Nobody wants to be in a cult. That includes the people who are in cults – which is why they tend to claim they’re nothing of the sort. Founded in 1970s Northamptonshire by lay pastor and self-anointed prophet Noel Stanton, the Jesus Fellowship – or the Jesus Army, as it came to be known in the late 1980s – was a case in point. And, for the 3,500 members it had accrued by the late 2000s, there was clearly something deeply appealing about the organisation unrelated to its ability to brainwash and control its followers (contraband included crisps and books). It served the needs of a certain kind of Christian: to have an accessible, welcoming church, to live communally with people who shared their values, to be given direction by a charismatic leader, to belong.
To outsiders, however, it always seemed inordinately sinister. Inside the Cult of the Jesus Army is crammed with half a century’s worth of British media to prove it: from tabloid articles (“Cult Crazy” ran one headline, which drew parallels with the recent Jonestown massacre) to news items (a 1970s report about the strange deaths of two members) to programmes such as 1998 talk show For The Love Of… in which Jon Ronson goggles as members explain their “virtue names” (one man is “watchman”; a young woman called Sarah is “submissive”). As late as 2014, we see Grayson Perry singing along wryly with their hymns in his Channel 4 series Who Are You?
The details that troubled the public imagination were myriad: for some it was the ecstatic singing and speaking in tongues; for the 1970s newsreader it was only natural to be suspicious of such a “highly committed” and “insular” group. Then there was Stanton, pantomime baddie-like with mad eyes, wispy grey hair and an extremely creepy smile. In footage spanning many decades, we see him preaching in an eerie whisper and spouting grotesque soundbites such as “now we give our genitals to Jesus”.
Embedded in this grim fascination was the hunch that something was seriously awry. It was. While the Jesus Army claimed to be a haven for Christians, it was actually a haven for paedophiles – including, allegedly, Stanton himself – giving them ample opportunity and permission to abuse children while making barely any effort to hide their actions.
This two-part documentary gives us some sense of why the Jesus Army attracted – and perhaps even created – abusers: it was a microcosm of a fastidiously patriarchal society, it attracted those already vulnerable (Sarah joined after losing both her parents), it deliberately courted teens, it weaponised the concept of sin, it demanded unquestioning loyalty and devotion. Yet the focus here is on the victims; the programme meshes a chronology of the movement with a group therapy session involving four adult survivors. Initially, these ex-members (the Jesus Army closed down in 2019) are encouraged to process the idea that they spent their formative years in a cult. It’s not until the middle of the second hour-long instalment that they discuss the abuse they suffered.
As a genre, true crime can spread awareness, bust taboos and breed empathy, especially when survivors are able to articulate the impact the misdeeds had on their own lives. But this is always tempered by a certain exploitation, recasting vulnerable people’s trauma as entertainment. As the camera lingers on these tearful men and women – after teasing their revelations over almost 80 minutes of nauseating tension – it feels as if the programme has failed to pull off that particular balancing act.
And yet, anybody hoping to draw attention to the way sexual assault is dealt with in this country needs some kind of sensational hook; countless accounts of abuse, sickening as they are, clearly aren’t enough. Alongside the shocking statistics presented – 539 members accused of abuse, approximately one in six children sexually abused, only 11 people convicted – we get an understanding of the patchwork response to these crimes. There was a relatively brief investigation by police in the mid-2010s, which began by chance and ended in frustration when the elders closed ranks; a Facebook group was set up by Philippa – who felt ostracised after reporting an abuser to the police when she was 12 – to gather testimony; and now this documentary, for all its uncomfortable use of distraught victims, which brings the scandal to a wider audience.
It feels like plugging holes in a sieve. Despite all the superficial weirdness on display – watch as picturesque farmhouses are converted into nuclear family-crushing communes, as people in polyester jumpers writhe and groan on the floor, as sparsely attended raves get a Christ-based spin – the lasting message of this documentary is depressingly familiar. As a society, we do not have an effective way of bringing the perpetrators of sexual assault to justice. The Jesus Army may be a thing of the past, but this remains a national shame.
• Inside the Cult of the Jesus Army aired on BBC Two and is available on iPlayer.
