Drawing on the Book of Joshua, the presiding pastor, a former Bristol GP named Nic Harding, advises his audience to fix their sights on metaphorical mountains, parts of society where their beliefs might be brought to bear. The examples he offers might chill any non-believer to the bone: “Education, healthcare, politics, government – these are all areas where God says, ‘Who will claim that mountain?'”

It’s a particularly remarkable feature of modern British life: the way that in certain circles even the mention of the most modest form of theistic belief is enough to bring down great torrents of hostility. Often the explanation is traceable to the liberal-left’s justified concerns about the blurred relationship between religion and state. But, in keeping with the drive of militant secularism to attack the very idea of God as much as what faith means in practice, much of the shouting is usually about philosophical fundamentals. The result: an ongoing scrap between equally staunch believers and non-believers, which arguably gets nobody anywhere.

When we asked our online readers to give us a steer as to the social role played by religion where they lived, it all kicked off again. “I don’t trust anyone who needs an instruction manual to tell them how to be good,” offered Newbunkie. “My personal view is that all religious groups should be banned,” said someone called Youbloodydidwhat.

In response there were slightly more measured claims of religion’s practical benefits. “I have seen churches set up hostels for the homeless because the local vicar has encountered so many people sleeping rough in the church porch,” wrote JonathanBW. “[They] establish credit unions to help people who are financially excluded … Most of this work does not involve any element of evangelism or proselytising.” Similar news came from Manchester, Northampton and Glasgow – and in response, members of the Dawkins–Hitchens tribe dutifully went ape again.

If many of them set foot in Liverpool’s Frontline Church, they would presumably explode. It’s a standalone evangelical organisation based on the forlorn-looking borders of Picton and Wavertree. Having arrived in Liverpool in 1991, it now draws about 1,000 people – whose average age seems to be around 35 – to the three services staged each Sunday. Recent visitors have included Nick Clegg, Chris Grayling and Cherie Blair; among the first members of the congregation I met the day I visited was a local Labour councillor. Here, God is not acknowledged in that rather bashful way one associates with the tea-and-biscuits model of Anglicanism but loudly saluted. “We are amazed by you,” goes one part of the apparently ad hoc liturgy. “We are in awe of you.”

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