A CONTAGIOUS CASE OF HTB

Cristina Odone reports on how the showiest form of

Christianity is sweeping what is traditionally Britain's least showy class

`THE EVENTS of the past remarkable weeks', the preacher's voice trembled as he raised his arms heavenward, 'herald the dawn of a new revival for Christians.' The funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales was `the single largest prayer meeting in the world', an incredible moment when one bil- lion people around the globe joined the Archbishop of Canterbury in the Lord's Prayer and were touched by the Holy Spir- it. 'Amen!' an exultant voice cried out from the congregation.

Christians everywhere, the preacher con- tinued, must recognise that the Princess's death signaled a new universal 'quest for truth and a new search for meaning' as we approach the millennium.

With this bit of spiritual revisionism, Jeremy Jennings, a preacher at Holy Trinity Brompton (known to its con- gregation as HTB), hijacked the Princess's death and funer- al on behalf of the fundamen- talist evangelicals who make up his church.

It seemed only fitting that HTB should be a key piece in the great jigsaw puzzle of mass hysteria, communal outpour- ing of grief and emotional upheaval that was the Princess's funeral. The ululating lamenta- tions reminiscent of Arab mourners, the American-style indulgence of feelings and the herd instinct for infectious misery and excitement that had pundits gasping about a hitherto unsuspected side of the national character are an integral part of the HTB phenomenon. For almost ten years now, a handful of Anglican churches in London have been packed with Barbour-clad, dou- ble-barrelled-named congregations, whose stiff upper lip melts into a Teletubby's gormless smile as they pray for Jesus, shout for Jesus and weep for Jesus. Stroll down the Old Brompton Road in Knightsbridge — a bouquet's throw from the Harrods shrine — and you will find two impressive Victorian churches standing cheek by jowl, jostling for your attention. The first is the Brompton Oratory, a Roman Catholic landmark that is a haven for traditionalists; the second, slightly set back from the road, is Holy Trinity, Brompton. This church is at the heart of the movement of conservative evangelicals which is attracting converts in droves from the upper and upper-middle classes.

The HTB carpark brims over with Volvos, Saabs and Range Rovers, and the enormous church hall is bright with new paint (the tasteful hue of poached salmon) and filled with capable wooden chairs.

Pews line the galleries, from which television screens hang for those below whose view of the action is blocked by the rows of white pil- lars. Here, the two-hour Sunday service is packed with a congregation of lawyers, bankers and trustafarians, as well as the vet- eran of the Sun's page three Samantha Fox, Lord Snowdon's half-brother Peregrine Armstrong-Jones, and the royal confidante Tiggy Legge-Bourke. There is not an altar, candle or dog-collar in sight.

The service begins with a brief welcome from the Reverend Nicky Gumbel, then a testimony which mixes the self-congratula- tory (`there are thousands of prisoners signing up for our courses') with the spiri- tual (`Jesus is the best friend I could ever have'). Next the youthful band begins its strumming: four, five, even six rousing hymns (their style a hybrid of Charles Wes- ley and Elton John) are played, and men and women whose every word and deed are normally guided by the atavistic fear of embarrassment get to their feet, arms flail- ing like fans at a football match, eyes shut as they sway. If the Spirit moves them, these (predominantly young) evangelicals throw themselves to the ground, shaking, laughing and issuing the inbred bark of the beagle that accompanies their shooting parties.

This combination of the familiar and the alarming reassures the more wary, who find that the chap beside them, in the throes of an uncontrollable spiritual seizure, was at school or at Oxford with them. It also lends an air of excitement to the proceedings: when a 'boring old Englishman wearing a Guards' tie' starts weeping with joy because the Spirit has visited him, anything can happen.

Recruiting takes place at drinks parties where, armed with a champagne glass and a cocktail sausage, dewy-eyed converts enthuse about Jesus Christ as if He were a particularly glamorous guest on the party circuit, and praise the Holy Spirit as if It were a fabulous, no-nonsense nanny who has taken charge of their spiritual upbring- ing. The social framework is the key to the spread of the movement: a ten-week dinner party programme known as the 'Alpha course' brings together 200 potential con- verts for a meal followed by a 'talk' by a minister, and discussion of the ten points that underpin the movement, from 'Evil' to `Resurrection'. The culmination of the Alpha course is a weekend retreat at a country house in Sussex, where long walks and games of charades are interspersed with prayers, Bible study and visits by the Spirit. Bolstering the pilgrim's faith along the way are weekly sessions of Bible-read- ing, held in the homes of well-heeled hostesses from Chelsea and Kensington.

By weaving spiritual lessons into the social routine of the well-to-do, the move- ment reconciles Jacob's ladder and the social ladder, the urbane and the devout. It also reinforces the sense of 'the elect' which imbues the services at HTB and its satellite churches. As the chosen people seem to belong to a uniformly white, afflu- ent world, the movement has drawn criti- cism from other Anglicans, who have pointed out that although Jesus Christ cast his net wide to draw in poor fishermen as well as rich widows, the HTB crowd seem to be more interested in trawling through Debrett's for their disciples.

