Open Air: All Those Wasted Years

It’s time to begin. But it’s just Janette and myself at the moment, and she’s miles away, in front of the shops. I’m not nervous, because I’m used to being here and doing this - but Stephen is on holiday, so I’ll be speaking for about an hour and a half, and a lot can happen in that time. I scan the horizon for someone else, but there is no one in sight. So: I pray, I press Start on the GoPro, and we’re away.

Start low and slow, warm tone, uncontroversial intro, friendly demeanour, ‘winsome to win some’? “Up to a point, Lord Copper.” As soon as I start to compare and contrast the country of my childhood with the Disunited Kingdom of today, it’s more like ‘gruesome to woo some’ or ‘hurtful to be truthful’.

Never mind, no one is upset - yet - possibly because no one is listening. And here comes Peter, already boarded up and anxious to get going. A quick greeting and then he’s in front of McDonald’s, handing out tracts at a rate of knots. I borrow a couple of phrases from Dr E. A. Johnston to point out what happens when God is excluded from almost every area of public discourse and political policy: disharmony, disunity, disaster.

And yet, what happens even today, in times of trouble? All of a sudden, it’s “Prayers Up!” on social media, or “Our thoughts and prayers are with you” as celebrities offer sympathy, or candlelit vigils in churches, with meditation and prayers included, for people who would not normally darken the doors of a place of worship. Who are they supposed to be praying to, all these atheists and agnostics, we wonder?

Well, you can take it from there, I’m sure. (If you can’t, then perhaps you’d better join us next Wednesday to hear the rest of it. God willing, we’ll be on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens, just opposite Superdrug, at about 12.30pm.)

I see R. approaching for a few words, but he realises that I’m busy and says he’ll come back later on. A true gentleman, with the accent on the first two syllables. And here comes our curly-haired hiking friend from two weeks ago, all smiles. “Need any money?” “Not today!” he laughs as he passes; and then, from over his shoulder, “I need grace!” I’m ever so slightly taken aback, but “Amen! You never said a truer word!”

A noisy tram trundles past, so I stop for a drink and I survey the scene. It’s fine, but the sky is overcast, it’s quite cool, and there are not as many folk about as usual. I look for listeners, but in vain - and then a young man comes round the corner of the Monitoring Station behind me. It’s the gent who often eats his lunch standing or sitting against that building’s wall, or perched on a nearby bollard. So, there was someone listening to me after all. That’s good!

Time for my topic for today: “Seven Steps To Heaven”. A black gent in his thirties is passing, but he freezes as if playing Statues, and stands sideways on and listens to me. “Can we get to heaven by cleaning up our act?” I’m asking. Cleaning up a corpse at the undertaker’s, the Walking Dead, “Zombieland: Double Tap” - not your average sermon illustrations, perhaps, but they work for me.

I don’t notice her at the time, but, days later, the GoPro shows me that young Muslim woman who has listened to us both before. She’s leaning on a bollard at a distance, sipping from a can of soft drink. And on the next bollard sits the demons and devils and exorcisms eccentric from a couple of weeks ago, a man whose mission seems to be to hinder Christian witness rather than to help it. I pray that he won’t be minded to interfere today. There are a few more folk dotted around at a distance, who, if they’re not actively listening, can’t help but hear me. That’s good!

Who’s this? “Yo!” as they used to say in the dim and distant past, it’s a young man who looks like he’s just come from a Rappers’ Convention: expensive black baseball cap, shiny black puffer jacket, artfully faded denim shorts, long white sports socks and state-of-the-art nubuck trainers. I’ve just got to “Why does the fool say in his heart…” as he pimp rolls past me. He grins, then, over his shoulder: “’Cos they is no God!” “No, wrong, I’ll give you another go!” “No God!” “Wrong on first chance, wrong on the second! It’s because he doesn’t want there to be a God!”

I would be happy to go on, because it’s good-natured repartee and is attracting interest, but now he’s round the corner and away. (Watching the video, days later, I note the young Muslim girl shaking her head at his comments. When we reach Creator God versus Big Bang she nods along approvingly.) Meanwhile Janette has already run out of tracts and is raiding my envelopes for more.

A line of young children goes past, shepherded by nearly as many adults. Since I’m on about inherent sin, and that applies even to the youngest, I take time for a little badinage to get their attention. They wave and laugh, and even a couple of teachers force a wan smile. They don’t know what’s coming next, of course, and by then they’re out of range: the godless “are corrupt, they do abominable deeds, there is none who does good.”

Sometimes I think that preaching - since you have to begin by bringing in sin, the law, and judgement - is like telling people that they’ve got an ugly baby. The parents will not warm to you. They might not even let you live. Fortunately for the preacher, there is good news to tell after the bad, if he’s given time to get to it.

A grey-haired woman in red has settled on a bollard nearby. She’s vaguely Oriental in appearance and is eating some sort of snack from a big paper bag. The Muslim girl is edging nearer, meanwhile. A police car crawls past, with two pairs of eyes scanning the crowd, as if searching for someone. A young Asian man wanders around, filming every now and then, and then talking into his phone. My ‘taken by terrorists’ illustration draws in a few more folk. A couple of giggling girls shout “Nonsense!” as they pass. “If I’m not making sense, please walk away,” I say. No one does, except the girls themselves.

Time for a gospel summary, starting with Isaiah 55.7. The aged, grey-haired, ex-Sunday school teacher who drifted (cf. previous newsletters) appears and listens, as does a young Asian man, all in black from head to toe, sitting astride a black mountain bike. He pretends to be talking on his phone, but he isn’t really. I add in a little of my own testimony as Janette comes and finishes emptying my tract envelopes.

