“And here’s a real stinker,” says Mark.
“The Alpha Course: Is It Bible-Based or Hell-Inspired?”
This last one is from the Reverend Ian Paisley. His conclusion, after fifteen pages of deliberation, is that it is Hell-inspired.
Usually, when a discovery such as this presents itself midway through researching a story, I feel nothing but glee. On this occasion, however, the gaiety is tinged with indignation and relief—indignation that these people, this apparent cult, have managed to get under my skin, to instill in me feelings of some kind of awakening, and relief because I no longer feel the need to deal with those feelings.
• • •
IT IS SATURDAY MORNING in the countryside near Kidderminster, and Nicky is offering us the strangest invitation. He is going to beckon us into the supernatural, where he hopes we will physically feel the Holy Spirit enter our bodies. Nicky says that he very much hopes people will speak in tongues. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he tells me.
“I’m glad to be here,” I say, although I am thinking, “Are you a cult leader?”
We’ve been arriving all night—in BMWs and Mercedes and Porsches—at the Pioneer Centre, a residential youth club booked for the weekend. The traffic was terrible. I was stuck in a jam behind a minivan emblazoned with the words “Jews for Jesus,” and toyed with the idea of taking this to be another message from God, but I chose to discount it.
We are staying in dormitories—six to a room. Nicky and Pippa are not bunking up with the flock: Nicky says he needs space to concentrate. I don’t think the agnostics quite grasp the reality of what will unfold in the next thirty-six hours. Many are completely unaware. Tongues! How can Nicky make this happen?
The next morning, we laze in the sun and then we are called into the chapel, a big pine hut. Tonight, England will play Germany. Nicky takes to the stage: “Now, some of you may be thinking, ‘Help! What’s going to happen?’ Well, first, I hope you have a wonderful time. Enjoy the weather, enjoy the sports, but, most of all, I hope we all experience the Holy Spirit.”
Nicky says the Holy Spirit has often been ignored by the Church because it sounds “weird and supernaturally evil.” He says the Church fears change, that he once said to an elderly vicar, “You must have seen so many changes,” and that the vicar replied, “Yes, and I have resisted every single one of them.” We laugh.
Nicky says this is a shame, because when people open themselves to the Holy Spirit, you can see it in their faces. “Their faces are alive!” Look at Bach and Handel and Da Vinci, he says. They had the Holy Spirit. Whatever line of work we’re in—we could be bankers, “or journalists”—we can be filled to overflowing. Nicky says that it is absolutely amazing. “All relationships involve emotions. I don’t say to Pippa, ‘I love you intellectually.’ What I say is, ‘I love you with my whole being, my mind, my heart, my will.’ Ah, but that’s in private. The British don’t display emotions in public, do they?” There is a silence. “Just imagine,” he says, “that England will score a goal tonight. I think some people will go, ‘Yeaah!’” There is laughter. The audience is relaxed. “If a comedy film makes us laugh out loud in the cinema, the movie is considered a success. If a tragic play makes us weep in a theater, the play is considered a success. But if a religious service makes us weep or laugh, we are accused of emotionalism!”
And so it goes on, with Nicky managing to make the most alarming prospect seem acceptable. Speaking in tongues would normally be something absurd—horrific, even. But imperceptibly, gracefully, Nicky is leading us there.
We have a few hours off. We swim and play basketball. The crowd is, as always, mainly white and wealthy.
A criticism leveled at Nicky by other Anglicans is that Jesus cast his net wide to embrace poor fishermen, whereas Nicky seems to concentrate on rich widows, Old Etonians, and young highfliers. This annoys him, far more than the accusations that he is a cult leader. He points out a group of men on the edge of the basketball court. They lean against a picket fence, watching the game with an inscrutable vigilance, huge and tanned, like a prison gang during their hour in the yard.
“You absolutely must meet Brian,” says Nicky. “He’s quite amazing.”
Brian is not his real name.
“I was a villain,” says Brian. “A professional criminal.”
“Were you in a firm?” I ask.
“I was the firm,” he smiles. “Say no more.”
From Brian’s demeanor—he looks the archetypal English crime boss—I don’t doubt this for a moment. It makes me smile: Most vicars will proudly introduce you to some redeemed petty thief in their flock; once again Nicky attracts someone from the apex of his chosen profession. Back in the eighties, Brian was caught trying to pull off an enormous importation of cannabis. He was sentenced to ten years in jail. In 1994, while in Exeter prison, Brian heard about Alpha. To curry favor with the chaplain, he called Nicky and asked him to visit the prison. Nicky sent a team instead.
“And within weeks,” says Brian, “all these hard men were waving our arms around like we were in a nightclub. Can you imagine it? People getting touched by the Holy Spirit, boys I knew who got banged up for some really naughty crimes . . .”
That was the first time a prison had run an Alpha Course. Brian was transferred to Dartmoor and took Alpha with him. Other converts did the same. That’s how it spread through the prison system. Today, 120 of the 158 British prisons run Alpha Courses; some have six-month waiting lists.
Then there is this, from the March 2000 Alpha newsletter: Texas governor George W. Bush was so impressed by the impact of Alpha in the British prison system that he wants to start a trial program at once in his state. “And all that started with Brian in 1994,” says Nicky. “It was such an amazing year.”
Indeed it was: On January 20, 1994, at a concrete church next to Toronto Pearson International Airport, 80 percent of the congregation, apropos of nothing, suddenly fell to the floor and began writhing around, apparently singing in tongues and convulsing violently. Rumors about this milestone—which became known as the Toronto Blessing—quickly spread to Britain. Nicky flew to Toronto to see it for himself. Was it mass hysteria or a miracle, a real experience of the Holy Spirit?
“I don’t talk about it now,” says Nicky. “It divides people. It splits churches. It is very controversial. But I’ll tell you—I think the Toronto Blessing was a wonderful, wonderful thing.”
Nicky returned from Canada and spoke passionately at HTB about the Toronto Blessing, and his congregation, too, began rolling on the floor, etc. The services soon became so popular, with queues around the block, they were compelled to introduce two Sunday evening sittings—and still not everyone could get in. HTB became Britain’s richest church. (It still is: Last year’s income was $2.34 million.) This evangelical euphoria lasted the year, with miracles such as Prison Alpha cropping up all over the place. And then it ebbed away.
But its influence has lasted. The Toronto Blessing was the kick-start Alpha needed. Alpha began at HTB in 1979 as a brush-up course for rusty churchgoers. Hardly anybody attended. It trundled along, causing no ripples, until Nicky arrived in 1991. Nicky is the son of agnostics. He discovered God while studying for the Bar at Cambridge, and gave up a career as a barrister to be ordained into the Church of England, in 1986. He saw Alpha’s potential. What if he began targeting agnostics? What if he gave it an image makeover?
“Nicky bought standard lamps back in 1991,” says Mark later that afternoon. “He took an interest in the food. There are flowers. Young, quite pretty girls welcome you at the door. Nicky identified some very important things. First, informality. Second, the course: People like the idea of going on a course, whether it’s yoga or Christianity. Third, free and easy: We don’t force anything down people’s throats. People have a horror of being phoned up. And, finally, boredom: We will not bore you.”