Open Air: The Illustrated News

Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day: a tall, well-built bloke balancing a big, green shopping bag on top of his head, striding through the madding throng on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens. If only I were touching on the burden of sin at this very moment - what an excellent illustration! But, no, that’s still five minutes away. I’m presently asking if anyone within the sound of my voice is a perfect person. “No one at all? Well, that shows us that the good folk of Manchester have at least a measure of honesty!”

But Stephen is smiling and pointing to a woman who has just passed by, her hand in the air. And she’s smiling, so it’s safe for me to say it: “No, come on, not really! And you’ve just added lying to the list of your sins!” It’s the way you tell ’em. A thundering denunciation might not go down too well…

The afternoon has been fine so far, but Peter, Stephen, and I are in warmer clothing today, since autumn is upon us - and so soon, alas. I check out the crowd as I continue, not wishing to miss any more sources of illustrations.

It’s not very busy, but it’s incredibly noisy today. The roaring of heavy machinery comes from somewhere inside the tarpaulin-shrouded outer shell of Debenhams-as-was; the trams are so long they look like passenger trains, with much clanging, squeaking, and squealing as they rumble by; and vans and other assorted vehicles are passing through this pedestrianised area every few minutes, beeping their warnings to the unwary. And somewhere up towards the station another speaker is droning on relentlessly, someone with a sizeable amp: quite possibly (according to Stephen, who went to see earlier) the “I Can Live A Sinless Life” preacher I mentioned a while ago in a newsletter.

Here comes Janette, in a warm and colourful woollen coat. I greet her and point her to a pile of tracts lying in readiness by the junction box. Then she’s off to her usual position, as our Messianic Jewish acquaintance hurries by, greeting me with a smile and a thumbs-up.

Not many casual listeners today, I note - but here comes Kieran. Is he coming to me? No, he’s off to talk to Janette. All of a sudden, a flock of folk - mostly men - begin to hurry across in front of me, from my right to my left. After them comes a policeman in a Hi-Vis vest, moving at speed, and then another one at a slower pace, perhaps not wishing to be first on the scene…

As I’m intoning “‘There is no peace,’ says my God, ‘for the wicked’”, I edge forward so that I can glance round the side of the building to see what’s going on. Yes, two blokes looking all hot and bothered, one with his shirt off as though engaged in a bout of fisticuffs as per your average action film. An excellent illustration! But - like children who gather round a scuffle in a school-yard, crying (at least in the north of England) “Feight! Feight!” - the onlookers are expecting entertainment, and not wishing to draw a moral from these dramatic moments.

It’s time for Stephen to take over. Immediately, he catches the attention of a young man dressed all in black, like myself - but a taller, skinnier version in a black baseball cap, something that I have never wished to wear. He has a couple of obvious distinguishing marks, but I don’t want to mention them here, and I won’t mention his name. He looks careworn; and since Stephen is busy, he turns to me.

Ah, the irony! Just as Stephen is saying, “We live in a society where inclusion and acceptance are increasingly sought after by just about everybody”, he’s telling me he used to be an Evangelical, but now he’s joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses… “Why so?” I ask. “Because I need to be accepted somewhere, I want to have a sense of community.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking: he can’t really have been a Christian in the first place. Well, perhaps so. But, as his story unfolds and many of his experiences remind me of events in my own troubled history, I begin to sympathise with him, and to think, clichéd though it may be, “There but for the grace of God…”

As we speak, V. approaches, but can’t insert himself into the conversation, so he wanders over to talk to Janette. Then, the Scorpio Killer butts in and shakes my hand and thanks me for my help, but then she’s on her way, leaving us to conclude our conversation in peace.

[Who? You might well ask. Before we’d even set up, while Stephen was getting a coffee, she approached me with the familiar “Can I ask you a question?” “Go ahead.” “I’m not asking you for money, but…” And after telling me she hasn’t eaten for two days and she’s in distress and she’s no one to help her and so on and so forth - she asks me for money. It’s not our usual practice, but I give her just enough for a sandwich: not because I believe her, but because she bears an uncanny resemblance to Andy Robinson as the Scorpio Killer in “Dirty Harry”. The scene at the Mount Davidson cross? The red balaclava? No? Oh well, never mind. I’m not taking any chances, though.]

