A few years ago, I was asked to speak about meditation at a weekend camp for young Christians. Most of the activities were held in a large barn, a stone’s throw from the massed tents. I wasn’t surprised when I was allocated a late afternoon slot in a small medieval church a few hundred meters from the main site. I knew that the ancient way of silent prayer I’d be speaking about would be unknown to almost everyone there. I would have been pleased with ten people coming along.

Shortly before the session was due to start, about 200 people appeared, squeezed onto the pews and sat cross-legged on the floor. The little church was packed. I struck a prayer bell and the clear, bright sound called everyone to silence.

After resting in the silence together for a few minutes, I asked if anyone knew anything about intimate relationships. More than a few people smiled. And the silence in the tiny, crowded church deepened. Then I asked if anyone had experienced the heady excitement of meeting someone you think is absolutely wonderful. You want to know them. You want them to know you. You can’t get them out of your head. You want to see them as much as possible and to talk and talk and talk. ‘What’s your favorite book?’ ‘What’s the best place you’ve travelled to?’ The silence deepened further.

Then I asked if anyone had experienced a relationship that had gone beyond this delightful early phase and come to the point where the depth and synergy and intimacy were now perhaps best known and expressed in moments of silence – those blessed moments when words fall away and you just look at your beloved and adore them and receive their adoring gaze.

Finally I asked: why, if we know this is true of our relationships with each other, would we ever imagine that prayer, that our relationship with God, would be any different?