Little bundles

JOURNALISTICALLY, as perhaps elsewhere, it is unwise to boast of biggest and best, of oldest or of coldest. Something’s always bigger, somewhere colder still.

For reasons that may cautiously be ascribed to Carlsberg lager commercials, however, Maltby Methodist is probably the smallest church in the North-East.

Make that the smallest in regular weekly use. They may still meet every back end at Upleatham.

“I’m surprised you found it,” says Ken Davison, the steward. “I wondered if you’d mistake it for a tractor shed.”

The site upon which in 1878 it was built cost £8 and measured 70 square yards. The church is considerably smaller than that, about the size of the average front room. If not what you’d call a Tardis, then not a police box, either.

There are four windows, four light bulbs, seats for about 50. Cats should be swung with care. There’s a little organ with a table lamp atop, a lectern, a couple of attractive paintings, a small porch added for £70 in 1914 and a clock.

Almost every Methodist church has a clock. I can’t recall ever seeing one in the Anglicans or RCs. It is doubtless something to do with John Wesley, a man of his time.

If small isn’t staggeringly beautiful, then certainly it is attractive and much loved. The 6.30pm service takes on yet greater vibrancy because it is led by the Reverend Roberto Viana, a Brazilian whose vestments make Joseph’s Technicolor dreamcoat seem positively monotone by comparison.

Methodism isn’t noted for the flamboyance of its clerical apparel.

“It’s his sports gear,” says Ken, approvingly.

Newcastle United had a footballer called Hugo Viana, paid 12m euros for him in 2002, failed to get their money’s worth whatever the currency. Save for his specs, the luxuriantly-coiffed Roberto looks like he might fit nicely into centre midfield.

“My Portuguese is very good,” he tells them. “My English can still improve.”

After a recent holiday, he left Brazil with the temperature at 38 degrees.

When he got back to England it was minus five. “The kids love the snow. They were still playing in it at midnight,” he says.

Joan Tarren has been attending Maltby Methodists since 1943. “He’s lovely,” she says.

MALTBY is just south of Thornaby, on Teesside, near the A19. There’s also a pub, a shop, maybe 300 people. “Rosemary will tell you what the population is,”

someone says. “She does the papers every morning.”

We’d come upon the church entirely accidentally, after Sunday lunch at the pub.

A short history records that, in 1878, Methodist worship had taken place in the large kitchen of the Whitehead family, newcomers to the village. At an open-air camp meeting, however, an 18-year-old legal clerk had proposed building a chapel to save inconveniencing Mrs Whitehead every Sunday evening.

The project wasn’t straightforward, it’s noted. The circuit wasn’t keen. Maltby went it alone.

Once there was Sunday School, annual prize-giving, even a choir. Now it’s anticipated that 16 will be in attendance, half from the village, and they underestimate by one.

What Maltby calls the holy slug fails to stick its head above pew or parapet. Chewed books give testament to its appetite, nonetheless.

The minister explains that he has a deal with the congregation. “If they don’t understand what I’m saying, they shout from the back.”

He arrived almost five years ago with his wife, a youth and community worker at Thornaby Methodist church, and is himself also responsible for Thornaby and for Yarm Road church, in Stockton. They’ve just agreed to stay for another five years.

“I’m enjoying it, I don’t know if they are,” he says, self-effacingly.

Though the folk are hugely welcoming, wholly affable, Roberto’s forgotten to tell them that the column’s coming. “If I had, there’d have been an empty church,” he says.

It’s the first Sunday in Lent, readings about the temptations in the wilderness and a 32-minute sermon – valiantly delivered almost without reference to notes – on that theme.

“It’s the same one that I preached this morning,” he confesses. Many do the same; most don’t let on.

If he forgets a word he’s prompted, as if from the wings. It’s almost a conversation, rather than a sermon, and Roberto’s English is a great deal better than his congregation’s Portuguese.

He talks about temptation and about envy, makes a passing reference to Brazilian football on television and to the skydive he got for his birthday. Leaping from the top of the temple would be a bit like that, says Roberto.

Joan Tarren, married at Maltby, talks afterwards about how much she loves the place. “At one time we did think it would close, but we fought to keep it going and we’re still here. There’s always someone else comes along.”

Rosemary Frankland, her sister, has also been coming since she was a little girl. “There’s always a good welcome, a good preacher and we’re renowned for our singing,” she says.

They’re also keen to point out a fifth window, high in the end wall, a millennium present from the village to acknowledge the church’s goodstuff stature all those years.

Another able to resist temptation, Ken Davison’s also wary of unleashing superlatives.

“I know it’s the smallest in the Stockton circuit but size doesn’t really matter,” he says. “We’re very happy the way it is.”