In the 1980s, John Wimber preached at HTB in London. Nicky Gumbel – then an uptight barrister in a three-piece suit – got zapped by the Holy Spirit, and reportedly had to be carried cataleptic through the church windows. ‘God is giving that man the ability to tell people about Jesus,’ Wimber said, as Nicky was carried out.
HTB caught fire again in the early 1990s, via a spectacular revival in Canada called the Toronto Blessing. A press report from that time reads: ‘Nicky Gumbel prays that the Holy Spirit will come upon the congregation. Soon a woman begins laughing. Others gradually join her with hearty belly laughs. A young worshipper falls on the floor, hands twitching. Another falls, then another and another. Within half an hour there are bodies everywhere as supplicants sob, shake, roar like lions, and strangest of all laugh uncontrollably.’7 But that was back in 1994. Since then, it has been quieter at HTB, although Alpha has kept on growing all over the world. I asked Nicky if he missed those tempestuous days: ‘I see it as like the ocean – there are always waves, but sometimes it’s more gentle and peaceful, and sometimes there are huge waves. What matters ultimately is the fruit, and whether people’s lives become more loving, gentle and peaceful.’ But I still felt that charismatic Christians, including Nicky, longed for another big wave to revive our secular culture and sweep us back into church. ‘More, Lord, more!’ I heard pastors pray eagerly. ‘Give us immeasurably more.’
Jesus as detergent
‘How was that?’ Nicky asked me eagerly.
‘I felt . . . er . . . peaceful.’
In fact, nothing spectacular happened on the Alpha weekend. The speaking in tongues sounded a bit silly to me. During the service, a lady came up and asked if she could pray for me. She’d had a vision: ‘You have a masculine exterior, but a floral heart.’ As in I’m gay? Well, it was a kind gesture. The weekend was epic. We all felt high. After inviting in the Holy Spirit, we watched England play rugby, drank beer and danced at a disco. Our small group danced in a circle to Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy In Love’. We were like a little family, in which I felt accepted and cherished.
When we were back at HTB, I said I wasn’t entirely sure about the whole Christian thing, but I was prepared to give it a go. Perhaps faith was like a relationship: you always had doubts but you discovered love through commitment. I was on board with the God of love, the grace of the Holy Spirit and the lovely community. I was less sure about the biblical infallibility, original sin, the Virgin Birth, the Devil, the sinfulness of homosexuality, the apocalypse, the entire Old Testament, the divinity of Jesus, or Christianity’s claim to be the only way to God. But I could ‘sit with that’, as HTB-ers put it.
In April, a month after Alpha had finished, I received an email from Nicky saying how much he’d enjoyed reading Philosophy for Life, and would I come to speak at HTB about my experience of Alpha? In my egotism, I envisaged the two of us sitting on stage as equals leisurely discussing Greek philosophy and Christianity. I envisaged a whole new audience for my books. I agreed and turned up one Sunday before the main service. There was Nicky. ‘Ah, Jules, amazing, thanks so much for coming. So, basically, there’ll be about five of you. You’ll each be on stage for maybe a minute. Think of it like an advert for detergent. Before, dirty shirt. Then Jesus. Now, clean shirt. Okay?’ I had a sudden sense of horror. I had misread the occasion. I watched from the wings as the other four converts told their incredible testimonies to the 500-strong congregation, each one received with whoops and cheers. ‘Next is Jules. Jules is a philosopher, he’s written a great book. So, Jules, what was your life like before you met Jesus?’
‘It was . . . er . . . okay, I guess.’
‘And how did you meet Jesus?’
‘Well, I had a sort of near-death experience when I was 21 . . . and that led me to Greek philosophy.’ There was an uneasy shifting in the seats. ‘But it seemed to me that Greek philosophy left some stuff out . . . so I did Alpha and . . . it was great!’ A smattering of half-hearted applause.
‘And how has Jesus changed your life?’
‘Oh, a lot.’ I limped off stage, to the least enthusiastic applause you’ll ever hear at HTB. And then I had to do it at two more services. I felt annoyed with Nicky for commodifying my story and turning it into an advert for Alpha (although, to be fair, that was obviously the point of the invitation). Perhaps he feels he is a general at war, fighting against the extinction of the Church, and everything and everyone is a weapon in that war. But I didn’t much like being weaponised.
For a few months I drifted in a sort of limbo, struggling to believe in Christianity but finding secular culture equally unsatisfying. I briefly played the drums in the Sunday Assembly, a humanist church somewhat modelled on charismatic Christianity, which offers a sort of ‘charismatic humanism’, with a rock band playing singalong covers of Bon Jovi and Queen, personal testimonies, gags and a high-energy ‘celebration of life’. It’s rapidly spreading all over the world. I loved the project and the people but missed the ‘surrender to God’ bit when I was feeling wretched. One evening, at a Christian folk charity fundraiser, I stood on the sidelines muttering to a friend, ‘How could I ever fit in with . . . this?’
‘Have you read a book called The Grace Outpouring?’ my friend asked. ‘It’s about a place in Pembrokeshire called Ffald y Brenin. It’s a “thin place”, close to God. Extraordinary things happen there. Why don’t you go?’
A man on fire
Ffald y Brenin is a small retreat in the hills near the Pembroke coast, run by Roy and Daphne Godwin. Since the mid-1990s, strange things have been happening there – miraculous healing, conversions, prophecies. I drove down for their summer conference, a three-day event in a nearby church. I arrived in time for dinner in the church hall. All the other attendees were over 55. I sat down at a table, feeling a little self-conscious, and asked one of the old ladies what I could expect from the conference. ‘You can expect to be invaded by God!’ she said testily.
After dinner we all drove to a nearby church. Roy Godwin took the mike. He’s a small man, with a tanned balding head, glasses, bad teeth and a quiet voice brimming with certainty. He spoke of the 1904 Welsh revival, of how the first drops of a new revival were starting to be felt. ‘But we want more. Come on, Lord. Bring it on. We want another revival.’ He told stories of all the miracles that took place at Ffald y Brenin – skin conditions vanished, cancer was ‘rebuked’, legs were extended (one of charismatic Christians’ favourite miracles is healing people who have one leg shorter than the other). ‘We now expect instant healings,’ he said. ‘This is real.’ He clearly had a very powerful expectation of the supernatural. Indeed, the air was thick with this expectation. The pensioners had come to call God down, like a dove from above. And sure enough God turned up. The pensioners laughed and twitched and groaned and even screamed as the Holy Spirit came upon them. My God, I thought. This is the worst holiday ever. I retreated to my hotel room in the nearby town of Newport to research the history of revivals and go for long walks along the coast.
But by the third day, the atmosphere of the place started to work on me. The other attendees were so friendly, their faith and hope so strong. I walked around Ffald y Brenin, this beautiful little hobbit house overlooking a valley, and felt the energy of the place. By Saturday evening, as the music engulfed me, a thought came into my head that I wanted to serve God rather than my own worldly ambitions. It was a commitment, I guess, an intention.