Open Air: Streets Filled With Flags

Taylor Swift, streets filled with flags, and naked children on the internet: from the ridiculous to the outright appalling, they’re all linked up in my introduction, which is meant to get attention - and it does. But it’s a day that threatens rain, and the wind is rising, and most people pass by after pausing for a moment. They have places to go and people to see - apart from the three down-and-outs lounging on the pavement just across the pedestrianised area in front of me.

My plan is to move from the parlous state of the nation to the needs of the sinful human heart, just as you might expect. So, on I go, as the first spots of rain spatter onto the pavement, and hoods and umbrellas are raised. The crowd thins, but those seeking shelter nearby can’t help but hear me.

I’m getting wet, and the wind blows litter and leaves along in front of me. I don’t want to be too negative for too long, so I indicate our poster and use the familiar ‘free £20 note’ illustration to explain Romans 6.23. Inevitably, even though I’m at pains to point out that I’m not really giving money away, someone manages to misunderstand me.

It’s a tall gent with a ginger beard, a battered, blue umbrella held high over his head, and a green Uber Eats pack on his back. He’s not dressed for the weather, with just an oversized, grey, v-neck tee shirt atop his black jeans and boots. “Can I borrow some money, please? I’ll pay you back!” Hmm… “No, but come back when we’re done, and I’ll take you to get something to eat.” “Okay!” He seems satisfied with that, and he departs, as another tram sweeps round the bend and I pause to take a drink.

Carrying on, I get a “Preach it, brother!” and a couple of amens from passersby, which encourages me, despite the rain trickling down my neck. I don’t want to fasten my waterproof, because I’m working hard and perspiring freely, and I can’t hear myself properly with my hood up. And here comes Peter, entering stage left, hurrying over to his usual station, text boards on already. I glance over at Janette, outside Superdrug. Lorna is here, somewhere, but… Ah! There she is, by the tram tracks, accosting those coming up Market Street.

It’s a strong message today, but, as I describe our land as “a perverts’ paradise”, there is a cry of “True!” from someone, and several folk are nodding their heads. As I enlarge on the reasons for this and the false confidence that we place in useless remedies for our ills, here comes Veronica. I’m pleased to see her, as she gets straight into the business of tracting. What a blessing it is to have such helpers…

However…

Here comes a young man wearing a baseball cap the wrong way round, an outlandish tracksuit in black and green and yellow, and white trainers. He has a Slaters Menswear bag in his hand and an unpleasant expression on his face. “Y’are preachin’ the God o’ the gaps, mate!” It’s an odd version of a Scottish accent, as though he were a third-rate comic adopting it to tell a joke. He leans in towards me. “Y’are talking (expletive deleted)! D’ye want a smack in the mouth?”

I point out genially that, as he’s head and shoulders above me and less than half my age, it would be an unfair contest. He sneers at me in the manner of a pantomime villain. “Z’actly, so I’ll slap you about!” But he moves to grab our speaker instead. I block him, and he straightens up and punches me in the face.

Do not be alarmed, dear reader. Like Chandler’s Marlowe, I have “no glass jaw”, and I now have him by both wrists. I really don’t like the optics of what I’ll have to do, though, because…

But I don’t have to. There is a blur of movement, and a tall figure is pushing him off and away, and pushing him again, until he’s at a distance, glowering. Have I slipped out of the space-time continuum into an episode of “Person Of Interest?” (“Tall guy in a suit”, as Reese is often termed.) “Not really,” as Finch remarks drily in the relevant episode. It’s not a suit, it’s a short, black raincoat over a black top, along with black trousers and shoes. The young, fair-haired man wearing it is telling our Scottish friend in no uncertain terms that he must go.

He stands there scowling for a while, but other unfriendly folk are gathering at his rear. I’m watching his hands, and - unbelievably - he’s manoeuvring a bunch of keys out of his pocket and fingering them to make an improvised knuckle-duster. Fortunately - for him - he thinks better of it, puts them away, and goes.

I thank the young man for his timely intervention. His name is J., he says, and yes, he is a born-again believer. “J*****?” “Yes.” He works nearby, he says, and often passes this way. We talk for a short while, and my companions thank him and ask after my welfare. My heart is, as they say, strangely warmed by all this - but as he and Lorna discuss things, I’m already turning the speaker back on and readying myself to continue.

These interruptions, whether violent or merely verbal, have one thing in common: they are meant to prevent the preaching of the gospel, and thus I must go on.

And I do, beginning by thanking those who were so concerned, then returning to my theme for the day. Listening to the recording later on, I’m pleased to note that there is neither a tremor in my voice nor any sign of hesitation. No, it’s nothing to do with intestinal fortitude, it’s simply learned behaviour from one of my previous lives, for which I can claim no credit, alas.

The rain had eased off, but the skies are still grey and, as my companions resume their tracting, it begins again. Still, that gives me another captive audience sheltering by the shops. And here comes our little old lady supporter, pushing a shopping trolley along in front of her, making her way slowly towards me, yet again trying to make me take the handful of silver that she’s offering “for your work”. As I’ve explained previously, Salem Open Air Ministry doesn’t take money from anyone, but if she would like to offer it to one of our ladies..? And so she goes to do just that. May our Lord bless her for her kindness.

Time is pressing, and I must hurry on to my conclusion. As I remark that “we’re not here to preach politics” (a slightly oversimplified disclaimer, perhaps), a tram horn blast and a shout of encouragement coincide; and then, to expose the true nature of the human heart, I hold up my bottle of fruit juice and claim that it contains a drug which will make the recipient invisible for a full twenty-four hours. “And what would you do, may I ask, if you were invisible for twenty-four hours?” I trust that my hearers will be convicted by their own conclusions, but, as I start to spell out exactly what they would do, in order to drive my point home -

- a bald-headed bloke in a black hoodie asks me for it! Dearie me! “It’s not really a drug! It’s just an illustration!” “Oh, er, right!” he replies.

You can take it from there, in outline, I’m sure. What you won’t have in your mind are some of my strongest illustrations, mostly drawn from personal experience, which make even one or two of our helpers stop and stare in my direction for a few moments. On we go, through our Lord’s death and glorious resurrection, as the wind whips up and the rain pours down, finishing with a strong emphasis on the love of God, and our need as a nation and as individuals to turn to Him again.

The end!

No, not quite. We pack up and pray, and then J. stops by again to see if everything is all right, and we thank him again for his timely intervention. Then the ginger-bearded bloke reappears, and asks for a small sum to buy some dry socks from Primark. Fair enough! We head for the Arndale for a time of fellowship and reflection, and then I catch the X43 from Shudehill.

On the bus, I pray for a while, then settle back to listen to a couple of chapters of “The Rainbow Trail”, Zane Grey’s sequel to “Riders Of The Purple Sage”. “But when will Lassiter appear again?” I wonder. And then: “But, in a way, I suppose he already has…”

I’m still turning these things over in my mind, along with Genesis 22, as the bus begins that last, long, slow descent into the valley, wending its way down into the town, where streets filled with flags are lining the way back to my home.

I don’t think they’re for me, though.

Every blessing!