When God Takes Over

CHAPTER 1 WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? The Giant of Stockwell Out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking at me. Aware of how big he was, I could just make out the swallow tattooed on his neck. I gulped hard on my coke and trying not to look too nervous began praying hard. It seemed like everyone had given me the once over when I entered the pub and now this ‘hulk Hogan’ beside me was giving me ‘the evils’. I prayed harder and harder. I even tried praising God, seeking to get up there in the ‘heights of heaven’, like a spitfire pilot getting as high as he can before swooping down on an enemy fighter. Sometimes we have to win the spiritual battle in our minds and hearts before we open our mouths. “Wot you doing ‘ere? Never seen you in ‘ere before.” A shot of adrenalin burst in my stomach. The tattooed man was talking to me. “Where are you from?” he insisted. “Mitcham,” I mumbled, quickly sipping hard again on my glass. “Mitcham” he bellowed in his thick London accent. “That’s hundreds of miles away ... what you brings you ‘ere?” I decided to come clean. “God!” I squeaked in a barely audible voice. “God?” he shouted. By this time the whole pub could hear our conversation. “Which God?” he demanded. At that point something quite amazing happened. I experienced what I could only describe as the ‘mighty-mouse’ phenomena. Feeling my chest puffing out, I suddenly stood upright (as high as my five foot seven inches would allow) and from nowhere I heard myself saying with a confidence and boldness that certainly was not from me, “The God, the God of Israel”. I felt like David facing Goliath. Wow, that felt good! I really didn’t expect it to come out like that. I never refer to God as the “God of Israel”. The man frowned, interrupting me before I could even get going. “I’m going to stop you there,” he barked, and, lowering his voice, he confided that he was a very “naughty man”. I was streetwise enough to know that ‘naughty’ in London parlance doesn’t mean slightly mischievous in a lovable sort of a way. It meant that he was a criminal, a tough guy, a man not to be messed with. He confirmed this by saying, “People know me round ‘ere, I’ve done time, the lot, know wot I mean?” He then proceeded to tell me that he was going to share something with me and that I had better not laugh. I assured him with every bit of sincerity that I could muster that I would definitely not laugh at him, whatever he told me. He took a deep breath, and then embarked on his story. “Recently, I had a big row with my girlfriend, I was really cut up. I came in the pub and sat over there. I found myself kind of putting my hands in the air.” He indicated a praying attitude with his hands open and slightly raised. “I looked up and said to God ... God, what’s it all about? Just as I said that, I felt ... I felt ... well, I felt as God was all over me.” He turned quickly to check that I wasn’t laughing at him. “I felt Jesus, ‘ere in this pub.” He paused for a moment reliving the experience. I was stunned! “So then I got on the phone to the local vicar didn’t I?!” he continued, “Vicar, I said, I’m not drunk, I’m not stoned, I’ve not taken anything but I think I’ve met Jesus.” “So now,” he went on, “I’ve been going for lessons with the vicar about being a Christian. My life has changed and now my girlfriend has met God as well. Me bruvver came up to me the other day…ere he said, d’ya want do a job?” Again, I knew enough to know he didn’t mean a legal job. “I told him I’d changed, that I was a new bloke. Now then my boy,” he continued, towering above me, “Is that anything like wot you are talking about…?” “Yes mate,” I said, “it’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Just then the guy spotted the pile of Christian pamphlets I had on the bar. “What’s these?” he asked grabbing a handful. “Oh they are just pamphlets explaining how you can meet God!” I gasped, still a bit overawed by his powerful story. “Well, what’re they doing on the bar? Let’s give ‘em out” he said, lumbering his frame round and thrusting a pamphlet into the hands of everyone in the bar. Fear had gripped me when I walked into the pub. I had nothing but God, but He showed me that it’s ok to feel weak and that He can use weakness to show that He is strong. I have never looked strong and have never felt strong. I haven’t even got a strong before and after story. I am not a bad guy come good. I have always wished that I had an impressive story that would give me an authority on the streets, a kind of street-cred. My story…? Well, I came to God at the age of six. No drugs, no drink, no naughties - asthmatic and skinny, a PE teacher’s nightmare; the last to be picked at football. In fact, I possessed nothing at all that could score me macho points in the all-boys secondary school that I went to...