Her name was Sylvia and I met her on Hastings Pier. It was Easter Saturday in 1963 and I was 17 at that time. Once a month a group of Christian people took over the restaurant area. Tables were cleared away and seating was laid out in theatre style. Each month a special speaker was invited and the event advertised.
It had been announced at our church youth group: “Sylvia Smith will be talking about her work in Soho among prostitutes and strippers”. Unsurprisingly, the topic sounded attractive to an adolescent male. Several of us from the youth group turned up. I had been shopping at Freeman Hardy and Willis shortly before meeting up with my friends at a local coffee bar and still had my new plimsolls with me. In those days, coffee bars were where teenager hung out.
We made our way across to the pier. The room was already full but we found some space near the back. Sylvia was a young and attractive woman with a voice that was pleasant to listen to. These days I cannot remember a thing she said about her work as an evangelist in Soho, but I remember it sounded pretty exciting. What I do remember is that she slipped seamlessly from talking about her work into a talk about the betrayal, arrest, trial and crucifixion of Jesus. I had never heard a talk like it.
Sure, I knew the story pretty well. In the fifties almost every kid in the UK was taken to a church Sunday School and I was typical. However, as soon as I hit my teens I managed to break free by joining Sea Cadets. I hadn’t given up on God exactly; just abandoned church for something more interesting. After all, my church seemed to have been run by a group of dusty old men, some of whom, in my opinion, were not that Christian. Church - the grown up version - contrasted to the more engaging Sunday School. But I was free of it; free from moral constraints. Over the next four years my lifestyle became increasingly profligate, carefully hidden from my parents.
An incident at a drunken party followed by a trip to A&E at a local hospital provided a wake-up call. But my best efforts at reforming my life were ineffective. Then a man I didn't know and who didn’t know me passed on a gospel leaflet to me in the street near my home and then went away and prayed every day for me. That leaflet could have been written specifically for me at that time. It contained just one scripture reference: Jesus saying that whoever came to him he would never turn away. Reading it in my bedroom some time later, I said a short prayer asking if I could be accepted.
In the months that followed, my attitude began to change. I joined a youth group at the church I had abandoned. There I made friends and fell in love (well, I thought I had) with Rosemary. After I had attended for a few weeks, the church Minister announced that the following week I would be speaking on my favourite Psalm. There had been no consultation about that, but sitting next to Rosemary (whose dad was also a Minister), I didn’t want to lose face. With the help of an inherited Study Bible, the following week I spoke on Psalm 23 referencing the imagery of sheep that had strayed and a shepherd who gave his life for the sheep. It was sincere and wasn’t a bad talk. Unfortunately, Rosemary was not there to be impressed.
Afterwards, when I went to ride home, my bicycle seemed rooted to the spot. I discovered the Minister had hold on the back of the saddle. “Now I know where you stand, when can I baptise you?” he asked. Unable to come up with a decent excuse, I found myself enrolled in a series of pre-baptism session alongside Rosemary’s two brothers. But, frankly, my faith was very weak so when it came to a final interview to see if I was a fit person to be baptised and admitted to church membership, one of the deacons, Rosemary’s dad, declared me unfit. Fortunately the other interviewing deacon said that God had told him that I should be received even though my faith was weak.
Baptism in my church was by total immersion and the newly plimsolls I was carrying that evening on Hastings Pier had been purchased for the occasion which was due to take place the following day. My baptism was meant to be a sign and declaration of faith, but it was a faith with many holes and somewhat uncertain. But as Sylvia moved into her Easter message things were about to change once more.
One by one, she focused on each person significant in the story. We considered Judas who professed to be a disciple, but who for personal reasons betrayed Jesus with a kiss. We considered Peter who had professed undying loyalty but under pressure denied even knowing Jesus. We considered Herod whose only interest in Jesu seemed to be to satisfy a personal whim. We considered Pilate who, rather than do what he knew to be right, washed his hands of responsibility. We considered the soldiers who had carried out the death sentence, nailing an innocent man to a cruel cross. After each description, Sylvia quoted the words that Jesus had prayed, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do”.
Two things hit me during that talk. The first was how much my life showed similar weaknesses to each of the characters sending Jesus to the cross. The second was the amazing love that Jesus demonstrated. Before that meeting if you had asked me why did Jesus die on a cross, my baptismal classes would have ensured that I could explain that he died for the sin of the world. After the meeting, asked the same question I would answer, “because he loved me, undeserving as I was”.
The talk ended and a hymn was announced. It was a hymn I knew so well I could recite the words of each verse. As people began to sing I found myself struggling as I contemplated the final verse. It was Isaac Watts’ famous hymn, When I survey the wondrous cross on which the Prince of Glory died… It took on a fresh and personal meaning in the light of all I had heard that evening. As we sang “See from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down. Did e’er such love and sorrow meet or thorns compose so rich a crown?” it was almost as if I was there watching this man die and hearing those amazing words of loving forgiveness.
But I knew the words of the final verse, and knew my weakness was such that I dared not sing them. I could not sing them unless God enabled me to really mean what I was coming. As that verse began, I found myself singing with an absolute sincerity. “Love so amazing, so divine demands my soul, my life,my all” I had felt the love of God that evening and knew that I had to surrender all I was and all my hopes and ambitions at the pierced feet of the man who surrendered everything for me.
Clutching the plimsolls firmly in my hand I walked home with a new eagerness as I looked forward to the next day; Easter Sunday and my baptism. What it would be symbolising was now burning in my heart.
© Barry Osborne 2018
No comments:
Post a Comment