THAT the Bible talks in the same breath of publicans and sinners should not be taken to mean that those licensed to sell are any more or less wretched than the rest of us.

A "publican" was a tax collector, a sort of first century Revenue man but without the benevolent bowler, the rights to that nice little earner sold by the Romans to the highest bidding Jew.

A Roman occupation, as it were.

St Matthew, whose feast day the church marked last Saturday, was a publican himself - loathed like the rest of them until he accepted Christ's call, and (as his martyrdom suggests) not universally popular after that.

The patronal festival would hereabouts have gone unrecorded, had not the Liberty and Livelihood March in London so greatly taxed the column the following day.

It was almost by chance, therefore, that on Saturday evening we discovered a vigorous and immensely user-friendly church, a caring congregation and a dynamic, 61-year-old vicar with an extraordinary tale to tell.

St Matthew's is in Brinkburn Road, Darlington, built in 1936 and amalgamated with St Luke's 42 years later. Brian Holmes, a gaffer in a steel foundry, moved to the town 30 years ago. He became a church warden and lay preacher, unpaid curate, paid curate - for a month - and then vicar, without ever having left the parish.

Church folk will appreciate the uniqueness of the career path, though there's much more to the story - Holmes truths - than that.

He was brought up in Tow Law, failed the 11-plus, attended the local Modern School and at 14 became an apprentice steel moulder at Bond's Foundry. He stayed 11 years, enjoyed it ("I like being creative with my hands"), moved as an engineer to Blair's in Stanhope and eventually to BSA Foundries in Darlington, where a long running industrial dispute led to a serious breakdown in his health. "I was a manager but the workforce was atrociously tret," he says, as Tow Law lads do.

It was also in Tow Law, as a four-year-old playing around the doors in Grove Road, that he swears he first heard the word of God.

"I was standing on my parents' doorstep when a man called Tommy Stivvison" - Stephenson, it may be assumed - "came around the streets with the Salvation Army, giving his testimony. He'd been a paratrooper, I think, but had taken to drink until he joined the Salvationists. I remember rushing into the house in tears and my mother telling me not to take any notice, but a voice - clear as day - saying: 'Don't listen to her, listen to the man'."

He listened ever since, he says, but it wasn't until he met his wife Beryl - on holiday in Great Yarmouth - that he became a confirmed member of the Church of England. Beryl was from Birmingham. "I still remember how surprised I was by first footing in Tow Law," she recalls.

Thereafter he kept asking God what He wanted of him ("I'm bound to say that He didn't answer") but embarked on an ordination course, was ordained deacon in 1995 and priest, still unpaid, the following year.

When St Matthew's vicar left unexpectedly, they awaited a replacement, prayed ("as you do") and were suddenly invited to meet the Bishop of Jarrow.

"They're going to offer you the job," said their daughter. "It doesn't happen to people like me," said Brian, "and certainly not at 57."

It did, though legally he'd not been in holy orders long enough to have his own parish. "I think 25 years training is long enough," decreed the bishop.

He was installed as vicar on Guy Fawkes night 1998 - "I'm going to send you off with a bang," said the Bishop of Durham - and though it had been a hard shift from steel moulder to parish priest, he's been quietly coruscating ever since.

Probably it's because his head's not full of degrees, doctorates and divers demonologies that the gospel according to St Matthew's is so lucid, so relevant and communicated with such wondrously compelling simplicity.

"I've been very fortunate, we're bouncing along quite nicely," he admits. "There's been no resentment, I've been fully accepted as vicar, not just Brian any more. I just wish I was 30 again."

An example of his good fortune, he says, was when the archdeacon - troublesome men - condemned the wall around the church. A replacement would cost £18,000. A few days later, a visiting American strolled up with a cheque to cover it. "I see that as a miracle," says Brian.

The patronal service begins at 7pm, six hymns and a sermon. "He'll never let us off without a sermon," someone says, cheerfully.

The choir includes Norman Dobson, a chorister for 62 years, and Norma Town, a former Mayor of Darlington who is blind and processes with her wag-tail dog. Gavin Atkins, one of two churchwardens, is also blind; Philip Stokes, the church office administrator with whom he shares a house, has cerebral palsy.

The impression of their helping one another from the communion rail - one offering sight, the other strength - will long remain.

The church has a loop system for the hard of hearing, large print for the short sighted and Braille hymn books for the blind, ramped access for the disabled. The toilet has baby changing facilities and is adapted for the disabled, the church's booklet for newcomers - "We are here, and this is what we offer" - a true masterwork of its kind.

Brian preaches about St Matthew - "seen as a quisling, a traitor to his own people, similar to an extortionist. A man rich in this world's goods but maybe poor in every other respect, cut off from the God of his ancestors."

Sometimes he even reverts to native Tow Law: "Them's the bits you don't read in the Bible." Scintillating in its simplicity, it's a brilliant sermon.

The church halls have become community centres - one's an information technology suite - the attendant organisations are buoyant. "Our desire is to be effective in this community," says the vicar.

It deserves to work abundantly for St Matthew's. Publican and winner.

Regular Sunday services at the church of St Matthew and St Luke's are at 8 30am, 10 30am and 6pm. The Rev Brian Holmes is on 01325 354669.