PRIEST: VOTE TORY PEOPLE: HALLELUJAH
Ross Clark on the 119 Pentecostalists who
have joined the Brentwood and Ongar Conservative Association
I HAD planned to slip in quietly at the back as you can in an Anglican church, with no other acknowledgement than a grunt from the lady in a furry hat in the next pew. But things don't work like that at the Peniel Pentecostal Church. As I joined the flow of several hundred people for the Friday-evening service, I was sin- gled out like a Colombian with fat ankles passing through customs at Heathrow. 'Hi, you haven't been before. Welcome,' said a pudgy figure in a suit. 'I'm Peter. Have a welcome pack.' And within minutes I was filling in a market-research form: 'Where did you hear of the Peniel Pentecostal Church? The newspapers? Personal con- tact? Our advertising?'
I didn't like to admit that, like almost everyone outside Brentwood, until a fort- night ago the word Peniel meant nothing to me other, perhaps, than an unfortunate anagram. Now, thanks to Martin Bell, we know that this obscure group of evangeli- cals has launched itself upon the Brent- wood and Ongar Conservative Association with abandon. A total of 119 members of the Peniel Church joined the association on the same day, giving them a say over the future of the sitting MP, Eric Pickles. Some long-standing members resigned and wrote to Mr Bell imploring him to stand as an independent.
But who exactly are these new converts to Toryism? At present, the Peniel's British presence is limited to an inter-war suburb on the northern fringe of Brent- wood, to which they have been moving in increasing numbers in recent years. 'Most people try to move near to church,' one member told me. 'A few travel to services, but most live within half a mile.' Their church is a large wooden clapboard struc- ture situated next door to a Victorian col- lege building which the Peniel Church uses as a Bible school. It used to house the Church's own secondary school, the Peniel Academy, but two years ago it rehoused the school at Brizes Park, a Georgian mansion with 74 acres at nearby Kelvedon Hatch.
The approach to the church is not immediately inviting: there is an old artillery gun on the front lawn, trained at passers-by. But slip into the carpark, full of Mondeos and other solid family models, and one feels like a wasp who has just been tempted into a syrup jar. 'You're new, aren't you?' says Carol, who works for her husband's carpet-cleaning firm, as I sit down on one of the raked plastic seats. `Hi, come and sit next to me. Where are you from?' As the songs and prayers begin, everyone starts swinging, clapping, nudg- ing each other. The 100-strong choir, in their purple and yellow cassocks, start a Mexican wave and giggling follows. 'You'll find it's really friendly,' says Carol.
It is not so much like entering a church service as the finals of the world karaoke championships. One by one, wannabe pop stars take the microphone and do their piece: the words — pretty much ordinary pop music with the word 'babe' replaced by `Jesus' — are relayed via television monitors suspended at regular intervals above the congregation. A middle-aged man in glasses croons like Val Doonican, then a twen- tysomething with a crew-cut takes the microphone, flickers his eyelids and sings about wanting Jesus. There's a deafening racket as the congregation rises to dance along and 500 plastic seats snap shut in uni- son. The whole performance is recorded on video, and close-ups of the choir are relayed via the television monitors.
The karaoke doesn't leave long for a very extensive sermon, so to understand the Church's beliefs I'm led to its nearest equivalent to a manifesto: the many books (available, of course, along with videos and CDs in the bookshop) by the Church's `Bishop of Europe', Michael Reid.
On economics a Peniel government could be expected to be solidly Thatcherite. 'I remember the days when I worked and lived in Liverpool,' writes Reid. 'One thing that amazed me was that the workers would go on strike even when management told them that the company was encountering huge losses. . . . Factory after factory closed. Why? Because the workers had locked their minds into a concept that other people should not make money out of their work.' But the Church's most significant policy is to reduce the burden on the NHS through the increased provision of miracles. Mem- bers do not just believe in miracles; they believe they can happen to order, on alter- nate Sundays at 6.30 p.m. In my 'welcome pack' is a flysheet for the next such occasion, showing Reid holding a toddler in one hand and a microphone in the other, while the congregation lifts their arms to the heavens In the background. According to Reid's book, Faith — It's God Given?, miracles in Brentwood are ten a penny. A typical suc- cess would be David Gregg, described as a sufferer from chronic sciatica, who was sud- denly able to get up and walk unaided after being prayed for by Reid. Unconvinced, however, was the Adver- tising Standards Authority, which last year upheld a complaint against the Church for featuring Mr Gregg's case in an advertise- ment, a judgment reinforced by the author- ity's independent reviewer. The Church, it ruled, had failed to substantiate the Implied claim of physical healing. Another happy customer featured in the book is Jonathan Cope, an accountant who in 1995 is reported to have developed pancreatitis. For years I had been a confirmed atheist,' writes Cope. But then, egged along by his wife and children, regular worshippers at the Peniel Church, he agreed to have Michael Reid come to pray for him as he lay 'balanced between life and death' in hospital. 'His message to me, when he arrived, was very direct,' writes Cope. You'd better fight for life, because if you die, you certainly aren't going to Heaven.' Charming. But all, naturally, turned out well: the next morning he was better. What makes this case particularly of note is the endorsement of the 'miracle' by Dr Joseph Mathai, the consultant who was in charge of Cope's treatment at the Broomfield Hospital in Chelmsford during the weekend that it happened. 'Patients suffering from pancreatitis do recover,' writes Mathai, 'but over a period of time. In Jonathan's case, the improvement occurred so rapidly we must conclude that something other than the treatment and Jonathan's own resources intervened to bring about the change.' What the book doesn't say, however, is that Dr Mathai, too, is a committed mem- ber of the Peniel Church, to the extent that he sent his son to the Peniel Acade- my. When approached at the hospital - an NHS Trust — he declined to comment on the case, quoting 'patient confidentiali- ty', In spite of having written on it at length In Mr Reid's book.
At least Reid shows a certain English modesty: unlike Dr Benson Idahosa, the Church's archbishop in Africa, he hasn't yet claimed to have raised people from the dead. I don't think I shall be heading down to Brentwood for prayers next time I feel unwell. But if the Church can raise the corpse of the Tory party in time for 3 May 2001, then perhaps I shall have to reconsider.
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