The aged lady accosts her, but she’s fully focussed on tracting, and it’s just a short exchange. I mention Yuri Gagarin’s famous line, “I don’t see any god up here!” even though he probably never said it. A portly old codger in a black cap and a baseball jacket over a red sweater and black jog pants pauses for a while, looking anything but athletic, leaning on a long aluminium walking stick. He says something to the Muslim girl and is ignored, then to the grey-haired lady, who starts to tell him off! Then he starts shouting at me! Fortunately it’s largely incomprehensible, except for “Fiction! All fiction!” No one agrees with him, so he shuffles away.

I go up a gear now, and on to false idols. Here my illustrations are all anecdotes picked out of my past, ones that I’ve never used before, coming to me without any conscious effort. It’s odd. The grey-haired lady apologises, she has to go, but R. returns and takes her place. Another tram, another drink, and the Muslim girl is by my side and asking questions. Pity there’s no one here to field her, but - I do my best for a few minutes, then press a copy of “Ultimate Questions” into her hands. I’ve got to get back to my task. At least she has something to take away with her.

Oh dear! Later, the GoPro shows her handing the booklet to the lady of Oriental appearance while my attention is elsewhere. And then she goes. But, then again, she heard the gospel for well over half an hour. “The lot is cast into the lap, but…” That might fit.

Time is pressing, so I go up another gear; but then a slim gent, a chippy sort of cove in a black puffer jacket, interrupts me. “Can ah ask yer a question?” “Only a quick one!” “Yer, yer, well why yer goin’ on about Facebook, yer got er choice, ahn’t yer, mah girlfriend goes on, I don’, what’s it ter you, why yer judgin’ me, eh, why..? This could go on for ever, and all I’ve said is that we don’t always resemble our Facebook faces. “You haven’t really been listening to me at all, have you? It’s time you…” He doesn’t like being scolded, so he walks away, protesting. “Yer, yer! Yer depressin’ me, you!”

As he goes, another old codger pops his head round the side of the building behind me. “It’s all a load of (expletive deleted)!” I pantomime amazement, spreading my hands wide. “Have I sworn at you, sir?” He blinks. “Well, it’s all a load of rubbish!” But as soon as I begin to rebuke him, he’s off. Proverbs 28.1? I wish that always worked, though the last bit doesn’t describe me at all, alas…

I’ll have to fast forward to my last point - but R. can’t wait any longer. He needs to speak to me. [Details omitted.] I have no desire to stop him until he’s talked for as long as he wants to do. And then, he tells me to take no notice of critical comments, but to carry on. He blesses me as he goes, shaking my hand and patting my arm. “What a gracious and patient man,” I think to myself, as I watch him walk away.

I turn back to my audience, and to Nicodemus and Jesus. “Is there anyone here who’s never been born?” I ask, as I compare physical birth and spiritual rebirth. A cheery young man of slim build and pleasing features puts up his hand. This isn’t the time for it, but our good-natured exchange - in vitro fertilisation, test-tube babies, identifying as a ghost, always wanted to meet one, being a horror film fan, shake hands with me, pleased to meet you - amuses both of us immensely.

But then it’s back on track and entirely serious again. However: for the next ten minutes, some demented, drug-addled unfortunate over by Starbucks decides to start picking fights with anyone who even looks at him in the wrong way, shouting, screeching, screaming, and threatening. And, slowly but surely, folk begin to turn their attention towards him and away from me. Some look a little nervous, and with a nod or a wave, they hurry away.

I’m on the last lap, and … but you’ve had enough by now. Suffice it to say that when it’s all over, I sum it up to myself as per Emilio Estevez and Harry Dean Stanton in “Repo Man”, after the car chase with the Rodriguez brothers: “That was intense!”

But you had to be there.

There are only two listeners left at the end. A young man passing by catches my last few words and calls out “Praise God!” Not having noticed him till that moment, I ask him if he’s being sarcastic or serious. “Serious!” he says, and he gives me a thumbs-up. I thank him, and finish on “Carpe diem quia Jesus Christus!” To my surprise, the Oriental lady applauds! That doesn’t happen very often.

I go over to thank her. Her English is not all that good, but we manage to encourage each other, and then she departs.

And that, as they say, is that. We pray and the three of us go off to the Arndale. Peter tells me that a prodigious amount of literature went out, and that he had to give more tracts to Janette after she’d gone through all of mine.

After boarding the bus, I settle back to listen to John Harvey’s “Wasted Years”, as dramatised by the BBC. At least they get their radio drama right. Both the theme song and the theme have haunted me for ages. Coming to terms with all those wasted years is no easy task, is it? I sometimes think it can’t be done at all.

I’ll leave that one with you.

Well, there you go, as Miss Pilling so often said, on those long and languorous evenings on the Out Counter, without which I would not be here today. Wednesday was not wasted, I’d say.

If you’ve come thus far, you might as well go the second mile and pray for one or more of the folk mentioned above, if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so; and also, please pray for the young addict that Peter met, and with whom he shared his testimony.

Every blessing!

Hang on, did I happen to hear the odd “Tsk, tsk!” from someone reading through the above, followed by a caustic comment or two? Quite possibly. I happened to be glancing through Spurgeon on Open Air Preaching today (“Lectures To My Students”, Second Series, Chapter Five), just to refresh my memory. Allow me to add a few points from that most proper of preachers.

In the street, a man must keep himself alive, and use many illustrations and anecdotes, and sprinkle a quaint remark here and there. To dwell long on a point will never do.

But have something to say, look them in the face, say what you mean, put it plainly, boldly, earnestly, courteously, and they will hear you.

The very best speaker must be prepared to take his share of street wit, and to return it if need be; but primness, demureness, formality, sanctimonious long-windedness, and the affection of superiority, actually invite offensive pleasantries, and to a considerable extent deserve them.

In the street a man must from beginning to end be intense…

Miss Pilling?