A Typical Day at the Cornmarket

Recently I was in Belfast for a wander about when I came upon a strange sight. There was a busker (not strange for Belfast – I’d passed three on my walk up to that point), two girls and a guy handing out fliers (again not strange – the Corn Market is the perfect place for evangelists/religious nuts to stand for maximum exposure.) What made this a strange sight was the fact that the two girls and the guy were dressed up like Victorians. “Promoting a play,” I thought; and certainly the way one of the girls was listening earnestly while a drunk spilled his guts (not literally) made me think she was a great actor. Each of the girls and the guy were talking earnestly to people and all the time the busker strummed her guitar and sang vaguely latin-american-sounding songs. They were all incredibly beautiful people, and even more striking in their costumes.

I moved round the corner and leaned against the wall to listen – I didn’t fancy being accosted by anyone and listened to earnestly. The singer had an amazing voice. Absolutely captivating. I was getting so lost in the music that I didn’t notice the male member of the group looking at me for a few seconds and when I did I accidentally made eye contact. NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT! I looked away immediately and tried to look like I was waiting for someone in a shop. I impatiently looked at my watch (I’m good) but he wasn’t fooled. He came right over and shook my hand.

Paul, and his colleagues, are missionaries who had come over from their work in Liberia to speak to the people of Europe. As he told me of the group and what they believed and listened earnestly to what I had to say I got more and more uncomfortable. I listened to hear if anything he had to say was heretical or evidence that he belonged to a dangerous cult that would kidnap my children (if I had any) and force them to eat Weetabix for lunch. He didn’t; and that, if anything, made me even more uncomfortable. What was amazing was the fact that he seemed to be able to slip the word ‘love’ into practically every sentence – woolly liberal obviously; except he really wasn’t. As I stopped trying to accuse and judge I started to enjoy the discussion. I really got into it and totally lost track of time. But the whole time the discomfort grew; and I began to notice the words of the busker’s songs weren’t helping that discomfort.

Both Paul and Ivanna were using the word love in a casual way – but they weren’t talking of love as we know it. They were talking about the love they inherited from Jesus. They were talking about a love that would make them leave their lives behind and move to Africa to help people in war torn countries. They were talking about a love that was more important than safety and security, more important than their lives. And yet they were talking about it casually as if it was something everyday normal to them. Because it was everyday normal to them. They lived this love.

Il n'y a pas de plus grand amour que de donner sa vie pour ses amis.

I was feeling uncomfortable because, while I spoke often of this love, I am not able to talk about it casually or without a twinge of discomfort. I do live a life of love – I hold Christ’s love as an example of how I want to live my life. Paul and Ivana weren’t thinking about it, they were living it, every day. And as Paul quoted passages of scripture they took on a whole new level of understanding. There are many things I need to work on in my life and now it turns out that even this part, the one I thought I had sussed, needs much development. I guess I have work to do yet.