John Mellor

by Linda Watson-Brown - 15:27 on 29 September 2008

I received an email last week from a woman working on a Channel 5 documentary about faith healers.  She is looking into the claim and 'abilities' of a number healers, and had been told by John Mellor that I had written a feature about him some years ago that she should read.  It took me back.  It was in 2001, when I was a columnist and feature writer at 'The Scotsman' that I was commissioned to do the story.  Mellor, an Australian evangelist, was visiting Edinburgh and I was asked to go along one Saturday evening and see if there was anything to him.  In my mind, there wasn't.  John Mellor seems to think differently and claims that I am one of the 'many' journalists who have been won over.  I'm not. 

I'm pasting in the feature below - make your own minds up, but seven years later, I'm still desperate to believe in stuff like this really . . . and still a bit annoyed that I've never seen a shred of evidence to help me.

All around me people say miracles have happened, they've been cured.  Who am I to say otherwise?

It's Saturday night. A large group of people have gathered in the local Baptist Church. They are here to see miracles. Nothing less will do. Kathy is one of the first through the door. She wants a good seat. She's heard of this guy from Australia, and she wants to make sure she is right there, front row, when the blind start to see and the crippled start to walk. Her friend is not so sure. She wants to be home by 9pm at the latest. Miracle workers need to work to a strict timetable these days if they want to compete with the lure of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

The man they are all here for waits downstairs. John Mellor is an Australian evangelist who has spent much of his working life in the remote Northern Territories. He worked in largely Aboriginal communities and cattle ranches preaching the Gospel. His church believed in healing, but anything that could be considered supernatural was frowned upon. John toed the line, but then the miracles began. He speaks of them with wonder when pressed, but he also has a litany to recite. Cancers which disappeared. Eyes which could see. Ears which could hear. Tongues which could talk. He went to Mexico, Arizona, Florida - and still the miracles continued. But then God spoke to John Mellor and sent him to Scotland, and now he's in Edinburgh, in Leith.

Upstairs, things are getting lively. The singing is loud and hearty. The scheduled time for his entrance passes. He doesn't care a great deal - he was here last night until 2am. He'll stay until he is the last one in the building, when all of the prayershave been said, and all of the miracles have been completed.

Suddenly a supporter, David, says it's time. He rushes upstairs, with John Mellor  behind him. His audience is a sea of people in multi-coloured fleeces. They look like a flock who will need some convincing. They're not going to be swept away easily. They're here in place of the bingo and the telly. There are some microphones on stage, as well as an assortment of synthesisers and other instruments.

More singing. More build-up, thanks to God - let's not forget who we are here for - then the star turn. Mellor may try to ensure that it's not all about him, as does his entourage, but the atmosphere changes when he takes the stage. The audience sit forward on their seats as they wait for the show to begin. 

John Mellor looks like George Hamilton, minus the tan. Dressed in a navy blazer, button-down Lee Cooper shirt and beige chinos, he could be a businessman on a relaxing night out. His voice is pleasant, although not immediately entrancing. The notion of faith healer rests uneasily on him; he says he dislikes the term, and his presentation and accent all help to detract from its negative associations .

"This is all Christ's power - it's not mine," he says, going on to explain: "Some people are cured immediately, some gradually, some never, but it isn't up to me. I have the gift but I use that because God gave it to me, that's the only reason. I'm surprised all the time because this is so far out, it's wild that the Lord can do this and that He has chosen me."

I sit at the back of the hall. On a sensible, practical level I cannot believe any of this. It goes against everything I base my world upon, but these seem like good, genuine people. The smiles, the sense of trust, are disconcerting. These people know that I'm not a believer, and yet most of them are incredibly tender toward me. There is a big, warm, friendly man next to me who tells me that John will pray for me if I need him to. "I'm not saved," I whisper, adopting the language, feeling that I sho uld keep quiet about my heathen tendencies. He isn't fazed . "Oh that doesn't matter," he says. "We're all different. Just you think about it." People are raising their hands, the "hallelujahs" are coming at more frequent intervals. It's revving up.

On my other side is a young man with closely cropped hair, an earring and oxblood DMs. He laughs loudly at everything John Mellor says. He has the enthusiasm and ardour of an infatuated ingénue. One leg rests over the knee of the other and it shakes wildly. His excitement is palpable, and another man - George from Haddington - tells me that they feel as if they are all blessed to be here.

