By Kate Knowles
The Bethel Presbyterian Church of Wales in Birmingham city centre sits in an unassuming spot just off Holloway Head. Its neighbour on one side is a Best One convenience store. On the other is a pair of iconic blocks of flats known colloquially as the Dorothy Towers. Clydesdale and Cleveland Towers both soar far into the sky, but far from being overpowering, they give the impression of standing guard of the city — the protectors of this little church.
There’s a reason for this: the three buildings are in fact members of the same family. Designed by James Roberts in the mid-20th Century, the towers and the church are examples of the architect’s Birmingham brutalism. Bethel is a two-tier building: the lower level is a squat box of bricks, while the upper level slopes upwards in lieu of a traditional spire, with a simple concrete cross sitting on top. Construction began in 1967 and was completed the following year. It was Birmingham’s third Welsh-language church, following the demolition of 19th Century chapels on Suffolk Street and, before that, on Hockley Hill.
The Welsh churchgoing revival, or Diwygiad, of 1904-5 was pioneered by the minister Evan Roberts. He claimed to have been visited by the Holy Spirit and travelled Wales preaching and calling on the public to confess their sins. His fervent prayer meetings drew large crowds and 100,000 people are said to have ‘converted’ or made a new commitment to Christ due to their influence. The revival spread to England and coincided with the growth of the labour movement, ushering in an era of great social change which had an impact for decades to come. In the 1960s the Bethel’s benches, which can hold about 250 people, were full every Sunday. Its walls reverberated with lilting harmonies as worshippers sang the hymns.
“The place was full. If you didn't come early, you'd have to sit on the bench at the back. And it was just amazing to be in such an atmosphere,” remembers 84-year-old Ellen Whitehouse, the church’s treasurer and secretary. At the age of 13, Whitehouse left Croesor for Northamptonshire, and she first moved to Birmingham after getting married in 1963. She has been attending Bethel since 18 months after it first opened, eager to give her two sons the same church-going experience she had as a child. “Your mother tongue is just everything. I don't get lost for a word in my own language,” she says.
Today, though, that congregation has shrunk to a small but committed group of about 12 people. “Slowly and slowly, people moved back to Wales,” says Whitehouse. Today, most people who regularly attend are aged between about 60 and 90. It’s a happy family, but if they’re to keep the church going long into the future, they need to bring in members to replace those who have gone.
Though Ellen holds two official titles with the church, her day-to-day work involves much more than that. On the day I turn up to chat with her, she has come in to tidy up, make sure the heating is working properly, and check that the place is safe and sound. A few months ago, someone or a group of people broke in through one of the small, triangular windows at the front of the building. A laptop was stolen from a room downstairs that the church rents out to another religious group, the Father’s Heart Centre. A few weeks later, Bethel was broken into again; the windows have since been replaced.
Although the robbery is upsetting, Ellen is pragmatic. Bethel sits in the middle of a city that is grappling with a homelessness crisis, she explains. People tend to gather on the small set of concrete stairs in between the Best One and Bethel to drink and smoke. “Sometimes we ask the homeless people to help us carry things into the church,” she says, showing me a loose £10 note from the pocket of her jeans. “I don’t tend to carry a lot of cash but I do have something on hand to give them. They are alright with us.”
Ellen is well-supported by the rest of the congregation, some of whom live outside of Birmingham but come to Bethel because there is no other option for a Welsh-language church service near them. I join them one Sunday morning, dusting off my vocal cords as I attempt to join in the hymns. The visiting minister (these days, Bethel doesn’t have a permanent minister; instead, several travel in from Wales on a rota) takes pity on me and kindly signposts in English throughout.
Without the anchor of language, I take refuge in the comfort of ritual. The intermittent kneeling, the bowing of the head in the right place, the rhythms of the Lord’s Prayer, familiar even in another tongue. The symmetry of a church lends itself to worship — everything is balanced, creating the perfect conditions for calm observance. Bethel’s intricate simplicity — its pared-back modernism livened by the unusual shape of the roof; the zigzag pattern of the elders’ chairs by the altar — only enhances this effect. As Mary Keating, co-author of Birmingham: The Brutiful Years, writes: “The wooden ceiling leads your eye upwards to the altar and organ and is folded in on itself like an elaborate piece of origami.”
As the years have gone by and the congregation has dwindled, the upkeep of the church has become harder. Bethel’s members are waging a constant battle with graffiti on the outside walls of the church. “It cost us £800 to get it off,” says Ellen, referring to a recent, major scrub down. The scrawl reappeared shortly afterwards. Instead of forking out again, they started cleaning it themselves. In a fortunate moment of serendipity, a member of the council’s street cleaning team happened to drive by and stopped to help.
Even with such support, however, the question of Bethel’s future hangs in the air. Ellen is in good health and seems full of energy, but thinks she can only continue in her current roles for another five years at most. Although the small congregation works together to keep the church going, life has a habit of getting in the way. In the past few years, some of their number have passed away. More than anything, Ellen hopes for younger churchgoers to pick up the mantle. The current group are very welcoming but aren’t very familiar with social media, which they think is essential to attract new and younger worshippers. “I’ll do anything to keep it going,” says Ellen quietly, her eyes filling with tears. “It means everything to me.”
What will happen to Bethel? That is a question for the head office of the Welsh Presbyterian Church in Cardiff, which owns the building. Given Bethel’s location, the land must be worth a lot. The Kings Heath residence where the minister would have lived in days gone by (called the ‘manse’) is in the process of being sold off.
Whether or not the church will meet the same fate is currently unknown, but other brutalist creations haven’t stood the test of time. The old library is, of course, no more, and Roberts’s Ringway Centre is set to be pulled down. Could the church be next? It’s hard to imagine Victorian St Martin in the Bull Ring, or Medieval St Laurence’s, going without public outcry, but so far, Birmingham hasn’t been so keen to save its Modernist architecture.
For now, the small but dedicated congregation continues to meet, most Sundays throughout the year in this pocket of calm, surrounded by the bustle of town. They say their gweddïau under the curious pointed roof, like a little bird in flight, heading for the heart of the city.
Correction: Ellen Whitehouse began attending Bethel 18 months after the church opened, not immediately as the article originally suggested. She was 13 when she left Wales and is now 84.
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