Peter Warfield, an assistant master at Harrow School, was drawn to the move- ment when he was at Haileybury: 'There was a very focused evangelisation of public schools; these were the boys who would become influential later on, who would occupy the top jobs in the land. The notion of exclusivity didn't strike the movement as being in any way contrary to Christ's preaching about His all-embracing Church. The HTB leaders never aimed to be inclu- sive, and universalism was and remains a missing ingredient.'

Mr Warfield now finds the same evange- lising drive at Harrow: 'A core number of students have been attracted to Flambards, the Christian Union which is run by conser- vative evangelicals.' The old Jesuit saying, `Give me a boy at seven and I'll give you a Catholic for life' has been put into practice, and most public schools now — including Eton — have a Christian Union that is run by someone with links to HTB. For the more enthusiastic young Christians there are summer camps, which Peter remem- bers as 'organised almost like Young Pio- neer camps of the 1930s: regimented, lots of physical exercise and a highly charged atmosphere that strengthens the feeling that you are a select band removed from the rest of the world'.

This sense of being cut off from reality, claims Reverend Donald Reeves, Rector of St James's Piccadilly, 'is notable among the HTB crowd. They never address the com- plexities of modern existence, but shy away from any challenge they cannot meet with their mantra, "Let Jesus take control". Their divorce from the real world, together with a simplistic and communal response to all problems, a strong leader, and a money- conscious hierarchy, are trademarks of a cult.'

Although HTB has shrugged off accusa- tions of 'brainwashing' and 'programming' members, not even its defenders would deny that the congregation is reminded again and again that they are not in control of their lives: as long as they base their actions on a literal interpretation of the Bible, they can hand over their problems to Jesus Christ. 'At almost every service we are told, "Let Jesus be your pilot" and, "Let the Spirit lead you",' explained Jean Borne-Stewart. 'The message makes you feel tremendously positive and invincible.' But, she conceded, it also allows the minis- ter to gloss over all difficulties: there is no room for torment or failure, no head- scratching contemplation of grey moral areas, everything is crystal clear because it is Spirit-led.

The black-and-white morality of these conservative evangelicals has more in com- mon with the Bible belt of America than with classical Anglicanism: homosexuality and premarital sex are forbidden, oral sex is condemned. This obsession with sex is the red thread that runs through the rich tapestry of the HTB services, courses and groups. When members of the congrega- tion deliver testimonies that recount how they 'opened the door to Jesus', far more emphasis is placed on their confessions of `abominable acts' than on the blinding moment of their Damascene conversion.

When Jean Borne-Stewart attended her first Alpha course, a buzz of excitement greeted her at the door. 'Tonight looks set to be a jolly interesting session,' a woman whispered. The convert giving his testimo- ny had been well-known for his philander- ing and duly regaled the wide-eyed gathering with his past exploits. More recently, at a service held in a church in the HTB orbit, a preacher called on all of those who had committed the sin of oral sex to stand up and be counted. One by one, red faces hanging in shame, men and women in the pews got to their feet.

This prurient attitude to sex is not about titillation but power, the author Damian Thompson maintains. Thompson, who studied the HTB phenomenon in his book on the millennium, The End of Time, argues that 'all new churches quickly realise that if you control someone's sex life and their money, your hold over them is complete'. This obsession with sins of the flesh also offers an insight into the priori- ties that dominate the conservative evan- gelical agenda: 'What worries the fundamentalists more than anything else is that the Church of England will compro- mise on issues of sexual morality, the ordi- nation of gay priests, for instance. If that were to happen, these churches know that they are in a position to hold the cash- starved Church of England hostage by threatening to cut off the money supply. And then there really would be fireworks!'

The Reverend Donald Reeves agrees: `At present they need the Church of Eng- land for its buildings — but they are very aware that through the wealth of their parishioners they wield an influence over the established Church that far outweighs their numbers.' The fundamentalists' power has not gone unnoticed among Anglican clergy: Lord Runcie, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, has been over- heard remarking that the HTB churches constitute the greatest danger to the Church of England; attempts to move the congregation of St Paul's Onslow Square (a satellite of HTB) from its present site to a new church have been met with hostility from neighbouring vicars. Indeed, many of the more liberal vicars would echo Donald Reeves's call for the movement to pull out of the established Church altogether: 'They have discarded our traditions, our vest- ments and our liturgy. They ignore the sea- sonal calendar and see the Sacraments as secondary. How Anglican are they?'

Still they spread, endlessly stoking their energy and resources to fashion new pro- jects and 'missions'. There are plans for a Christian village in Battersea, south Lon- don, to be built to mark the millennium; in October, a Thames prayer boat will sail past Tower Bridge and Westminster with 300 Christians on board praying for the millennium; and HTB will lead a 'corpo- rate prayer' (the faithful attending a weekly one-hour prayer session) for the establish- ment of a giant Christian Resources Cen- tre. In the face of such unstinting devotion and shining commitment, even the scepti- cal confess a degree of admiration. 'The HTB movement', admitted Donald Reeves, `poses a valuable challenge to the staid, anaemic Church of yore: what to do with people's emotions and feelings?'

What, indeed?

The author's book A Perfect Wife will be published on 20 October by Orion.