Open Air: Time Must Have A Stop

It’s cold on the X43. Since Covid-19 came amongst us, people seem to be under the impression that bus windows must be open at all times, for safety’s sake. Nonsense, of course, but typical of the modern mindset. I’m glad to get off at Chorlton Street, and I warm up as I trot along to Piccadilly Gardens. I take a look around, but it’s too early to set up shop, so I’m off to the Bagel Factory for a cup of tea.

I sit and watch the world go by, wondering what time Stephen will arrive. He has other responsibilities to attend to today before he’s free to join us. When I’ve finished my tea, I wander back to our usual position, putting our poster on the lamppost and setting up our speaker beneath it. I remove my combat jacket and roll up my sleeves. I’m ready!

But, no one else is.

Eventually, I’m joined by Janette. We wait, then we pray, then I begin, all the while wishing that there were more of us. For those of you murmuring “A man with God is always in the majority”, well, I’m not John Knox… But, I must press on.

My opening gambit is my answer to my grandson’s question: “How old are you?” The answer, of course, is “Thirty-five!” And then I explain that I belong to the generation who decided early on in life that they were never going to grow old; or, perhaps, that they would never grow up. I don’t think I have, anyway. Then it’s on to Bruce Springsteen and Mick Jagger and my next door neighbour and every one of us - for whom, in reality, time must have a stop. And then comes… Well, you can take it from there, I’m sure.

A skinny fellow with a scrubby beard and a ponytail poking out under his baseball cap shows me the untidy tattoo on his forearm as he passes. I have no idea why. A tram interrupts us, he’s off, and here comes Kieran - and there is Peter, over at McDonald’s, already tracting. I hadn’t noticed him arriving. Kieran looks fighting fit, which he needs to be, carrying around a bulky backpack of Christian literature all afternoon. We talk for a moment, then I’m back to the mortality of man and the coming judgement.

I check for listeners, but there are precious few: a couple by the shops and two young Asian gents standing sideways on, staring fixedly in my direction. Stephen appears out of nowhere, shrugging off his rucksack and getting ready to tract in just a moment of time. I’m pleased to see him. Scooters speed by, prams and pushchairs go past, cyclists weave in and out of knots of pedestrians. It’s a wonder that there aren’t more accidents. Kieran speaks to Peter, then stands with Janette for a while.

I’m about to conclude with a brief explanation of what “being born again” means, when a young man in a black puffer jacket over a light grey tracksuit strides up, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “Can you recommend a good church?” he asks. I point him to Stephen, just to give myself time to finish off what I’m saying. I carry on as they talk, shifting into “No peace for the wicked”, meaning to end ASAP; but a curious cove in a tight blue suit has just wandered up. His hair has been dyed black, but then shaven right round his head to a couple of inches above his ears… What did my father say to me when he saw that I’d just had my hair cut? “Tell me who did it and I’ll get them for you!”

He smirks at me, but passes on towards Stephen, who is now free. He engages him in conversation, talking at him rather than with him. He’s decidedly odd in manner, rocking from side to side, staring down and up again, now growing agitated, gesticulating, shifting this way and that… He doesn’t seem to be a happy bunny. He shakes Stephen’s hand - but as he turns away, he’s cursing. Stephen puts his hand to his face in a comical gesture of mock shock/horror. From what he tells me later on, the gent is several slates short of a roof, alas.

Stephen takes over, and launches into “How can I know God?” I scan the onlookers as I begin to tract. That plump woman in the tight yellow tee shirt has been here for a while. Those figures leaning back against the planters seem to be paying attention. Ah! There in the distance is a young man I’ve often seen before. He has lank, dark hair atop a pale, narrow countenance, he’s zipped up in a bulky, dark blue anorak worn above camo trousers and expensive-looking running shoes. He never makes contact, and doesn’t respond to approaches, but he stands and listens attentively - which is enough for me.

Kieran strolls over and takes up a position on Stephen’s left. Soon, he’s in conversation with an African gent in an olive bomber jacket over blue jeans. That’s good! My tracts go out slowly but steadily. It’s over by the shops that they’re taken in quantity, which is why Janette and Peter usually station themselves there. But, it’s important to have someone close by the speaker, I’d say, for various obvious reasons.

Debenhams (as was) is still shrouded in white dust sheets over a mass of scaffolding. What will we see when it’s eventually unveiled, I wonder? A cuddly toy vendor plies his trade across from me, and the aroma of street food drifts past me from the stalls on my right. The sun breaks through the clouds at last, and I enjoy its warmth on my back. Janette comes for more tracts and Kieran arrives for a brief chat. Stephen concludes, and invites me to wind up our proceedings. Is it that time already? Indeed it is.

I begin with religion as taught in schools today, moving on to the woeful ignorance of the word of God that now blights our nation’s life. “Why did Jesus come into this world?” is next, and my answer goes on for quite a while. When I mention free bibles, yet another curious cove appears. He wears a black baseball cap, a face mask, a blue anorak several sizes too big for him, baggy black shorts that make his legs look like two sticks, and big black boots with white laces. He’s happy to take a bible, which means that we’re happy as well.

A black bloke on a yellow cycle turns up and speaks to Stephen and then tries to interrogate me, but I turn him back to the former; after a few more words, he leaves. I finish on the marks of a lost man or woman, and why they will never know peace in their natural state. Appropriately enough, my remarks are accompanied by a hum and then a howl of feedback from somewhere behind me, then the familiar “plunk, plunketty plunk!” of the busker who turns up when the weather warms up, to pluck tunelessly on some exotic but unmusical instrument for hours on end. “Do people really give him money?” I wonder. A fool and his money…

And we’re done. We pray, then there’s a time of fellowship in the aforementioned Bagel Factory, then we go our separate ways.

Please pray, if you would, for one or more of those mentioned above, and for the following folk.

Our friend Brendan, who seems to be responding to treatment for the condition mentioned in previous newsletters.

M., who often stops to talk to Peter. He has just lost his sister.

R., whose son is currently being treated for addiction, and his wife, who has a painful complaint still being investigated.

The tall gent from the previous week with a degree in Religious Knowledge from the University of YouTube, who had questions about bible translations, the names of God, Christ versus Christ-ianity, and many other matters. He was hard work - but, in the end, he went away with various tracts, a John’s gospel, and a copy of “Ultimate Questions”. That’s good!

We will be back again next Wednesday, God willing, and we welcome anyone who would like to come along and lend a hand, or anyone who wants to simply watch and pray. If you are unable to join us, then please uphold us in prayer, if our Lord puts it upon your heart to do so.

Every blessing!