London Day

AW Tozer talks about 'expectation in the programme' and 'expectation in the Presence'.  When churches, he says, lose the experience of God being with them, they create a spurious anticipation in the organised round of diaried events.  "You know," he characterises the preacher announcing, "We all look forward to this popular monthly event - the Men's Group Barbecue," or whatever.  For us, London Day had got a bit like that.  Undoubtedly an occasion of challenge, exertion and adrenaline - we struggled to identify the blessing of solid fruit.

For many summers, the whole Church turned up on the Saturday of each city marquee campaign.  Traditionally we did a march and spread out for some evangelism.  Once we found we could book Trafalgar Square, London Day turned out to be a monster version of this 'city action' theme, linked with the annual marquee campaign in Willesden Park.  We'd all leave home at some impossibly early time, park up miles away, do a morning march, three hours of stage events in the Square, rush-hour traffic our way across to the Park, endure a whole-evening event, and thread our weary way back home up the M1.  Meanwhile the techie team faced even more impossible challenges of taking down the whole PA rigmarole in the Square and rebuilding it in the marquee in time for the evening celebration.  I remember Days when we marched and stood in the Square through hours of pouring rain; and that in 1989 the temperature topped a relentless 93F.

Things changed when we established the Battle Centre community house near to Oxford Street, replacing the one in West London.  It meant an invitation to a more local informal evening event could replace the marquee celebration, when we'd met interested people on Trafalgar Square.  When the Jesus Centre opened about four years ago, it provided even more logic to beefing up the central part of the Day, leaving most of us to toddle off home thereafter.  Some of us thought that we were going soft.

Bit by bit we developed more effective expectation.  But what in?  Coloured tee-shirts came along to add to the march spectacle.  We spent more money on the mobile PA, until the techies 99% eliminated the recurring disappointment of sections conking out mid-song.  Changes in the policing and traffic control meant we needed a security firm to replace our own large stewarding team.  A bright digital display appeared over the stage at the Square, and we phased out the old-fashioned sing-along songsheets.  We even booked coaches to travel in more civilised manner and avoid the £30 per vehicle parking hit.  Now no-one could complain that spiritual impact was overcome by the near Olympian stamina challenge of the Day.

Somehow, I've nearly always managed to find some reserve to engage in 'expectation in the Presence'.  (I do confess that when I was on our Glastonbury Festival team in 2002, I didn't regret the clash of commitments.)  The march turning the corner at the bottom of Haymarket, aware that we've worshipped and testified for the best part of an hour, to me always counts as a signal moment in establishing the lordship of Jesus in the heart of the capital.  I am swept away in emotion and transcendence.

So, at a leisurely 7.00am, we were on the air-conditioned and toilet-facilitied coach, duly arriving at Hyde Park Corner - barely stirred, let alone ruffled - nicely before 11.00am.  Titus had read 250 pages of Swallows and Amazons.  We gathered for the march start in some pleasant shade, with the only inconvenience being the fact that the toilets which had been free last year were now charging 50p.  I bumped into AMEN man Desmond and three of his 'boys' (each six feet tall), part of the other church groups that had signed up to make it a 'Jesus Day' rather than 'Jesus Army Day'.  Nathan's voice filled the air over the impressive wireless-linked PA.  "Now then Jesus Army..."  No! Wrong, Nathan!  "...Watch me while we practise this clap."  We'd no idea where he was perched; where to look.   No matter.  I got passed a large banner on stout poles, and Piers agreed to take one side.

The 'greens', our colour, were the first section.  I got the very rare view of the dance teams that follow the lead vehicle.  I didn't envy them their continuous exertions, while I was somewhat more sedately pacing behind with the banner.  Sounds bounced off the tall Piccadilly buildings.  The band lorry held a full-on percussion section as well as the guitars, keyboards and pre-recorded rhythm kit.  I think we marchers only sang, "We are walking in the light of God."  Our voices were otherwise superfluous.  So we could smile; and engage in a bit of eye contact; and not end up breathlessly gasping.  Mary found it shallow.  I found it fresh.

