The congregation of St Mark’s church in Stoke-on-Trent are in tears. The old walls are amplifying a booming version of the traditional Christian hymn Thanks to God as an hour-long baptism ceremony draws to a close. It’s a powerful, emotive rendition, yes, but the tears are for something else.
This particular voice is the Iranian Muslim Amir Nowjavni, singing in Farsi, who is one of 16 asylum seekers converting to Christianity on a Saturday afternoon.
The white faces who used to make up the congregation of this tiny church in a deprived area of Stoke have been replaced by an eclectic mix of Iranians, Syrians, Iraqis, Bangladeshis and Eritreans who are all either looking for salvation in another religion or simply seeking charity.
In just three years, the Rev Sally Smith has presided over this total transformation of St Mark’s from a middle-class church to something resembling a refugee processing centre.
It is far from an isolated case. In fact, Smith’s story is a microcosm of what is happening across churches in Europe where a growing number of Muslim refugees are converting to Christianity.
Some members of the local congregation have been receptive. But many have left, saying they feel alienated by the hundreds of new-look Christians, uncomfortable with the multicultural flags and incredulous at what they see as people taking advantage of Smith.
In some cases, she has housed asylum seekers, fed them, clothed them, bought new shoes for their children and looked after their medical needs. That kindness has led many to convert to Christianity – on average three to four a week. Some do it in secret, others out of a debt of gratitude; there are those seeking spiritual relief after experiencing atrocities.
“My biggest challenge has been the attitude of some of the people within the church,” says Smith. “I have had a lot of opposition. Criticism, negative attitudes and trying to undermine the work that we are doing – that’s from the white British congregation.
“I have lost lots of congregation members because of what has happened at the church. They don’t want the hassle and they don’t want the church being messed up. They see the church as having a very definite role and opening the doors to refugees isn’t one of them.”
She adds: “They expected a vicar’s role to be looking after the people inside the church and one of the insults often levelled at me is: ‘She cares more about the people outside the church than those inside.’ Well, this is what I am meant to be doing and you’re meant to be doing it with me. We should be doing this together.”
She is defiant, determined, but not naive. Smith – known as Mother Sally by the refugees – concedes that some do convert solely because they believe it will help with their asylum application, but she says these are few and far between. Others claim they have had the doors closed on them by mosques, who have turned them away in their hour of need, leaving them starving and homeless.
At St Mark’s they receive a warm welcome – the building is packed to the rafters with donations of everything required to set up a new home and food parcels are handed out twice a week. They are given bus fares if needed and Smith even takes them into her own home if they are homeless. Smith says: “It is about being part of a kingdom where there are no border agency officials, where there are no passports necessary, where there are no immigration detention centres. One worldwide family where there are no dividing barriers.”
Refugees who have made perilous journeys across many continents find themselves dropped off in the middle of Stoke. By word of mouth most of them find their way to Smith’s door. Once there, they are given medical assistance, food, shelter and clothes as well as being taught English. It is more than simply sustenance that Smith and St Mark’s supply. It is family, she says, for those left alone and isolated.
But can you really just swap one set of religious beliefs for another in 60 minutes on a sunny weekend in Stoke? Smith argues that in an increasingly global society, the differences between denominations are breaking down. “With the mass movement from across the world we have got people of faith coming into secular society and faith really matters to them,” Smith explains. “And they are not too bothered, as bothered as we may think, about how that faith is expressed.
“In our secular mindsets we have all these great divides from different faiths but what I am finding is that they don’t conform to these divides and they just want to come to a place of worship, whatever that place is – they don’t seem to distinguish as much as we would have expected them to. Our help that we offer is in no way related to converting them. The most important thing for me is for people to be able to pray in our church whatever their faith.”
On a Saturday afternoon 15 asylum seekers undergo a mass baptism. Grown men stand alongside two teenagers and a mother with her two young children. They wait patiently in a queue to the baptismal font to have their heads doused in holy water. All of them are at different stages of seeking asylum to remain in Britain.
Abbas Massih from Iran is dressed in a smart pinstripe shirt, a large metal cross hanging from his neck. Massih closes his eyes as Smith makes a cross with the oil of the catechumens across his head. Massih, from Tehran, has been in the UK for six months. He says he wanted to be a Christian for a number of years and had only been a Muslim because he was born into the Islamic faith. He talks of secret Bible study meetings at his home and his pregnant wife being beaten and losing her baby after authorities in the hardline Muslim country became aware of his Christian leanings.
Speaking in Farsi via an interpreter, Massih, who is now estranged from his family due to his conversion, becomes very animated when discussing his faith. The 27-year-old, who lives in accommodation provided by the church, says: “They welcomed me with an open heart at this church. It was not so much about the material help but about the emotional help that I received and it has made me feel connected to Jesus. This religion is so much more accepting. In Christianity I feel peace.”
Massih agrees that some people may convert to help their asylum situation, but says this is not the case with his conversion. “There are some people who have already got citizenship who have come to this church and converted. Not everyone is doing it for asylum – they are doing it for peace and love.”
Naziyar Morajabi, 25, another Iranian who left his country due to political problems, has already been baptised. On first arriving in the UK in 2014 he – like many of the asylum seekers here – was sent to a hostel in Birmingham. They were then transferred to Stoke and found themselves homeless. He was given a home and food by Smith and two months ago he was baptised. Morajabi expresses a bitterness towards UK mosques that is echoed by many of the refugees, who claim they were turned away and not offered any help in their hour of need.
He says: “When I was homeless I went to the mosque and I asked them to let me stay for just two hours and to please give me some food. I had nowhere to go. The leader of the mosque said I was not allowed to stay there as the mosque was not for sleeping in.”
A Palestinian refugee who wants to remain anonymous says: “I kept it secret because some people may endanger my life. I am scared that I have changed my religion and what some people may do if they find out. They help every time and without asking for anything. The church has more money.
“One time I went to the mosque in London and I was homeless and it was snowing. I had spent five days in the street and I asked them to let me stay for just one or two hours. I did not ask them for anything, just somewhere to get warm, but they turned me away.”
But Smith is at pains to point out all the positive work carried out by her local mosque, Markaz at-Tawheed, which donated halal meat for all churchgoers at Christmas and which holds a weekly Sunday lunch.
Smith, 58, who starts with morning meditation at 5am, spends her day engrossed in the plight of the refugees. Her phone buzzes with texts and calls about 50 times a day. The daughter of a bricklayer and civil servant, she started off her working life as a registered disabled nurse before she felt her “calling to the ministry”. She was ordained in 2009.
A foster carer whose two oldest daughters were adopted from Sri Lanka, she spent her first three years feeling restless in “white, middle-class” Stone, Staffordshire, before transferring to her current ministry.
“I’ve always had a global outlook and I knew that I wanted to be where the greatest need was,” she says.
The church is currently housing 12 adults and two babies. Smith admits that her drive for the church to help refugees has left it on “the wire” financially, but the rewards, she argues, are worth more than money.
“Something really powerful and affirming about this is that it is really moving and you don’t get that from ordinary ministry,” adds Smith. “People we are helping have a lot more respect for me as a person and a priest than the people who were already in the congregation when I came.” She sums up her own Christian stance quite simply: “Their need is greater.”