Open Air: Filled Up To Here

And when you’re filled up to here with hate,

Don’t you know you gotta get it straight,

Filled up to here with hate,

Beat her black and blue and get it straight,

Uh-huh.

(Oh, Jim, from Lou Reed's Berlin, in which our dispassionate narrator chronicles the breakdown of his marriage - or, perhaps, a ménage à trois - in a manner that speaks volumes about the decline of the whole wide western world. NB other interpretations are available.)

I don’t enjoy the journey into Manchester. It’s throwing it down, and the sheets of spray that hit the windscreen from time to time make the automatic wipers go into overdrive. Great stretches of standing water tax the traction of the tyres on Stephen’s vehicle. Like pious persons of old, I find myself praying for travelling mercies on our way.

But here we are, still in one piece, and it’s still raining. We set up as quickly as we can, trying to keep everything as dry as possible - but our electrical equipment (camera, microphones and speaker) will have to keep going as best it can; and so will we.

Stephen begins, reminding folk that we’re here whatever the weather, so, why? He explains…

There aren’t as many people about as usual, and hoods, hats, and umbrellas are the order of the day. I’m holding my tract and a Salem leaflet underneath my plastic tract envelope. It keeps some of the rain off them, but if they don’t go out fairly quickly, they get so soggy that I’m embarrassed to offer them.

I hold them out to a gent who is dark of countenance, with black hair and a badly-trimmed, black beard. He wears a dark, fur-lined anorak over blue jeans and heavy, black boots, and he has a bag slung over his shoulder. He ignores me and walks on, but, as Stephen says “The message of the bible is…”, he turns back and begins to harangue me on the state of this nation. His English is poor, but laced with the language of the gutter. He’s so very angry that it’s hard to get a word in edgeways.

When he says he’s from Afghanistan, I ask him the obvious question: if he’s unhappy here, why doesn’t he go home..? I don’t suppose I will ever know. All I get is a wagging finger and a torrent of scatological abuse, aimed at me and at Britain and all of its inhabitants. He radiates hot hatred to such an extent that I feel like I’m standing in front of an industrial space heater. And then he’s off, leaving me none the wiser as to why he’s filled up to here with hate.

I meditate on the fact that there are very many ordinary British citizens who are likewise minded. It’s just that they don’t usually show it so openly.

It’s quiet for a while. Stephen presses on. A man in a black anorak shouts “Why dun’t God stop this rain?” I answer with a paraphrased version of the latter part of Matthew 5.45, but he’s already too far away for me to hear his reply.

Meanwhile, Janette has arrived. She talks to Peter over by McDonald’s, then comes for some tracts, then she’s straight off to take up her usual position outside Superdrug. There’s a bit of shelter there, but not very much. A stocky, bearded bloke in a grey sweatshirt pauses to listen to Stephen, wiping the rain from his face and drying his hands on his clothes. Then he approaches me and takes a tract. On the GoPro, days later, I see the Afghan gentleman going past again, hastening angrily on his way to wherever.

The tracts are going out very slowly and the rain is falling fast. A dishevelled fellow with no coat on rushes by, talking loudly to the empty air. Is anyone listening to us, I wonder? Not so many, just a few by the shops - or are they simply sheltering there? Several white vans go by, but there is no noticeable police presence today. The war on drugs in Piccadilly Gardens must be in abeyance, for now.

Stephen advertises our free bibles, and it’s my turn to speak. I dispose of my last tract, because it’s too wet to return to its envelope. The GoPro gets a close-up of my back. It’s wetter than Mr Sunak’s jacket was when he announced the date of the general election. I pray for a moment, then I’m off, and immediately some woman tells me to shut up. I thank her for her interest, but I decline to follow her advice.

Today it’s all about what we can’t see, because of the corruption of the human heart, and the apostasy of the church, and the decline of our nation. A grey-haired lady stops and listens, then turns to Stephen, takes a tract from him, and departs. His literature is going out faster than mine did.

It’s quiet and wet for a while - then, enter Ethan, stage left. It’s a pleasure to see him, especially on a day like this. Sensibly, he’s wearing waterproof clothing, and he sets to with a will once I supply him with a tract envelope. He stays nearby, so Stephen can go further afield to where there are more pedestrians passing - though there are still not as many as usual.