I supported 'Ban the Bomb' as a teenager.  When I was a student, I witnessed from my hall of residence 13th floor window, the churches' Whitsun march around central Manchester.  Demure Sunday School pupils in white blouses skipped along with quaint hand-produced banners.  In my early employment, I've also seen coal workers marching, with swaying gaudily-pretentious Lodge colours.  As sincere and true-to-their time as these may have been, note that demonstrations have their shelf life.  Even the 'Stop the Cuts' and EDL marches have to avoid their cringeworthy elements (though I can't speak for 'Gay Pride' - I just missed their final phalanx three years ago).  I'm glad we've upgraded, and leapfrogged into the teenies.

Immediately on the Square, I spotted Wakey.  We had a hearty catch-up.  He's enjoying his training for his new customer service job.  He nudged me that life would be so much better with an American Express card and air miles.  Public buildings in Portland stone have their appeal.  But they present a remorseless stage set for standing around once the temperature climbs under a cloudless sky.  I'm in training for India and Myanmar in September.  Working out on the cross-trainer, I'm determined I won't arrive carrying two stone of unwelcome lard.  So I was interested to see how I'd tolerate the 80F range.  Mary was sheltering - pink and glowing - under her blue and yellow golf umbrella.  I went onto the far side of the Square, where the balcony stonework was too hot to touch with comfort.  Gav and Georgie had sensibly assembled their little flock under some shady trees.  The Kings Church, Medway, folks did really well with their stage items.

 The programme finished a few minutes early, and Mary and I headed in the direction of the Coventry coach.  Our destination was Promise House, and I'd be taking the Sunday morning meeting.  We had to divert off the M1 because of a nasty accident on the other carriageway.  Once home, Andy and Sharon knocked out some eggy bread.  We all sat around trying to fathom the 20 most erudite jokes featured in the day's 'i' newspaper.  Our top-floor bedroom was oppressive.  Opening all the windows, we found a fresh breeze blowing from the main Foleshill road side.  Trouble was, the neighbourhood sprang to life as 10.00pm approached, and the Ramadan confinements lifted.  A colourful day, in many more ways than one.  And one for 'the Presence'.

Crayford Way

We're back in Leicester, and the weekend promises to be different.   However, we don't manage an early start.  It's Barrie's 70th birthday in a few days, and Harriet has organised a party.  Chris decoys him away on the excuse of a Saturday morning walk.  On their return at lunchtime, the house is full of friends, family and food.

When Mary and I finally arrive at Springfield, together with Lil and her electric truck, no-one answers the door.  They're all in the picturesque back garden.  Tea's on the menu, but Barrie's birthday buffet indulgence means we decline.  I settle down in the bay window with my laptop, and the sisters chat.  Clive and I pop out to visit a former member in his local flat.  The number of young guys around has dwindled, and I know Clive's facing discouragement. 

Later in the evening we pile down to the city centre for some 'Free Healing' evangelism.  I'm in the back of the minibus feeling slightly disinclined towards the venture.  The remainder of the saints are in 'Vision and Action' hoodies.  I'm wearing a Jesus Army jacket - new style.  "Hmm, pretty retro," commented Andy as we left the house.  Half the reason I wear it is that I feel the cold as we near 11.00pm.

I watch the reactions of the restaurant and bar customers around the outdoor tables as the new livery of the minibus passes slowly by.  "I'm not feeling like I'm warming to this," I quietly pray.  "You don't have to feel either way - you're going because it's My initiative;" I sense a reply.  "And it may not be a success... In fact, you without Me can't possibly make it a success," the intuition continues.  No, of course, healing - it's preposterous.  "There's no guarantee, even, that you won't get roughed up."  True.  I have, after all, signed up for being dispensable, even disposable.  Somehow I find purpose and meaning in being out on these terms.

We split into two teams (three and four) and trek round the pedestrian zone.  Lesley engages a guy in conversation while the rest of our team  chats to the regular busker with his electric violin.  Lesley asks me for the price of a burger, and she duly reappears with food for the guy.  Later I see him going into McDonalds.  On the next street she greets a long-haired barefooted reveller. "I'm Lesley."  "I'm Jesus.  You lot are all believing the wrong thing," he charges.  I feel sorry for the guy, if only because he's likely to get his feet cut on broken glass round here.

