Open Air: Helping And Hindering

Here are Stephen’s thoughts on our last Open Air, hot off my laptop.

As we were setting up the other week (19th June), I remarked that it had been quite a few weeks since anyone had asked for one of our free Bibles. As we were packing up, three teenage lads approached and each asked for a Bible. Perhaps those Bibles are now in a bin, or on a shelf gathering dust, but when I was a teenage lad (I was once, honestly), it was through reading the Bible that I gave my life to Christ. A lady asked for a Bible last week (26th) too and the Bibles were still in my bag because I had forgotten to get them out, having been delayed by the need to find an alternative car park, our usual one being full.

I didn't have any notable conversations either week; it's not my strong point. One young man kept me talking for longer than I wished. He's going to visit the I. Christian Fellowship in London shortly. A week or two ago he ‘led a Muslim to the Lord on the streets of Manchester’. Wikipedia says, "I. Christian Fellowship is a neocharismatic Christian church movement and Apostolic network... It is part of the British New Church Movement." Not for me then. There is a certain type who will talk at length about all the great things they are doing for the Lord, all the while hampering you from doing your little bit. I wonder what motivates that?

A good question. With that in mind, let’s go back and look at last week’s Open Air in more detail…

It’s a sunny day and people are out in their summer clothes at last, hurrying this way and that across the pedestrianised area in front of the shops, here on the edge of Piccadilly Gardens. Scooters, prams, and pushbikes weave in and out of the crowds, trams and white vans come and go, and the smell of street food drifts over from the stalls on our right.

What was it my mother used to say, when one of my sisters said “Mum, I’m sweating”? “No, no, dear. Remember: ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow!’” And then she would add: “Remember: you’ve been brought up, not dragged up on the Croft!” I supposed that that was a Good Thing - even though none of us knew what or where the Croft was…

And so: today, it’s pretty warm already, and I’m perspiring.

Who have we got with us? Stephen is getting ready to speak: he’s in a yellow top and black shorts, with his blue-tinted, wraparound shades pushed to the top of his head. Our friend Jason has joined us again, and he’s talking to V., that past master in the art of quasi-Catholic obfuscation, i.e. a total time-waster. I’m on the right, in my usual black shirt and black jeans, tract envelope in hand, keeping a lookout for anyone else. And here comes Janette, in a green outfit and a white sun hat. I’m pleased to see her.

V. is off at last and Jason begins to film the proceedings, starting with several minutes of Stephen, who has launched into the Story of the Bible. I hope it isn’t distracting for him. The sun feels pretty strong, so I get my own sun hat (black) and put it on. Later, as I review the afternoon on the GoPro, I note that it doesn’t suit me at all. I’m not a hat enthusiast.

A slender youth with a mop of mousey brown hair, in a black tee shirt and baggy grey shorts, accosts Jason and shakes his hand. An acquaintance? Perhaps not, since they exchange names and shake hands again. I can’t hear their conversation, but I suppose it’s about the young man’s beliefs: he looks uncomfortable, shakes hands again, and departs. That’s the way it often is, alas.

Filming continues, and my tracts aren’t going out at all. My attention wanders: I watch two policeman pass down towards the Arndale, I note the absence of the Kardashian Clan from the side of Debenhams-as-was, I wonder at the awfulness of the tattoos on and the piercings of the passersby, I make a mental note to ask Jason not to put us on YouTube because our egos aren’t big enough, and - hang on… here comes a young woman in a denim jacket and a black shirt, dark hair piled high on her head. She's asking for a bible! Stephen has just been advertising them - but they aren't out on the junction box. (See above.) He steps over and finds one for her, and she's pleased. I add a Blanchard booklet, and I'm pleased, as well.

Now it’s my turn, and Jason is still filming. I begin with the (supposedly) bad news: “Angela Rayner will not be going to Glastonbury this year! She’s wanted elsewhere!” Jason smiles as I add: “The good news is that we’re here in the middle of Manchester, and we won’t charge you a penny to listen to us!”

I see someone approaching to talk to Stephen, who is just getting ready to do some tracting. Jason keeps on filming, but now he holds out a handful of tracts as well. I launch into today’s topic: “Five Things That We Really Don’t Want To Know”. When I get to “and if you believe that, you’ll believe I’m an African prince with a fortune to give you if you’ll just favour me with a short term loan so that I can…” I’m interrupted by a curly-haired man who has missed my point. He looks like a hiker from a previous era, in a short-sleeved shirt, green cords and sandals, and carrying a canvas rucksack. He’s also an optimist. “You can give me a couple of quid!”

I’ll call his bluff. I reach into my back pocket and extract its contents: two pound coins and a broken elastic band. I’m hoping he’ll go for the elastic band so I can rework the ancient “rescue the perishing” joke, but he just laughs and refuses them, thanks me, and goes on his way. A cheap round, anyway…

Now Peter joins us, boards over his shoulders and a broad-brimmed hat on his head. He’s been out for hours already and is taking no chances in the hot sun. He chats with Jason, then they both begin a conversation with a woman in an orange top and baggy blue trousers. As I press on, they point at me from time to time. I have no idea why.

The next time I look, her place has been taken by a gent of Jamaican appearance, in a flat cap, white shirt, black tie, grey slipover, and baggy black trousers. It seems to be baggies all round, today. A familiar, friendly face calls out encouragement as he passes. The sun slides behind the clouds, and the ambient noise increases. Then we hear the first busker of the day, some woman warbling away to a backing track, over across the street to our left.

And then it’s time for Stephen again. As he begins, another busker starts up from somewhere behind us. Dearie me! A curious-looking chap interrupts Stephen for a moment and shakes his hand; then, unseen by me at the time, he takes a stand a few feet behind me, holding up a newspaper. The GoPro shows us the rugged features of a well-worn face, a woollen hat pulled down over his eyebrows, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on top of his hat, a large grey tee shirt stretched over a bulky body, with black jeans and trainers to complete the outfit.

