It's a cliché that modest displays of spirituality are all but absent from the holiday hubbub. Add up the time spent working, shopping, partying and trying to park, and there's little left for quiet meditation.

That's not the case at the Diamond Hill United Methodist Church (521 E. Putnam Ave., Greenwich, www.diamondhillumc.org). Throughout the year, the Cos Cob church sets aside Thursday evenings for half an hour of Taize prayer (rhymes with laissez-faire). The lights are lowered, candles are lit and the congregation chants and sings simple phrases that alternate with periods of complete silence.

"There is no preaching, no monetary collection, no attempt at recruiting church members," says parishioner Don Adams. "It is simply a time to come together in prayer."

On the way to attend a recent Taize service, I drove with my car radio turned off to clear my head before interviewing Adams and Pastor Vicki Flippin. But, once I arrived, I learned that clearing your head is entirely the point of the service. "Even when we slow down in our society, we still tend to be taking in information," observes Flippin. "The center of Taize worship is silence. Everything leads up to that. I find it a relief and so relevant."

The practice was begun in the aftermath of World War II in a monastery in the Burgundy region of France. It gained traction in the 1960s when the order's three daily sessions attracted backpackers in search of spiritual meaning, or maybe just a peaceful place to sack out. The services also incorporated many different languages to broaden an international, interfaith appeal.

Flippin discovered Taize prayer in St. Louis at a conference for people considering entering the clergy. "All the chanting led up to this great moment of healing," she remembers. "People were weeping. It was a very emotional experience."

For someone whose knowledge of Methodists is limited to Garrison Keillor's jokes about their blandness, I thought eavesdropping on Greenwich-area folk in catharsis would be the treat of the evening.

It didn't happen.

Despite encouragement in the printed songs sheets to kneel "in the center aisle or on the floor toward the front of the church," everyone, including the pastor, remained in the pews. The accompaniment from the towering pipe organ was hushed and, at times, non-existent. Even the vocals, lead by a few ringers with operatic backgrounds, were low-key.

And then, about halfway through the service, there was the promised silence — about five minutes with only the traffic from Post Road disturbing the stillness. Even the sound of passing cars took on the rhythmic quality of waves against a beach. Then, there were a few more prayers, another minute of silence, and it was over.

I'm not sure how anyone knew that the service had ended, but everyone seemed to sense it at the same time. I wasn't entirely certain until, in the evening's one display of sensible Methodist practicality, an older lady from the congregation hurried to the alter to put the candles out before any more wax was wasted.

Afterward, without meaning to, I left my car radio off and drove home lost in thought — and maybe just a little bit "found."