Half an hour on, and the other three are deeply engrossed in conversation with a young Asian who's proving very interested.  I pray a bit; and watch the taxis go by and the night-club touts stamping wrists for after-hours drinks.  It's now past our rendezvous time, but no rush.  I get accosted by a swaying character who wants me to buy him some chips.  He promises he'll pay me back.  I'm not impressed.  "Actually, I'm with these friends," I nod. "And we have to leave."  It's now the guy's turn to be not impressed, and he staggers off muttering.

Back at the Clock Tower we learn that the other team's met up with some previous contacts.  It's all been a worthwhile time.

Sunday morning is a military exercise.  We plan to spend the day in Netherhall in the north of the city.  This means: the morning meeting; lunch at the Community Centre; the afternoon gardening or doing tip runs; or round the local estate or chatting with folks; finishing with a barbecue in the Centre car-park.   We pack every vehicle with PA kit, catering stuff, gardening tools and rubbish bags.  It's sunny and already hot, and we're all wearing our London Day green tee-shirts.

Richard's primed me that he'll leave the whole meeting in my hands.  Clive, as if to make amends for the previous time when the limited hall booking brought the meeting to an emergency stop, asides, "Preach as long as you like today, captain." 

We're 'going acoustic' again.  It's working well for the congregation.  I comment that Sheffield's just resorted to amplification and a voice mic again.  I've picked some songs that I can confidently play too, and the worship and congregation participation swings along well.  We even finish in reasonable time.  There's a good sense of ownership in the scene; and 'adult' vibe that wants to play a part.

I find I'm caught up in several conversations, and miss first the lunch and then the large gardening team setting off.  I follow the tracks from Lil's truck across the recreation ground and grass verges, then catch the sound of the strimmers in action.  Working on invitations they've exchanged before, the saints are spread out along Crayford Way.  

The local residents are mucking in.  We're throwing piles of rubbish bags of grass and privet clippings into the back of the Jesus Army Help Unit.  It's a hot high-summer afternoon.  Folks chat easily.  After an hour, Caleb takes the Help Unit to the Recycle Centre and I jump in.  As we wind across the city, I sign the tipping permit, and try to get my bearings.  The Centre is buzzing with purposeful de-cluttering.  We have a bigger than average payload and Caleb races for the best parking spot. 

Unloading the bags, dust blows back into my face, but we work quietly and efficiently.  I like Caleb.  Our families lived together in Warwickshire in the way-back-when days.  New fatherhood has rounded his character.  The trip's taken longer than we expected, and Clive rings to find out what's happened to us.   There's plenty enough rubbish waiting for a second tip run, and we load up again.

The gardening team's finished and transferred over to the barbecue at the Community Centre.   The younger guys have made a good job of the cooking, and the salad's great.  Mary's had quite an adventure, having been invited into the home of a Palestinian family.  She was served chai tea and traditional rolls, like small pancakes, freshly prepared by the grandmother.  Now she's sitting chatting to a lady from Somalia.  In her sun hat she looks for all the world like an archetypal 1950s missionary.  Andy picks up a guitar and we round off the day's adventure with some praise songs.  Yea, there's been plenty to 'Bless the Lord' for. 

Driving home I chew on the pros and cons of using the weekend this way.  It's been a good challenge, and good to share the saints' energy and imagination.

Blencathra

Piers sends me a salvo of emails about summer-time trips he'd like to slot in.  I note a new word (to me) - Blencathra.  I suspect it's way in the north of Scotland, and the trip will burn up several tanks of petrol.  "No, it's the Lake District," he explains, "Near Skiddaw."

Marcin is supposed to be going with Piers, but pulls a tendon.  Nathan is another in the party.  And since I'm spending two weeks with him in India at the end of the summer, it's a good chance to take up the empty seat.  I ask Piers if he's prepared to take on the liability I may represent.

