Clouds Of Glory

Note for new readers. Contrary to what a few uncharitable folk have asserted, this Open Air Newsletter is not some sort of vanity project, but is written at our pastor’s request. Its purpose is to keep the church up to date with what happens during our Wednesday Open Air in Manchester, and to enable those who will to pray for this weekly outreach. It is also read by a variety of people from other fellowships who are in sympathy with our aims, and who also support us in prayer - for which we are extremely grateful. Now read on…

Clouds Of Glory

There’s a chill in the air. A splash of sunshine is illuminating the shops across from us, but above them the sky has turned a slate grey. Janette has been here for a while, but Peter, subject to the whims of public transport systems, is yet to arrive. There is music down on Market Street, but it’s not loud enough to be a nuisance. Stephen is on first, and, as he gets under way, I stand to his right, a plastic envelope of tracts and booklets in my hand.

It’s a slow start. I exchange a few humorous remarks with passersby, and note the cyclist on a Primrose Bank bike who stops, listens, cycles away, and then turns back to hear more. I’m accosted by another cyclist, a gent in a bright blue anorak and dark glasses, with a grey woollen hat atop his head. We enjoy a cheerful chat, and then he puts his tracts in a shoulder bag and pedals away towards the station.

The pavements are not as crowded as usual, but bikes are everywhere today, weaving in and out of knots of pedestrians and trying to avoid all the Deliveroo riders shooting off on errands at breakneck speed. And here come two gents of oriental appearance, wrapped in orange sheets. Their legs are bare above sports socks and slip on shoes, but they’ve donned warm woollen bonnets and big gloves, as if to compensate for cold legs. You get used to seeing all sorts of people, folk from all four corners of the earth, right here on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens. That’s why it’s a good place to preach.

And yet - as I scan the passing throng, I can’t help noticing that half of them are wearing either earbuds, airpods, or those big headphones that blot out all ambient noise. They’re in a world of their own as they walk on by.

Stephen comes to a close and reminds folk that we have free bibles on offer, and then I’m on. I turn my collar against the cold, I pray, and then I begin with a reference to today’s news. It’s taken from an account of that bereaved husband and father speaking at the sentencing of the “crossbow killer”: “The screams of hell, Kyle, I can hear them faintly now. They're going to roll out the red carpet for you.”

It’s a grim opening. However, it reminds us that even atheists and agnostics, in extremis, can suddenly rediscover that there might well be a hell, and a heaven - and, perhaps, even a God who is Lord of all. And then it’s “Seven Steps To Heaven”. As I introduce my main theme, Peter arrives, wearing his big, bright, bible text boards. He takes a generous handful of tracts from his bag and gets to work straight away, over in front of McDonald’s.

A fine drizzle floats down around me. Hoods and umbrellas go up, but we don’t stop for the rain - or for sleet and snow, for that matter. There are a few casual listeners at a distance, but that’s all, so far. An unkempt gent goes by, shouting out that he “dun’t believe in all that…” (Expletive deleted.) His friend, limping along behind him, directs a volley of curses his way. He’s just fallen - or been pushed - and he’s anxious to tell me all about it, alas.

He’s skinny, crop-headed, and wearing a stained gilet over an old tracksuit: a typical, hard-living member of the local Stoner Community. “I’ve just ’urt me leg! E’s broke me ’ip!” Obviously not, but he insists on showing me, and pulls his trousers down to reveal an unseemly amount of his rear end. I tell him to put it away, I don’t want him to put me off my tea, at which he makes various suggestions best left unrecorded, and lopes off cackling when I urge him to go home and sleep it off. And to those in my small audience whose interest has been aroused, I offer the best advice I can give: “Young people! Don’t take drugs!”

Back on track, and a young Asian gent stops to film me on his phone. A cheery gent in a broad-brimmed hat shouts out “God bless you!” I thank him. “You’re a legend, you!” “Only in my own lunchtime!” Well, you had to be there.

Meanwhile, Janette and Peter are giving out literature hand over fist, and Stephen is being lectured by some woman in a grey bobble hat and outdoor clothing about something or other. His face is a picture. I should stop now and call him over to take his turn - but a young man, bearded and dressed in black, is listening with attention, and I want to end on a gospel summary - which I do, pointing him to our poster up on the lamppost: “The wages of sin… but…” Then I’m done.

As Stephen begins, the man on the Primrose Bank bike returns and listens from outside Zambrero’s.

A lady in a green quilted coat is striding along talking ten to the dozen into her phone. As she reaches the tram tracks, she trips and falls full length across them. Good job there isn’t a tram coming round the corner. I start towards her, but, suddenly - as if by magic - a paramedic on a bike is by her side and helping her up. She seems to be okay, and she goes off, fumbling for her phone to take up her conversation once more.

The drizzling rain returns, but it’s hardly enough to dampen the pavement. I have a couple of brief conversations and note that Janette is talking to yet another man on a bike. As the sun shines out again, I note the appearance of young persons in shorts and crop tops! I remember my mother repeating the time-honoured advice, “Ne’er cast a clout till May be out.” I think she was right.

Dearie me, here comes one now… You get so that you can spot them a mile off. He’s an older man in a dark blue anorak with his hood up, its drawstring pulled tight to cover his forehead and a good portion of his face. His nose and mouth are covered by a Covid-era mask. He peers out at me from behind his glasses. “You don’t believe all those things in the bible, do you?” I tell myself to be patient. “Surely you know the laws of geometry?” “Only vaguely. But I do have a GCE in Maths.” “Then you must realise that all those animals…” My mind goes back, years ago, to similar scornful remarks - over the backyard wall, from my neighbour. That took patience, too; but now she’s a regular attender at Salem Chapel.

This man looks down on me from even loftier intellectual heights, and he rambles on without paying any attention to any of my replies, which contain at least a modicum of common sense, I’d say. I’m relieved when Stephen closes and calls me over. And I’m pleased to see Janette coming back for even more tracts. Say what you will about open air preaching - I’m convinced that it’s a great help when you want Christian literature to go out in quantity. It works for us, anyway.

But time is nearly up, and I must be brief. The sun comes out again and the wind whips up, and I compare our addiction to sin to alcoholism and drug dependence. Finding true freedom, being born again, the state of the nation, the state of the human heart - and a hope for the future: I cover as much as I can, and then it’s all over except for a final offer of free bibles. We pray, we pack up, and then we’re off to the Arndale for refreshments.

And that’s that.

Or is it? No, because on the way back Stephen’s car begins to lose power, and then more and more people pass us by waving out of their windows and pointing to the thick clouds of white smoke billowing out behind us… Stephen coaxes the car along as far as he can, and then leaves the motorway, coming to rest a few yards from Shuttleworth Mead. “Dearie me,” I wonder, “what are we going to do now?”

But Stephen is, as usual, cool, calm, and collected. He phones the AA, and they’re with us in a remarkably short time, arriving just as my daughter turns up to give me a lift back home. The AA van accompanies Stephen as he limps the car along to his destination, trailing not clouds of glory but even more of that thick, white smoke.

And we’re both back in time for tea.

Please pray, if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so, for any or all of those mentioned above, and also for the following.

The two men with whom Peter spoke, who asked for help and prayer in giving up drugs, and for M., a former bin man, who asked for prayer.

The two ladies, S. and N., who came along and volunteered to help us a few weeks ago.

And please pray for all those who turn up to preach in and around that area in Manchester, particularly for those few who preach an unbalanced or erroneous version of the gospel, often nearby, mischievously pretending an association with us that does not exist…

Every blessing!