the awesome face of God.

Give me the army terrible with banners] That may be a lot to ask for in two-and-a-half minutes, but it is better than the apology we receive at present. Give me Paradise or give me Hell, but spare me banality and anaemia.