I’m on to the Final Judgement, and my reference to ex-president Trump needing an advocate in court catches the attention of a dark-clad woman with cropped hair, sheltering under a black umbrella. She’s wearing shades on a dull day in the rain, so perhaps she’s some celebrity hiding from the attentions of an adoring public… or perhaps not; but, anyway, she takes a tract from Ethan. That’s good! My voice is normally carefully controlled, but as I comment on what our Lord had to endure to satisfy the law’s demands, I’m momentarily tongue-tied. Fortunately, a tram arrives and gives me time to collect myself before I go on.

Now there are four listeners over by the shops, including a couple of workmen in orange overalls. Hardly a crowd, but… An elderly woman leans on a shopping trolley for a while, then crosses herself before moving on. And then it’s Stephen’s turn again.

The amp whistles as I lean over it to turn it off. I thank Ethan, who smiles and shakes the water off his hands. We talk, until a tall, dark and athletic gent with a shaven head approaches, his hands behind his back. His question? “How can I learn to study the bible better?” Once I’ve asked him a couple of questions in return, I recommend a few favourite commentaries and some Blanchard books - but he wants to know about bible colleges, and I know nothing about the current state of any of them, alas. I suggest enquiring of The Protestant Truth Society, though that’s a bit of a shot in the dark.

Another dark gent in a soaking wet, black coat stands nearby, listening; then he takes a tract and chats with Ethan. Then the two of them are gone, and I take out a dry tract and leaflet and carry on.

On the GoPro, days later, it’s all quiet for a while, except for Stephen’s voice and the tap-tappety-tap of raindrops striking the camera’s casing. Then, looming up on my left, in a state of high excitement - and intoxication - comes a young man calling to me in an Irish accent. He raises his arms above his head, one hand holding a bulging carrier bag, the other a can of vodka cocktail. He looks like a victorious boxer acknowledging the applause of his audience. And so he is, in a way.

What follows is long and loud and enthusiastic, as he bobs and weaves and leans in very, very closely to watch the expression on my face as he tells me his tale. I listen, nodding and commenting as appropriate. The GoPro shows Ethan keeping a wary eye on him, but, though there’s plenty of anger in his voice, it’s not directed at me.

In brief: “Dere was four of em and one had a knoife an Oi laid em all out an dere was a girl as well an she come at me wid a broken bottle so Oi laid er out too!” It goes on for quite a while, like a scene from “The Street Fighter’s Last Revenge”, only with Irish boxing experience instead of East Asian martial arts expertise.

So, why is he telling me all this? Slowly, gradually, I come to the conclusion that, being from an Irish Catholic background, he’s come to confession - of a sort. And I’m standing in for his priest. There is some guilt there, certainly, since he says the police might be after him, but it was only in self-defence. I have no hesitation in agreeing with him - if that really was the case. He’s a carpenter, he says, “loike Jasus was!” He’s working on a new building, but it’s his day off, he stinks of sweat so he’s off to his hotel for a shower.

Before he can go, I offer him a copy of “Ultimate Questions”, hurriedly borrowed from Ethan’s tract envelope. Penance, perhaps. He puts it away in an inside pocket of his coat, and he says goodbye. But it’s a long goodbye, as he claps me on the shoulder, shakes my hand, and rambles on about this, that, and the other. Stephen finishes, but starts again when he sees that I’m still busy. At last he’s off, with a cheery wave and “Oi know Oi’m drunk, but Oi’m a Christian man!”

Well, up to a point, Lord Copper…

As I don my mic a few minutes later, he passes by once more, now with a companion, a bulky, white-bearded bloke, the two of them laughing and talking together as if without a care in the world, without a glance in our direction.

And I go back to my main theme, how to have a hope in heaven, even in a world of hate, crookedness, and corruption. Stephen chats with a few folk, Ethan, Janette and Peter soldier on in the rain and we all end up looking like drowned rats. But the gospel has gone out, Christian literature has been taken, and we’re happy with that. We pray and adjourn to the Arndale, where we steam gently over our hot drinks. My sweatshirt is all wet underneath my old coat, the only one I had left that I thought might still be waterproof. Next week I will look for a new one - as long as I can get one at T. K. Maxx prices, that is.

Please pray, if you would, for one or more of those folk mentioned above. From the previous week, we had D., a white-haired, elderly lady, who spoke wistfully of teaching Sunday School, then gradually drifting away from the C. of E. Then there was A., an atheist who stayed for a long talk, taking a copy of “Why On Earth Did Jesus Come” with him when he finally went.

We’ll be there as usual next Wednesday, God willing. Please join us if you can, or pray for us if our Lord puts it on your heart to do so.

Every blessing!