It’s a while before I’m aware of his presence. When I turn and see him, he steps forward and shakes my hand and blesses me, in a hoarse, rasping voice that I can hardly hear. He shows me his newspaper, open at a page with a photo of a row of capsules - rather like the Nostromo’s cryopods, only in an upright position. He rasps out that they’re to punish malefactors by forcing them to relive the experiences of their victims. What is he doing? He’s warning people about it…

He returns to his previous position, a few feet behind me. I shake my head and leave him to it. I doubt that anyone will think he’s with us, anyway. At least, I hope not.

Everyone I can see is busy in conversation right now, which is encouraging. The noise level is rising, but our little speaker is holding its own. The man behind me is dancing a jig, raising and lowering his newspaper, but no one is paying any attention to him. A dusky gent with a dark beard and heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles is listening to Stephen and - what’s this? Here come a couple of curious coves, looking like a cross between Tyrolean Gypsies and Asian martial artists, if you can imagine that.

The larger gent is portly and moustachioed, with a sleeveless black top trimmed in bright red over a white oriental tunic. He offers Stephen his hand. The bag he carries has “Kung Fu” and various oriental symbols on it, and a curved object in a red and black bag is strapped to his back. Could it be a katana? The smaller gent is bald and bearded, in a maroon shirt decorated with flaming yellow flowers above black pants and black pumps. He’s wheeling a large black suitcase.

The larger man tips his hat to Stephen. “May the Lord Jesus bless you! I’m born again as well!” “How do you do?” Stephen replies. “Have a lovely day!” is the answer. He steps aside so that the smaller man can shake Stephen’s hand - and then away they go. Well, I suppose it’s better than a poke in the eye with a samurai sword.

Stephen looks a little nonplussed, but he carries on regardless. I approach the dusky gent, but succeed only in frightening him away. An elderly lady leaning on her shopping trolley encourages me, another busker joins in the general hubbub, and the man behind me keeps on dancing, though not in time to any of the afternoon’s musical offerings.

And now a tall man approaches. I’ve met him before. He sports the stubbly beginnings of a beard and wears a baseball cap, a long-sleeved white tee shirt, and black pants. He has a sheaf of tracts in his hand. He greets me like a long-lost friend, but all he wants to do is to ramble on about demons and devils and his pastor’s exorcisms and the Last Days and the signs all around us for those with eyes to see and… Well, I refer you to Stephen’s last two sentences above.

I interrupt him by asking for one of his tracts, then telling him that I must get on, and I shoo him away to tell his tale elsewhere. [Later, I look up his ‘church’, the name of which is stamped in the little box at the bottom of his rather old-fashioned and (in my opinion) unhelpful tract. I thought so: prosperity gospel, prophets and apostles, anointings and exorcisms, Nigerian man-and-wife sharp-dressed apostle-and-pastor tag-team leadership… Just what the world does not need now.]

As I get back to the proper business of the day, our paper-waving friend tires of it at last, and wanders off elsewhere. No stamina, some folk. Never mind, there are useful conversations going on, and it’s my turn to speak again. I ease the speaker up a notch, then “One, one, one…”, then Angela Rayner again, and the old joke about the soul singer at Woodstock - which elicits only blank looks from the few folk listening. Several generations out, I’d say. I’d better press on with the serious stuff.

Repentance is next, and I do my best to make it as clear and as simple as I can, which is not easy in the open air in times like these. A warm wind begins to blow. Yet another busker adds his tinkle-tinkle-plunk-tinkle-plunk to the cacophony around us. A young man takes my photo on his phone, then a tract from Stephen, and he walks away reading it. I speak as clearly and emphatically as I can to try and cut through the general hubbub.

As I reach my final point - being born again - I begin to improvise, repeating the same idea over and over again in as many ways as I can think of, trying to drive home its importance. It doesn’t help when a large and lubberly youth on a tiny electric scooter circles round the building behind us twice, crying “Waaahhh!” at the top of his unnaturally high voice, for all the world like an outsize infant. I have to stop for a moment to laugh, but then I’m straight back on track.

Mortality, love and loss, the only cure for a sin-sick soul… and then I notice that the area in front of me is now almost empty. Perhaps these things are not to the taste of people passing by - which is my cue to return to my title. (See above.) The warm wind rises again, the area in front of me fills up again, the shadows of the trees behind us wave before us, intruding upon the otherwise sunlit space, the tracters continue in their conversations - and I come to a close. As I do so, a bloke in a big hat wheels his bike past us, and cries “Hallelujah, brother! Praise the Lord!” And he’s entirely serious.

It’s a good note on which to end.

We gather together to pray, but Jason has disappeared, which is a pity, because I wanted to ask him if he had any points for prayer for the newsletter. Then it’s off to the Arndale for refreshments and fellowship. It’s hot on the way home, but we’re both happy with the way the afternoon has gone.

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

T., a delivery rider, originally from E., sad about the persecution in his own land, glad to be here, but wondering why churches in this country are now so lacking in missionary enterprise.

J. P., a Traveller, who asked Peter questions about Creation.

M., who told Peter about his work amongst gang members.

J., who has a ministry to the homeless.

Everyone else who heard something of the gospel, or took away Christian literature, on that warm and windy Wednesday afternoon last week.

Every blessing!

(By the way, our Open Air Newsletter is edited to remove some names and some personal/sensitive information before it appears here as a blog. If you are a born-again believer who would like to read it as an email in its original form, in order to pray for those mentioned above, then please contact our Pastor or Stephen with your email address. Many thanks.)