The trip is planned for Friday, and Piers wants to make an early start - ideally soon after 6.00am.  But, there's a weekly Friday morning ritual at precisely 6.00am.  The Goodness Foods truck delivers the community FDC (Food Distribution Centre) grocery order.  We pull three empty transit cages from round the side of the annex and rattle them down the drive, then drag the three full ones back up to the house.  With all this in full swing, we're late getting away.

First stop involves picking up Roy from his place, close to Sheffield United's ground.  He gives his characteristic Chinese grin, despite the persistent rain shower that means he's already damp on the outside.  We share the back seat, and he gets travel sick on the Snake Pass.  I've been dozing off, but Piers fires questions about Roy's dissertation from behind the steering wheel.  "Ah; I am not pleased with my tutors.  They have had my proposal for a week and have not to spoken to me.  At home, I would have had it marked and given back the next day."  Piers expresses amazement.  It seems that New Labour targets and Coalition warm words have indeed failed to instill into the UK education system what three-and-a-half thousand years of deep respect for learning reflects in China.  We get to the M60 and Piers tries to get Roy to say 'ring road'.  Roy reports that in China this is called a 'loop road', and Beijing has ten of them!

At half past ten we park up at Scales, a hamlet on the A66 that sits under the looming slope of Blencathra Ridge.  The rain is relentless; the visibility murky.  Nevertheless Piers hopes we may hang around on the summit long enough for the cloud to lift.  He assures us 2.00pm is the magic hour.  Roy is travelling light.  He has a pair of canvas shoes and small rucksack that only seems to hold a large bottle of boiled water.  Piers lends him Marcin's waterproof.  I pick up the walking pole that's been behind the back door at home, unclaimed since the Snowdon climb.

Piers sets a cracking pace.   We reach the tarn, and I've been gasping all the way.  Meanwhile, Nathan's been singing.  "I'm not a good navigator," Piers admits as the turns the map round.  "I guess we'll just slow down if we need to;" he throws over his shoulder, and he mounts the scree towards the main Sharp Edge ridge.  Track gives way to bare rock, and I wonder where the promised slowing down went.  We pick our way nervously round a sheep track.  I slip, and my plastic glasses case shatters.  The wind lashes the rain into our faces.  It's looking impossible.  Nathan disappears up the slippery rock face like a mountain goat.  "Can't see a path," we just about catch.  Piers calls for us to turn back. 

Back at the tarn we chew on Piers' doorstep sandwiches, and meet two other parties.  The larger group ignores Piers' assessment of the conditions: hardcore.  The others opt for the alternate path we'll take to rejoin the main track.  Then a lady appears and joins the conversation.  She announces she's never managed to do the main ridge, even though last year she walked all Wainwright's 214 Lake District routes.  Piers whistles.  "Did you do anything else?"

The summit, at 868 metres, howls and soaks us in rain.  Piers picks the more challenging eventual descent along the further Hall's Fell ridge.  Again the track runs out.  At this point a figure walks towards us.  He's athletic, dressed in light gear and has hand-over-handed his way to Piers.  He explains there's another 100 meters of sheer rock.  It's a no-brainer that we should turn back.  He passes me and waits for us to follow his route.  A funny feeling creeps over me.  Back at the summit he smiles.  I thank him warmly, and aside to Nathan, "Have you ever seen an angel?  Watch to see if he just disappears."  Our guide jogs off at a pace and we lose sight of him.  I study Nathan's face.  "This happened when I was on an Atmos trip in Utrecht, and all the trains were delayed.  The station announcements were in Dutch, and we were stuck.  Then this guy appeared in a leather jacket, and told us to wait for the Amsterdam intercity.  Next minute he disappeared - nowhere to be seen."  

We head back.  On an easy bit of the track I miss my footing and roll down the grass.  I slither and barely manage to stop, or then climb back.  Nathan encourages me.  "You picked the best place to do that."  I am a liability.  Back on the M6 we chat about doing some fundraising for music equipment hire for a couple of concerts planned while on the India trip.  The car steams up the whole way home, and Roy travels without his trousers.  My boots take two days to dry out.  I'd like to have another go on a fine day.