I was staying in a boarding house on an island, managed, in a manner of speaking, by an artist called José, a man on whom failure hung like an old shirt. A  long gallery, smelling vaguely of cigarettes and alcohol, was full of his creations, mostly featuring shoes and taps stuck on canvas, gently gathering dust.  And a collection of old typewriters, without which no boarding- house is complete.
For breakfast José produced a single soapy-sweet croissant and a pot of tea. At least, he called  it tea. It consisted of a stainless steel jug with no lid, containing some warmish milky water and a tea bag, and a cup half full of milk and hot water (pre-mixed for my convenience) in which floated a single black hair.
The tea bag was designed to produce a nice weak cup, suitable for sipping ice-cold with a slice of lemon. It was not equal to the task of infusing an English tea pot, even without milk and hair pre-added.

I didn’t have breakfast there again.


But how was José  to know? He had never had a cup of English tea, or found anyone to teach him how to make one. He had read somewhere  that the English like milk in their tea, and they like a pot of it. He had extrapolated from there, and none of his guests had enlightened him.
It struck me that the difference between José’s tea and the real thing was like the difference between religion as most people have encountered it and an experience of God.   A few hymns, an address to the Almighty, a worthy but boring talk about love and the need to do better. It’s not very fulfilling or meaningful , but it ticks the religion box, just as José’s  breakfast ticked the box. For most of the last two centuries we’ve been putting up with religion like that, and, like the guests in that B&B, no-one has thought to complain.
But it doesn’t have to be that way.  Sit silent in a lonely spot, or an empty church. Listen. Don’t assume. Just listen. You may hear the small still voice.