THE Bishop of Durham has dressed down for the occasion: Marks & Sparks jumper, slacks, dog collar and pectoral cross with which he periodically fiddles, as if nervous.

"A generation gap of some proportion," suggests the Rt Rev Michael Turnbull, arriving at the parish church of St Margaret of Antioch in the cobbled heart of Durham.

St Margaret's, across the river from the great Cathedral, dates from 1160, among the oldest churches even in so historic a city.

On the second Sunday of each month, however, a largely youthful group called Living on Love gathers for a service - upbeat musicians, arms waving, ancient and modern.

Last Sunday evening the 67-year-old bishop, six weeks from retirement, joined them. "I'm 95," he announces, though happily - for it would be occupationally hazardous otherwise - he has the knees of a 21-year-old.

"It's really good to be here," he tells them, and absent-mindedly pushes his pectoral cross back beneath his jumper.

Pews have been pushed to the side, New English Hymnal (which is really the newish English hymnal) packed into cardboard boxes. There are candles and subdued lighting, a big screen before the service showing something involving Rowan Atkinson, enough audio visual equipment around the 12th century Frosterley marble font for the Grand National to be broadcast live from Aintree.

"Hi," they greet the bishop or, if polysyllabic, "Hiya."

"Hello," says the bishop, warmly. Most, but not quite all, have deemed it respectful not to wear a baseball cap in church.

The services began 15 months ago, 100 at first, now averaging 50 - and if that's far fewer than the number of kids roaming the skintight city streets of a Sunday evening, it's probably more than have gathered that day in the rest of Durham's parish churches put together.

The Church Council, the elders as it were, have been entirely supportive. "It's meant to be an important part of the church, not a carbuncle on the side of it," someone says.

"It's growing, word is getting out," says Lee Nichols, the youth pastor, who is an American.

The bishop is welcomed by Lee and by Nick Roark, the diocesan youth adviser. Unlike other services, they say, the congregation is invited to ask questions about his sermon, or anything else, and to disagree with him.

"Don't ask him about the first kiss, though, we did that at Chester-le-Street," says Roark. The bishop smiles, briefly.

The usual stars, if a church service may thus shine, are the worship band, clearly much enjoyed. It is merely the mark of the dinosaur that the lyrics seem to lack lyricism and the tunes not to be tuneful and it is heresy to suppose that it'll never take the place of Thine Be the Glory, Risen Conquering Son.

It won't, though, not ever.

Personal prayers are invited to address relevant images projected in silence onto the screen - a very clever idea - the band rocks St Margaret's; because the episcopal chair is somewhere behind the big screen, the bishop kneels to give his address.

As always he's effective, interacts with his audience, invites responses or questions.

"I'm a bit old for this," begins one of the mums.

"Wait till you get to my age, dear," says Bishop Michael.

Whether from young or middle aged ("over 22," explains the bishop), questions are adult and aware. No one asks him about the first kiss; this isn't Chester-le-Street, after all.

Predictably, he's against war in Iraq. "There is nothing just about the proposals on the table at the moment," he says. "If there are stockpiles of weapons of mass destruction, let's see their evidence.

"They've all been very cagey about it. If they know something we don't, it's about time we did."

More surprisingly, he's not necessarily in favour of keeping churches open. "Churches that are always bickering deserve to die; God can do without them. Those may be strong words but I believe them to be true."

As they have been encouraged to do, someone challenges him. Shouldn't they have a second chance?

"I certainly think individuals need a second chance, but I think some churches get to the point where it's better to disband and help people to find churches which are growing, vibrant and alive. There are sometimes churches which can do damage because they aren't growing, they aren't gathering people in. They are wasting time trying to keep a show on the road which is unworthy of Christ."

Someone also asks if he can only move diagonally, like a bishop on a chess board. The Bishop of Durham leaps athletically about the chancel, like an animated white knight on a pawn raid. Unfortunately the photographer misses it.

He has earlier suggested that some churches and church people are too tight with their money, that religion is often seen as massaging and not challenging and that as a youth he only went to church to try to find a girlfriend.

"It took years," he says. "Even then, it wasn't in church."

Though the band plays on, the service ends after two hours. Bishop Michael, not just applauded but exuberantly whooped, comes over for a word. The word he uses is "Phew."