Open Air: The Hard Way

The sky is overcast, the pavements are wet, and an icy wind is blowing across Piccadilly Gardens. I’m annoyed when I remember how many times I’ve said to myself and to others, in talking about Open Airs: “It’s always going to be colder and wetter than you think it will be!” And here we are, Stephen and myself, lulled into a false sense of security by the recent spell of warm weather, inadequately clothed and shivering already.

But, we’ve got to get on. It’s me first, and soon I’m describing what we can expect when we die: i.e., judgement. I compare and contrast judgement on earth and judgement in heaven. As so often, I’m trying to anticipate out loud what those passing by might well be asking themselves. “How can God judge us? How can He know what we’ve had to go through? Some of us have had to make our way through this world with blood, toil, tears and sweat, and…”

I don’t see him at first, but the GoPro records his approach, diverting momentarily to take a tract from Stephen, then ending up leaning heavily on the junction box to my right. He’s a stocky figure in a bulky black and grey anorak and black jog pants. He has a distinctive orange and cream baseball cap on his head, and a heavy rucksack behind him, reminiscent of the burden on Pilgrim’s back. In one hand he has Stephen’s tract, and the other holds a can of strong lager.

His face is firm and masculine, his full beard beginning to grey with middle age - but he looks tired, and he has the air of someone who has begun to neglect himself in recent days. He’s asking me something, but I can’t quite catch what he’s saying. I’m pointing him in Stephen’s direction, but he’s asking it again, gruffly but clearly this time: “How do you regain your faith in God?”

I tell him the answer.* It’s not what he wants to hear.

I can’t leave it at that, so I turn the speaker off and we talk and he tells me his story. It takes a while, but, in the end, it boils down to this: God and cancer have taken her away - after she’d helped him out of his alcoholism - and left him here to face it alone. “Now it’s the only friend I have left.” And here he indicates the can still clasped in his hand. And then we talk for a while. Finally, he wipes his eyes with the hand that holds the tract, and asks me to pray for him, which I do. He thanks me, shakes my hand, clasps my arm for a moment, then shakes my hand again, and departs.

I pick up my bible, switch on the speaker, and I carry on. It’s a normal day again. But, for that ten minutes or so, I was the right man, in the right place, at the right time.

It’s the big question next: “Who can say, ‘I have made my heart pure; I am clean from my sin’?” One woman puts her hand up! But she’s laughing, so it’s safe to give the traditional response: “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” She laughs again - but I notice that Stephen’s tracts are going out at a faster rate than before…

The wind blows, the crowds thin out, and I relate the state of the nation to the state of our hearts and ask, predictably, “How on earth can we make Britain great again?” It’s a cliffhanger, because it’s time to make way for Stephen.

As we change over, Peter is heading for his usual position outside McDonald’s, wearing a yellow hat even more stylish than Stephen’s. I see that Janette is working away as usual, outside Superdrug. That’s good! The wind makes the GoPro quiver, and Stephen straightens our poster as he readies himself, but pauses for a moment to answer some questions from a man with a spaniel. The dog has a nice warm coat on, but I’m shivering again, now that I’m not focussed on preaching. A woman’s hat blows off and she has to chase it for a few yards before she can catch it and secure it on her head once more.

As Stephen begins, I notice a youngish, hippie-ish couple in earnest conversation with a black youth dressed in a black anorak, his hood up, his lower face obscured by a scarf. After some to-ing and fro-ing, some small items change hands, then the two parties go their separate ways. Hmm…

It’s cold, no one is taking tracts, and I’m still shivering. But here comes a young man, bearded, in another black anorak, hood up over a striped woollen hat. He has his questions, but they’re those of a genuine enquirer, and we have a profitable time together; and he goes away with John Blanchard’s “Jesus: Dead Or Alive?”, which encourages me no end.

Stephen signals that I’m on again, and I ready myself. I begin, but… “Yo!”

I haven’t heard that in a long time. It’s a young Muslim man: tall, bearded, in yet another black anorak with the hood up. His head is back, and he looks down his long nose at me in studiedly supercilious fashion. “Yo!” I reply. “Wot you talkin’ bout?” “You stand there and listen and you’ll hear!” “No, wot you talkin’ bout? Wanna hear from you!” “This is me!” “Yeah, ah know, but talk to me an’ not them people!”

And that’s what it’s all about. Try to stop preaching in public by any means available. Ask questions, raise objections, interrupt repeatedly, pretend you really want to know something, challenge the bible by pointing out one thousand and one supposed errors that you’ve taken the trouble to memorise.

Stephen is coming up alongside him. “Division of labour! I preach, and he can answer your questions.” But he’s already giving up. After a few words with Stephen, he slopes off again, hands in his pockets, disconsolate. Nul points for that young man.

Families are venturing out by now, and fragments of food dropped here and there are encouraging the local pigeon population to pay us flying visits. I move on from the worst case scenario for the future, i.e. hell itself, with an introduction to the gospel and the reasons why today is the day of salvation.

It sounds fine at first, but the colder I get and the more I adapt my notes to my audience (such as it is), the more I’m thinking: “Am I really making sense, or have I just gone on to autopilot, stringing a series of clichés together?”** By the time I’ve finished, I’m just a touch despondent, but the sight of Janette coming for even more tracts cheers me up again.

As Stephen readies himself, a strong gust of wind whips several sheets of notes out of his hands and scatters the word, as it were, abroad. Between us, we somehow manage to chase them all down; then he sets them in order once more and begins.

Sirens wail in the distance, the queues for the street food stalls grow ever longer, and a cheerful Jamaican gentleman takes a tract and starts up a conversation. It’s more about banter than the bible, but I don’t mind that, since he’s taken a tract and a church leaflet.

After jokes about age, exercise, and appearance, he goes on his way. I watch him go, walking with a slight limp that I hadn’t observed earlier. I trust he will exercise his mind and spirit regarding the tract he’s carrying, as well as building up his body.

Stephen ends on repenting and believing, then we hurry to pack up and pray, so that the four of us can get into the warmth of the Arndale and enjoy the hospitality of the Bagel Factory. We’re all in agreement: next week, another couple of layers of clothing…

Please pray, if you would, for the following folk as above, and for others that I didn’t have time to mention in the previous Newsletter.

B., the man who wanted to get back to sobriety and find saving faith.

P., the jovial Jamaican gent.

The young Muslim who interrupted me.

The young man who went away with the Blanchard booklet.

The young man on the bike with serious questions, who took a copy of “Ultimate Questions”.

The two R.C. gents who were very supportive, despite our differences.

Ronnie, still caring for his wife and son.

Jason and Kieran, as they continue to fight the good fight.

Every blessing!

* Back to the top, to our title. I didn’t want to lie to him.

** Strangely enough, when I watched it through on the GoPro video, it all made sense. Well, there you go, yet again…