A NOTICE in the auditorium of Middlesbrough Town Hall warned of loud noise and flashing lights. Posters outside promoted the forthcoming appearance of Melanie C, Mis-teeq and Charlie Lanesborough, whoever he might be. Probably they're accustomed to such amplified assaults.

This wasn't Saturday night but Sunday morning, however, not a pop concert but a service for almost 1,000 young Methodists.

"I don't suppose there'll be any Charles Wesley hymns," ventured the Rev Graham Carter, chairman of the Darlington Methodist district, genially surveying the supersonic scene.

Nor were there. The occasion was to prove not just religion made relevant, but religion on the Richter scale.

There were youngsters in purple wigs and jester caps, many in shorts; some carried flags and banners and one (inexplicably) a rugby ball. There was a Wee Willie Winkie, or some similar night shift worker, another who appeared to be Ali Baba, liberated from the 40 thieves.

A couple of dozen wore luminous jackets which identified them as stewards, the chief steward, badge of office, sported a baseball cap. A chap from the council wore black suit and bow tie and a sable expression to match them.

It didn't say "Bouncer" on his back because it probably didn't have to. On so joyous an occasion we were for some reason reminded of one of those geriatric Japanese jungle fighters, circa 1975, sticking a timorous head through the undergrowth to ask if the war were over.

Officially it was the Methodist Association of Youth Clubs "provincial weekend", styled Northern Lights, a gleeful gathering from all over the country based at the Oakwood Centre in Eaglescliffe and billeted, Operation Friendship, with church families across Teesside.

That they should be the host district was proposed on the morning of April 1, 2000 - "a bit appropriate, really," said organising committee chairman Bernard Nixon, familiar as a football referee, directing operations from the town hall crypt.

We were last down there for a real ale festival. Now there was copious coffee, great piles of apples, and barrel upon barrel of enthusiasm.

The programme underlined individual responsibility, decreed that whilst they didn't want to enforce too many rules and regulations there was to be no alcohol, smoking or drugs ("except for prescribed medical reasons"), no water pistols, whistling or paper planes.

At some of the pop concerts, by all accounts, it's a lot more than paper planes that they throw at the turns.

The weekend had also embraced visits to Cleveland landmarks like the Transporter Bridge and Hartlepool Historic Quay, a session on justice in world trade, a barn dance on Friday night and a disco on Saturday. The town hall worship was to be the culmination.

At the Oakwood Centre they'd had a giant conga, too. "I don't think it's allowed at Middlesbrough town hall," said Mr Carter, with some hint of relief.

They did most other things, though, the town hall scaffolded as if to withstand the vibration.

There were singers, orchestra, big screens, audio-visuals, ticket only and not an empty seat in the house. Whatever they were pushing it sure as apples wasn't drugs.

In order better to survey the splendid scene, the column stood at the side and was at once offered a seat. It's started to happen on the buses, too.

The theme was light and darkness, the atmosphere infectious, only the bouncer not grinning from ear to ear. It's not in the job description.

They whistled, yelled, bopped, hopped, waved, raved - ordinary kids on an extraordinary occasion. John Wesley, a passionate and a far-sighted man, could never have imagined that Methodism would be like this.

Only one hymn had been written before 1997 - How Great Thou Art, 1953 - none failed to strike a chord or shake the floor.

There was a clever drama by Middlesbrough and Eston youngsters, a passionate address from a youth leader called Chris who called the North-East God's allotment, promised not to go on too long and didn't - "I'm a Newcastle United supporter, they're on television at four o'clock". There were prayers for Iraq, for peace and justice, for struggling churches.

Near the end everyone was offered something called a light stick, invited to stand up, stand up for Jesus and to wave it over his head so that in the semi-darkness almost 1,000 shafts of light were held aloft like a glow-worms' passing out parade - waving, swaying, proclaiming a youth policy that few could have imagined and even fewer supposed possible.

"Absolutely terrific," said Bernard Nixon, recovering in the crypt and planning a deserved holiday.

Amid that astonishing aurora borealis, it was possible also to admire the candour and the courage of those few who remained seated. None hassled, nor hurrying homeward.

They may look back and consider it the most exciting event that Middlesbrough Town Hall witnessed this year. Put that in your pipe, Charlie Lanesborough.