Open Air: All On A Winter's Day

In Manchester, open air evangelists are like buses. You wait ages for one, then three or four come along all at once: or, to be more exact, all in one afternoon.

The first one we hear is behind the Atmosphere Monitoring Station. He’s already in action as we arrive to set up our stall. As the afternoon wears on, he preaches at intervals, but then he plays music and talks to anyone around who will listen. It’s a little distracting at times, but not too much of a nuisance. I don’t have time to listen to him myself, but later on I’m told that he’s called P., and he’s a “street pastor” from Stalybridge. Do we find any references to “street pastors” in the N.T? Perhaps someone could enlighten me on that one.

It’s a cold, grey afternoon on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens: hats and gloves are the order of the day, except for me. I can’t preach with a hat on, because I can’t hear my voice properly when thus encumbered. Stephen is on first, and his voice is interrupted by a cough or two; but he perseveres, leading us through the story of salvation, step by step.

As I offer tracts over on his right, I meet another evangelist, of sorts: it’s a young lady of African appearance, wearing a black coat over black trousers, with a cream-coloured bobble hat pulled well down on her head. She has a tiny blue rucksack on her back and a sheaf of tracts in her hand. She asks about us, but is strangely reluctant to tell me about herself. “I’m spreading the gospel!” is all she will say. She’s pleasant enough, but takes herself off after a couple of minutes.

Janette comes over to me, telling me she needs to sit down for a while, since she’s feeling faint. It may be that she’s been fasting for too long; it’s something she does often, she tells me. It’s a neglected discipline in the church today, but it can be overdone, I suppose. I sympathise, and she goes to take a break.

At the changeover, I offer Stephen a throat sweet, which he politely declines. We’re encouraged as a tall young man in a dark outfit asks us for a free bible. He has a gingery beard and a black forage cap pulled down over his forehead, and he screws and unscrews the top of his soft drink bottle nervously as he speaks. He’s on his way as speedily as he came, however - a young man in a hurry.

As I begin, Stephen is in conversation with a bespectacled gent in a dark blue anorak, black jog pants, and grey woollen hat. It’s our third evangelist of the day - a friendly fellow with, as usual, a handful of tracts. After a while he accosts me, telling me he’s called C. I’m pleased to see him, but I’m in the middle of preaching, so would he like to go and stand with Stephen? And he does. Later, I’m told that he’s from Cardiff something-or-other Tabernacle. There are lots of Tabernacles in Cardiff, so I’m none the wiser for that.

And now - today’s top interrupter. I’ll try to restrain myself…

A biggish woman in a bulky black jacket passes by, her ginger hair done up in a bun behind her head. She stops at the junction box a few feet away. She balances her takeaway coffee - precariously - on its sloping cover. Ting! She rummages in her shopping bag, pretending to be looking for something. Ting! Ting! She listens closely to what I’m saying, waiting for something at which she can take offence. Ting! Ting! Ting!

What do you mean, how do I know? It’s her face, of course, both sullen and sulky, the plumply-puckered corners of her mouth turning down in that look of distaste so often to be found in those whose vocation it is to be permanently offended. She picks up her coffee and turns towards me, her loosely-knotted silk scarf swaying with the sudden movement.

Scowling through her gold-rimmed spectacles, she offers her unsought-for opinions. “I don’t think you should be doing all this!” “Doing what?” “All this!” And she waves her hand around, at our posters, at our speaker, and at me.

I can’t help myself. “And why not?” “Well, you should be, er, er - helping the homeless!” No, don’t laugh. I didn’t, although it took an effort.

She then offers various views, each one prefaced by: “I just think…” or “I just feel…”, sure signs that the speaker hasn’t thought things through and that their motives are not at all what they say they are. I answer each point politely, thoughtfully, and biblically, but I might as well be reciting the alphabet in Icelandic or Old Norse.