It’s almost time for my turn again, but the bearded, athletic young man in the black Adidas tracksuit who has been leaning on a bollard listening to Stephen now decides he needs to talk to me. He’s called J., he’s most enthusiastic, admires us for what we’re doing, chats about this and that - but, oddly, he says he doesn’t like being called a Protestant, because “Well, we’re all one community, aren’t we?” Hmm. I’d follow that up, but he’s on his way with a smile and a wave and it’s me next.

As I ready myself, the GoPro records the reappearance of the man with the bag on his head. Now his hands are full as well! He makes it all look so easy! As I begin with the state of the nation, a mechanical street sweeper goes by, circling the Atmosphere Monitoring Station a couple of times. Then a tram passes, then a van followed by a lorry, and then there is an extraordinary roaring and grinding sound from inside Debenhams. It’s all quite deafening.

As the racket dies down a little, a lanky young man smirks and shouts “Who is Jesus Christ?” as he lopes along. “The friend of sinners, sir! You look as if you need one! But this proves the point I’m making, that so many people today are entirely ignorant as to why Jesus Christ came into this world. As the old time preachers used to say…”

Stephen is in conversation with another burly, bearded bloke, dressed in sporting attire, as so many are today. Then the gent perches on a bollard to listen to me and to eat his lunch. Suddenly, Kieran and a friend appear out of nowhere and engage him in conversation. The street sweeper makes another pass, and the Scorpio Killer also appears, as if by magic. She is sent empty away, but she takes a tract from Stephen as she goes by him. That’s good!

As I bemoan the state of the nation once more, a slim gent in yet another black tracksuit talks to Stephen, waving around the tract he’s been given. The mechanical sweeper turns up again, so I suppose I ought to make use of it: “That street sweeper can clean up the pavement, but you and I can do nothing to cleanse the human heart.”

You can take it from there, I’m sure.

As I ponder the true nature of the human heart, there goes the Scorpio Killer - arm in arm with the slim gent who was just talking to Stephen. It’s pretty obvious that they’ve spent their time working the crowd separately, and are now getting together to invest the fruits of their labours.

It’s Stephen to take the last turn, and I’m immediately accosted by D., an older man in a black windcheater, black jeans, and black, pointed-toe boots. His cropped hair is iron-grey at the sides but dark grey on top. He declares himself a believer in God. “Do you know why?” I don’t, but I’m sure he’s about to enlighten me. “Because I got my money stopped off the Welfare and I prayed and they gave it all back to me!” Well, proof, if proof were needed, eh?

It’s a bit of a difficult encounter for me, because he’s a space invader and he keeps leaning in with his face so close to mine that I can see right up his nose. Also, he talks quickly and has that common trick of breathing in the middle of a sentence and not pausing otherwise, so that there is no natural entry point for the other person in the ‘conversation’. He says he’s going to church and trying to influence one of his friends. He wants to get him there as well.

And there is my entry point: the offer of a free bible “for your friend”, and also a copy of “Ultimate Questions” as well, “because he might find it useful, and you might be interested in it yourself.” He’s happy to have them, and after more gesturing, ducking, diving, and space invading, he shakes my hand and is on his way.

Meanwhile, Stephen is struggling to make himself heard above the din, but he’s making a spirited attempt during this last lap. I talk briefly with a long-haired young lady in a pink puffer jacket and cream trousers. “Back amongst my natural constituency at last,” I say to myself, as we enjoy an encouraging conversation. She seems to be a genuine believer, J. by name, and she says she will look out for us in the future.

And then it’s all over, except that Mr Perfection has also finished, and stops to speak to us. It’s not a long conversation. As soon as I’ve ascertained that it is indeed the Mr Perfection with whom I’ve previously spoken, and he begins to trot out the usual “odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ” - then, like the prurient yet principled “News Of The World” reporter at the caravan park wife-swapping party, I make my excuses and leave…

Please pray, if you would, for those mentioned above, and particularly for the following folk.

The disillusioned Evangelical.

The Scorpio Killer and companion.

J. who didn’t want to be a Protestant.

D. and his friend.

J. from my natural constituency.

The Preacher of Perfection.

Peter and Janette recorded yet another bumper bundle of tracts going out that day, so, if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so, please pray for all those who took them, that the Holy Spirit might move them to take their gospel message to heart, and that they will thereafter be enabled to beware of - what? See Matthew 16.6. Always a good idea.

Every blessing!