In the Christmas Eye we mentioned that three young Quakers sing in a famous Cambridge choir. Ned Allen borrows our column to explain what music means to him

Term has ended, holiday reading lists have been distributed with seasonal zeal, and I can now look back at what was a busy and rather bizarre number of weeks. And something that stands out is the fact that, not only are there two other Quakers besides myself amongst the first years at Christ's College, Cambridge (and perhaps there are more waiting to reveal their identities!), but all of us – Ned, Lottie and Eily-Meg – are in the Chapel Choir. This seems a little incongruous. On the occasions when a potted description of Meeting for Worship is required, I draw attention to the emphasis we place on silence, and in the concept of silent worship the absence of music is of course implied.

So how has it come about that three Quakers should have found themselves amidst an ensemble whose role it is to provide beautiful anthems and well-phrased psalms for the purposes of worship? While I can only speak for myself, I know what it is that we three share – and that is a love for music. Indeed, despite our obvious appreciation of the silence that Meeting offers, singing satisfies something that Sundays cannot. There is a moment in Mansfield Park when Fanny, in conversation with the cynical Miss Crawford, attempts to explain why it is that Edmund is considering a life in the church: she says it is because he feels it is when a person is engaged in music that his soul is closest to God. While I do not agree with this entirely, neither do I think you have to be an Austen fan or a musician to understand the role that music can occupy in one's life. On each occasion that I've sung with the choir, I have been struck with the beauty that is implicit in the act of singing as an ensemble. There is an unsaid unity about the choir – a communion – and, as our voices echo around the chapel, there is a feeling that we are all moving towards a similar point on the horizon, whether that be a desire for a more peaceful world, or the completion of an essay.

So how do I reconcile the idea of taking part in two distinct kinds of worship? Am I, in some way, being untrue to myself, and undermining the value I see in the silence of Meeting for Worship? Not at all. There is a place for everything in this life that does not do harm, and so it is with the same attitude that I sit on Sundays and that I approach singing in the Chapel Choir. Just as making music binds people, the silence of Quaker worship gives rise to a meeting of minds: Evensong and Meeting for Worship are both precious periods of time in which we may all begin to understand each other a little better. I feel ready to face another week as I alight from the Meeting House on Jesus Lane, and I am filled with a similar sense of hope every time I leave the chapel and the company of the choir. It is strange to think it, let alone write it, but perhaps the qualities of music and silence are the same. In sharing music or a moment of silence with someone, I'm reminded that we're all equal and the same.