"This is the real thing," he assures me.

At their side, Alastair McCormick is sceptical. He is here with a friend, but he is not convinced.

"It's too theatrical," he says. "I've too many questions. I don't know what I would have to see to make me believe, but it hasn't happened yet."

On-stage, Mellor is in full flow. If God wants to do anything for me, He can start by getting rid of the splitting headache that comes from sitting in a packed, hot hall with a strong smell of perfume and hairspray. It has been going for about an hour, and people are getting restless. Mellor is not the type of orator I thought he would be. There are, dare I say it, dull spots. He tells of a crippled man who left the room running after he had been prayed for. The next day he was shifting washing mach ines- this is the sort of practical evangelism Leith can relate to.

"That's great," says Kathy as I ask her what she thinks. "Maybe he could get my man to stop pinching my money and nipping off to the pub every night."

The children in the audience are looking around. They seem to think that they might have missed a miracle if their attention has wandered. Every time someone comes into the hall, everyone checks. When wheelchair users finally appear, there is a tangible sense of relief. Real miracle material. 

Mellor works his audience well and he, at last, asks for new visitors to come up to him if they need help. Only two people make their way to the front.

The first woman has whiplash injuries which she has suffered for seven years. She was at a chiropractor yesterday but this is dismissed from the outset. The laying on of hands begins. It is hard to know what is happening. He puts one hand at the back of the woman's head, another on her forehead. He speaks softly and then, quickly, violently, shouts at the pain to be gone. She falls back and is caught by one of Mellor's helpers.

The woman is laid down on the ground. She has been cured. The process is repeated with the man beside her and then the floodgates open.

Margaret Swan is here with her mother, Mary. Mary had been to see John two nights before and was filled with joy. "I was laughing so much by the time I left. I was filled with happiness, absolutely bubbling. I've been prayed over before but nothing like this."

Margaret has a more specific complaint. She has suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for 12 years. "It felt like a draining when he touched me, I was shaking from head to toe. I tried to get up but my legs felt like jelly. I've never felt anything like it - when you're down there you don't know what's going on. I feel great, my neck feels brilliant. I don't know if it'll last but I feel so, so happy."

It goes on for hours. By midnight, the floor is well-choreographed. Each time someone falls back, they are gently placed in a newly vacated space. Synchronised miracles are the order of the day.

As the night progresses, emotions intensify. Some people are twitching, some are foaming at the mouth, some are screaming, some are in ecstasy. They all say they have been cured. The pain has gone, aches have disappeared, fallen arches have been restored, arthritis dismissed.

Not everyone is totally convinced. There is a mixture of belief and questioning in many. Henry Hudson, 28, believes that there have been physical changes since Mellor touched him, but it is the spiritual which interests him more.

"I have had pain in my legs and feet, and that does seem better, but I don't know if it will last. I wouldn't want to say. But I do feel that, all of a sudden, I understand God more. If you thought it all looked foolish, you'd be right - I'm not sure about all of this, but, at the same time, I do feel I have more awareness of what is important to my faith."

It is incredibly hot and Fiona tells me that God wants her to speak to me. She holds my hands, tells me to close my eyes and says that I have a heavy burden that He will lift. I tell her that I'm fine and she suggests that God has put a picture of an anchor in her head and that I must let it go. I tell her I'm fine again. A new image has appeared. God wants me to post that letter. I'm still fine, but I still haven't been saved.

I've been here for almost six hours and, in an atmosphere of excitement and heat and happiness, I don't know what has been happening. All around me, people say that they have been cured, that miracles have happened here tonight, and who am I to say otherwise?

There has certainly been a display of the power of positive thinking and the ways in which belief can be channelled, but I'm no closer to the truth. I am wary for those who hear of cured cancer and disappearing tumours, and who may be blaming themselves for not bringing loved ones or not believing enough. But I have never once heard John Mellor ask for money, or pressure anyone. As I pack my things away, I know it will be my turn, and part of me needs to experience what it feels like when he put s his hands on me.

But all I feel as I leave is a need not to insult or decry these people who have been nothing but open with me all night. Out in the refreshing cold air of early Sunday morning, I am hugged by people who are going home at the same time. 

John Mellor is still inside praying, and healing in whatever way people can accept. They cuddle me and tell me that Jesus loves me. They say: "God Bless," and, even for a heathen, it feels fine.

Scotsman 11 September 2001

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