Open Air: Aftermath

There is metal mesh fencing around the tram tracks as we approach Piccadilly Gardens. It’s nothing to do with the recent disorder in the area, it’s just part of the extensive repair works to the tram system. The fencing curves sharply in front of where we stand, enclosing a Portakabin and building equipment, and dividing passing pedestrians into two streams - thus cutting us off from direct contact with a fair number of folk.

Never mind, they can still see us and hear us, at least when the diggers are not driving forwards into the foundations of the tracks. When they’re in operation, it sounds like someone shaking a lorry load of scrap metal inside a shipping container. Oh well - it means that the buskers won’t be bothering us today.

It’s Stephen on first, under a grey sky; it’s hot and humid, with perhaps a hint of rain in the air. I stand opposite him, with my back to the mesh fencing and the men in orange workwear and hard hats who are strolling around or chatting to each other by the Portakabin. Stephen is telling people who we are and what we’re here for and… clatter-crash-crash-crash-crash-clatter! There goes the heavy machinery again. Fortunately, the din is only at intervals, and we don’t lose too much of his address.

Enter Peter from on my right, looking dapper in a blazer instead of his usual outdoor gear. He smiles engagingly, as ever, and tells me it’s from a charity shop and at a bargain price. Then he’s straight over to McDonald’s to take up his usual position. The big, yellow board on his back reads: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46.1.) A text for today, certainly…

And here comes the rain: by no means a downpour, but enough to make Stephen put up his hood. Pedestrians raise their umbrellas, others hurry on towards the shelter of the shops - and here comes V., bobbing along in sprightly fashion, looking for someone to annoy. Why is it that he always wants to engage us in useless, pointless discussions? I answer his questions briefly and in a monotone, and he’s soon on his way again.

Stephen is already halfway through an overview of the life and work of our Saviour, covering more ground in a few minutes than I can manage in an hour. My hip is aching, so I swallow a couple of industrial-strength opioids and hope that they’ll take effect before it’s my turn to speak. At least the rain is easing off.

There are fewer people passing by, because of the fencing, and my tracts are going out very slowly. Stephen finishes and advertises our free bibles and literature, and I walk over to don the mic. I drink some orange juice, find my place in my Open Air bible, and pray. Then: “Glad to see that there’s nobody knocking spots off anybody else today. If you’re going to start doing that, just give us fair warning, won’t you?” I point out the irony of preaching here for years about finding peace with God and our fellow men, then watching videos of riots kicking off in the very same spot.

As I’m working round to putting my finger on the root cause of all the unrest, I can’t help but notice two policemen strolling past, as if by accident. One is slim, bearded, bespectacled, and very young; the other, a little older, but also slight of stature. They pause a few yards up the street as I go on. They don’t need to be worrying. I speed through the things that people say are to blame for this country “going to hell in a handcart” (as it was put to me recently), and then point to what we really need to worry about: sin in the human heart.

I think they’re happy with that: they stroll back again, and the younger one gives me a shy smile and a little wave of his hand in response to my thumbs up. And here comes Janette, looking fetching in green, her hair bound up in a colourful headscarf. I stop to give her some tracts, and Stephen adds more, since she’s so successful in placing them with passersby.

Then I turn to our poster - Romans 6.23 - and how each one of us can avoid going to hell in the proverbial handcart, which is the main burden of what I have to say today.

[Watching the GoPro video, days later, I note that the workmen behind the fence are listening with a fair degree of attention as they chat, consult their phones, change their jackets, and just generally stand around. How do I know? They keep turning to look at me, then turn back to comment, then turn to look and listen again, and so on. Strangely enough, I never noticed them at all at the time. Cf. G. K. Chesterton’s “The Invisible Man”.]

R. comes by but he sees I’m busy, so he shakes my hand and carries on. I’ve got an interesting anecdote, courtesy of my new neighbours, re “broken Britain” - but its effect is ruined as a sudden gust of wind catches the speaker and the case on which it stands and knocks them right over. Nevertheless, the speaker just keeps on going, and is righted in seconds. I reference John 3.8 as a cheerful gent calls out “Keep up the good work!”