“Where exactly are these homeless?” I ask, and she looks around, but there are no rough sleepers in sight, so she waves vaguely towards Deansgate. “There are lots of them down there!” Is she helping them herself? She looks alarmed. “Oh, well, no, I haven’t got the money, I couldn’t!” “I might say the same of myself…” “Well you shouldn’t be doing this, er, this, er - what is it? Is it a religion?” Dearie me! “We’re Christians.” “Well, it’s a cult, they’re all cults, I think you ought to be helping people because…”

I tell her that this is not all we do, and that she can have no idea of what else we may be doing to help our neighbours. She seizes on this with alacrity. “No, I pass here every day, and you’re always here!” I assure her that it’s only on a Wednesday, but: “I’ve seen you! I’ve seen you!” Patiently, I assure her that she hasn’t, and that it must be someone else who’s as good-looking as I am, although that seems unlikely. Not a ghost of a smile, alas.

And on it goes. I explain, at intervals, that there is really no way to sort out society without dealing first with sin in the human heart, but every point is met with utter incomprehension and “I just don’t think…”

As the late Eamonn Andrews so often said (at least according to Took and Feldman): "How true those words are, even today!"

She leaves at last, even more sulky and sullen than when she arrived. It’s frustrating; however, summarising what I’ve just been saying for those around who are actually listening takes me straight back into my sermon, and encourages me to make even more of an effort than before.

Surveying the scene, I note that C. has departed, but Janette is back in front of Superdrug and Peter is working away as usual outside McDonald’s. That’s good!

There are an assortment of listeners at a distance, including a pink-clad person with a collection of colourful bags, balancing his lanky form on a bollard. He’s looking at his phone, but he’s also listening.

At the changeover, I notice that the bloke behind us has turned up the volume. Perhaps I should… But a sprightly and slim middle-aged lady appears, in a light blue anorak with a scarf knotted tightly around her neck, her manner in striking contrast to that of the “help the homeless” moaner. She’s from the Salvation Army, and they’ve been witnessing to people in an Old Folks’ Home, and now she’s full of praise for what we’re doing out here. She’s very encouraging.

As she leaves, she almost bumps into a young man who seems anxious to see me. He’s overweight for someone of his age, wearing a black gilet over a beige sweatshirt, with tight grey cargo pants and black trainers below. He’s dark-haired, with a scrubby beard. He asks me for money. “Just some change, so I can catch the tram back to my home town!” he wheedles.

A likely story - but, I fish around in my pocket and find a little loose change. First I hand him a couple of tracts, then I tell him that he can have the change if he promises to read them. This is not a practice that I would normally recommend, but, well, it might just work, mightn’t it?

To my chagrin, when he’s got the money, he whips out a large takeaway lunch from his carrier bag and begins to fork it into his face at a rate of knots! Dearie me! But I persevere, and begin to explain the gospel, and then I offer him a bible. “Is this the original bible?” he asks. I’m spared having to answer that one by the sudden appearance of Kieran, looking fit and full of life, and carrying all he needs for an afternoon of evangelism on his back. The young man takes to his heels as if afraid of being outnumbered, but at least he takes the bible and the tracts along with his lunch.

We chat for a while, then things resume as before, and I note that Kieran is soon in earnest conversation over by the shops. It’s a good, long talk, though they’re too far away for me to hear or see much of it.

Stephen ends, and - is it me again? No, the hour is getting late, so we pack up, pray, and move off to the Arndale for refreshments.

Well, that was our wintry, Wednesday afternoon. If you’ve come thus far, whether you’ve taken your time or just been speed reading through this account - what next? As a favour to me, perhaps you could (if it isn’t your normal practice) pick one or two of the folk mentioned above and pray on their behalf - if only for a few moments. That would make the time spent writing this well worth while.

And for those who have a little more time, then I commend to you J., the young man to whom Kieran spoke towards the end. He writes: “A young man looking for the answers to life’s questions. Please pray for him, a genuine seeker.”

We will be out again next Wednesday, God willing. Join us if you can, and uphold us in prayer if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so.

Every blessing!