At the gates of Fisherwick Presbyterian Church, a small group stands waiting for the crowds to spill out from some of Belfast's busiest pubs. This part of the city's Golden Mile, with the Botanic Inn on one side of the road and the Eglantine on the other, is a chaotic cocktail of fast food, taxicabs and wailing sirens. Young women in barely-there sequined tops clutch their boyfriends, two drunken teenagers are searched by the police, an irate driver shouts abuse at another as a late-night snarl-up develops.
It is after 1 a.m. when the people at the gates unscrew flasks of tea and coffee, tearing open packets of Hob Nobs, in preparation for the few hours ahead. "Most people are very friendly," says Paul, a middle-aged man wearing a fleece. "They say it is a brilliant idea, they want to know what we are about. We get all denominations stopping, and I would say more than 50 per cent of the people who approach us are Roman Catholic. They seem a bit more upfront than the Protestant community." At the tea table, Nell, an elegant older woman with hair swept up in a chignon, hands out the hot drinks to bemused passers-by. "When I was younger, I always believed it was better for the church to be out there among the people, so when I heard about this I thought it was a very good idea," she says.
Paul and Nell are part of a thriving community of Christians who take to the streets in Belfast at the weekends to "let people know God loves them" or just to offer comfort to those who are a little worse for wear. The Night Light service run by the Kinghan Church at the other end of the Golden Mile was set up six years ago, and since then several other groups, such as the Whitewell Metropolitan Tabernacle and Fisherwick have followed. Belfast has always been well known for its strong tradition of street preaching, but these days participants offer tea and sympathy rather than fire and brimstone.
"We are not in the business of up-front evangelism," says Rev Derek McKelvey, of the Fisherwick group who go out on the streets two Fridays in every month. "It is about building bridges and offering a listening ear. The people involved have a living faith and want to bring that to the community."
The group meets in the hall behind the church at around 11 p.m. for a prayer session before they go out into the drizzly night. Dermot says he was roped in by his wife about two years ago. "At first I thought it was crazy, a really silly idea. When I got involved, the thing I liked about it was that it is not 'in your face'. You are not forcing anything down people's throats, but maybe you get a chance to tell people there is something more, that we love God and God loves them . . . some of the people we meet are quite lonely."
There are seven volunteers in the room, ranging from 17-year-old students to veterans such as Dermot. They say it is not about getting people to join their church - they readily admit there is very little follow-up in that regard - but to get people thinking and to change the stereotypical perception of Christians as "stuffy and boring". They prefer not to hand out bible tracts, but in a few weeks time will begin using boxes of matches, with the church's details printed on them, as a promotional tool.
Matthew (18) describes the venture as "a good bridge between the church and the pub". "My own personal motivation is, if Jesus was alive today, this is what I think he would be doing. He would be out on the streets," he says.
"Tea, coffee, we have Hob Nobs as well," entreats spiky-haired Robbie, as the revellers make their way towards the church. Some women hurry past, sceptical looks on their made-up faces. But lots of people stop, curiously taking in the scene, before filling up on biscuits, tea and conversation. "Drink loosens the inhibitions, and there are lots of interesting chats," says Dermot. At one point, a man is discussing the similarities between Muslims and Christians with Paul, while a young woman pours her heart out to Nell about her grandfather who is dying of cancer.
"She is the nicest woman I have ever met. I love these people," says Clare, after she stops chatting to Nell. "She has helped me more about my Grandad than anybody, even my family. I see them all the time, but normally I just walk past."
Her boyfriend Aidy has stopped at the tea table before. "It's really cool, I have had a nice conversation. Better than the Free Presbyterians, anyway, who really scare me. I believe that, if you are good and nice to people, then you will be OK. The Free Ps say hell is full of good people,'" he says." It is 3 a.m. before the group at Fisherwick Church begins to pack up the plastic cups and biscuit wrappers, but they linger on when a man with a shaven head stops for some tea. Describing himself as a raver who believes in God, he says he wishes he could discuss things with the Catholic clergy like he can with this group of Presbyterians. "Protestants and Catholics, it's all the same, the only thing that makes us different is politics - that and the fact that you don't believe in Mary," he says to Nell. "I'm going to America next year, and I have more chance of being religious properly over there than I do here because everyone at home is just so uptight. You are a very nice lady. Thank you and good-night."
Another Friday night at the opposite end of the Golden Mile. The Night Light crew meet on the top floor of the Kinghan Church for the deaf on Botanic Avenue at 11 p.m. "We don't save anybody," says the group's 30-year-old development officer, Christine, dismissing a common misperception that groups such as Night Light are out on the streets to save souls. "We believe God saves people." Helen, 22, a pretty woman with a neat shoulder-length bob, says she enjoys the randomness of the people the group encounters. Later, in prayer, she asks God to help her explain to people how much His love "blows our minds".
As they pray, you scan the sheets pinned to the wall that offer details of the characters they have met on their vigils around the City-Centre. They offer guidance that is both practical and spiritual - as they walk from City Hall to the Malone Road they try to help everyone from the homeless to those who are just lost. Written in felt-tip pen is a brief synopsis of a man who described himself as a "devout Roman Catholic" but "did not appear to understand the seriousness of sin"; The woman who was "hostile and angry. Believes there is a God but is not there when she needs him". Another man is "homosexual from RC background. V drunk".
They set out, trawling the packed streets of Belfast and stop for a while to chat to the people from the Whitewell Metropolitan Tabernacle who are giving out soup from a van on Shaftesbury Square. Gwyneth (23), a blond bank worker, says she has been "saved" since last November. "I used to take drugs, so I know how these people feel there is a gap they need to fill," she says, handing out religious tracts. "I just know in my heart that God wants me to spread the gospel, and it is good to get out of the safety net of your Church."