Stephen takes over, the tracts begin to move more quickly, and a young woman under a polka dot umbrella takes one then comes back to ask about our church and what we believe. I look for Janette, but she’s hidden by the Portakabin, and Peter is likewise hidden amongst the street furniture where the Deliveroo riders congregate. But here comes Kieran in a blue anorak and blue jeans, carrying his usual big backpack. He’s missed being with us recently because he’s been on holiday.

As we discuss the riots, I glance down at the pavement. Everything has been tidied up after the disturbances, apart from a broken window at Superdrug - but the mechanical street sweeper has left little flecks of macerated, dried paper everywhere, along with some rather ominous dark stains… I point them out to Kieran, and then he’s off to take up a position amongst the passing throng by the shop fronts.

A little Asian boy stares wide-eyed at Stephen, a lock of dark hair falling down over his forehead. His mother drags him away, eventually, but he doesn’t want to go. I glance over my shoulder to see that Kieran is already in conversation with someone… but it’s my turn again, and it’s warmer now, so I can take my jacket off and roll my sleeves up.

I reprise “sin in the human heart” for a few minutes, and here comes a gent with grey hair, quite tall, in a greenish-blue cardigan over a white tee shirt. He’s in his forties, perhaps, and he’s taking photos of our smaller posters on the lamp standard. I tell him that we don’t do fly-posting and that they’ll all be taken down when we go. But he’s not a busybody from Manchester City Council, he’s just interested in our message.

I’m encouraged - and it’s time to go up a gear, anyway. He speaks with Stephen for a while, Janette comes for more tracts, the diggers start up again, but they’re distant now and can’t drown me out. I slip into that state wherein I would hardly notice even if a riot did begin to break out. I do not notice [as I do later on in the GoPro video] Stephen looking at his watch, pointing to it, and then tapping it to indicate that my time is up…

At last I’m done, ending on “Carpe diem quia Jesus Christus!” As I’m packing our things away, I apologise for being caught up in my own oratory - but I’m interrupted by an old acquaintance with his fist bump and “Victory in Jesus!” greeting. I tell him it’s time to forget Covid era customs, and to have a proper handshake. And so we do that.

Some random vagrant wanders by with a foul-mouthed rant about nobody being willing to give him even a couple of quid. Kieran arrives at the same time, telling us that the reprobate has already had plenty of money from folk and is lying through his teeth.

And then a curious thing happens.

Kieran is talking with our fist-bumping friend, and he asks the question that it has never occurred to me to ask: “Are you a Christian?” There is a moment of hesitation, and then: “Er, no…” (indicating me) “he’s just a good friend…” I’m dismayed and disappointed by the fact that, for all this time, I have indolently assumed that he is indeed a born-again believer.

Well, better late than never. “I’ll tell you what your friend will do for you. I will give you something to read that’s worth its weight in gold!” And I hand him John Blanchard’s “Why On Earth Did Jesus Come?” There is a deal of humorous badinage following on from this offer but, in the end, he takes it away with him. That’s good! My thanks to Kieran, for being careful to do what I had foolishly forgotten.

There is not much more to tell. Kieran stayed on to take the second shift, and Janette said that she would join him later on. There were not as many encounters as usual, due to circumstances beyond our control, and there were some conversations of which I have no record, unfortunately. Nevertheless, please pray for those mentioned above, including the following…

V., always talking and never listening to the claims of Christ on his life.

The men in orange who heard a good deal of what we had to say.

The two youthful policemen, who heard a little of the gospel.

Our fist-bumping friend, that he may read the booklet that he was given.

J. and his friend, from Hungary, who spoke to Peter concerning Christian ministry.

D., who asked Peter for prayer for his Parkinson’s disease.

And for all of those who also heard something of the gospel, on that warm and windy Wednesday afternoon in the aftermath of the riots.

Aftermath? Riots? Later in the week I dig out the MC5’s “Kick Out The Jams” and listen to “Motor City Is Burning”, describing in graphic detail the Detroit riots of 1967. Before your time, eh? In the immortal words of BTO: “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Proverbs 29.18: “Where there is no prophetic vision the people cast off restraint, but blessed is he who keeps the law.” R. C. Sproul comments: “Either there is an inability to hear the word (Amos 8.11-12) or, more likely, no word at all (1 Samuel 3.1).”

Heaven help us all.