A Bible - In a London Pub.

A Recap.

In the last three blogs, I have shown what I believe in the Christian faith, my 20-year experience living in the fifties and the sixties, and also a brief history of David Brandt Berg and the Children of God movement. It was around 1970 or 1971, while I was still living with my parents, that I saw a school classmate with his wife and pushing a pram with their newborn, awake and waving his arms as babies do. This was between two and three years after I left school in 1968 to enter the world of work. This was the age when singleness was frowned upon, and courting couples, barely out of their teens, were commonplace in the High Street.

While I was at work at a family-owned Period furniture factory, in the wood finishing department, I was firmly put in my place. Each morning, I had to sweep the floor, and I had to endure smut and strong language that would have embarrassed the hardest trooper. Those five years followed my schooldays when I was under compulsion to dress smartly at weekends, while my colleagues enjoyed some dress relief in their casuals.

In the spring of 1971, I met Sandra at the Hammersmith Palais ballroom (which closed for good in May 2007). She was a little older than I was and wore glasses. I was surprised when she showed up for our first date outside the ballroom. For a year, we began courting, with marriage in mind, so that I could shed my single status and be on equal footing with the classmate I passed on the street. But at ages 18-19, I was still too immature to take on marriage responsibilities. I was more interested in Travel; she wasn't, and eventually we clashed. Then, in April 1972, after a disagreement, she terminated the relationship. That day, I boarded the train home from London. Alone in the off-peak carriage, I shed tears as the train sped. The crazy thought that I would spend the rest of my life as a singleton was very nearly fulfilled. I didn't pair up again with anyone for the next 27 years.

1972 was the same year I flew out to Spain. This was the first holiday abroad without my parents. The original booking was with Sandra. But with our relationship terminated, I called my college friend, Andrew, to replace Sandra. I even shed tears in his presence. But he was pleased to accompany me, even if his fees were paid by him without any refund from Sandra's booking.

After we returned to the UK, we went our separate ways. That autumn, I joined Reading Life Saving Club, which met at Arthur Hill Baths and swimming pool (closed for good in 2016) and learned how to rescue a person in distress, human anatomy, and to practice resuscitation. By December, shortly before Christmas, I took the qualifying exam, consisting of both in-water and college theory on human anatomy and resuscitation. By passing the exam, I received the Bronze Medallion Award, which qualified me as a poolside lifeguard anywhere in Britain. In the spring of 1973, I left A.G. Clarke & Sons to take on a new post as a poolside lifeguard. At first, I was posted at Reading Central Pool, then afterwards, I was transferred to Arthur Hill's, the very place where I first trained.

Arthur Hill Baths, Reading. I trained in Lifesaving.

Interior of Arthur Hill's. Here, I was a Lifeguard.

The Pub on the Strand, London.

Despite passing the life-saving exam in Reading, at other times I felt sad and unfulfilled. Week by week, I spent Saturday evenings at various venues. These include Snoopys, an underground discotheque at Piccadilly Circus (now non-existent), the Empire Ballroom at Leicester Square (now a casino), and Sundown, a nightclub near Tottenham Court Station (also long gone). Then there was the Lyceum ballroom just north of Waterloo Bridge. Lately, I have been attending the Lyceum ballroom (now a theatre) due to easier access to Waterloo Station, just across the River Thames.

One wet Saturday, 9th December, I looked more like a drowned rat as my long hair was dripping wet. Dressed in a thick winter coat, I approached the Lyceum doors. Two doormen stood, one at each side. The slimmer of the two blocked the entrance by stretching his leg across the open doorway. The other, of a rounder build, told me to scarper. When I asked why, he pointed to a noticeboard which announced that no reason is given for refusing admission.

Feeling humiliated and embarrassed, I made my way back towards Trafalgar Square in the drizzle. My destination was Sundown's on Charing Cross Road, almost next to Tottenham Court Road station. With Charing Cross Station in sight, I was approached by two young men of approximately my age. One, a tall Caucasian named Paul, the other Oriental, who called himself Corinthian. They stopped me and asked me about Jesus.

At first, I resisted them, announcing that I was a Catholic. But they persisted. Perhaps in need of attention after my humiliation, I noticed a pub across the road and tucked away in a quadrangle near the Savoy Hotel. I invited these two in with me.

The pub was warm and cosy, the ideal retreat from the wintry weather outside. The two left me to buy the round of drinks. This was part of their mission: to rely on outsiders to sustain them. And that includes train fares. They were literally obeying what Jesus instructed his followers before dispatching them,

Take nothing for your journey, neither staves, nor scrip, neither bread, nor money; neither have two coats apiece. Luke 9:3 KJV.

Once seated in the pub, Paul pulled out a Bible, and a KJV at that. I was taken aback! A Bible in a pub?

I thought that the Bible had to do with church, not a pub. He then bade me to read verses from the Gospel of John, especially 3:16. He then turned to Revelation 3:20, which I felt was odd, for this verse didn't seem to fit with the others.

I momentarily looked away and towards the ceiling. I thought,

If I were admitted into the ballroom and did not meet these young men, I wouldn't have been shown these Bible verses. God is involved here, keeping me out of the ballroom.

At this very moment, I believed. God was involved here by using those two doormen at the Lyceum. At that moment of faith, I was saved from Hell, regenerated, and became a child of God destined for Heaven. Right there in a London pub. Paul then asked me whether I would like to ask Jesus into my heart in accordance with Revelation 3:20. I bowed and prayed what many would call the "sinner's prayer".

Paul and Corinthian thought that my prayer brought salvation. Indeed, I have read testimonies on how praying this prayer has changed many lives. But in truth, the prayer itself does not initiate salvation. To believe in Jesus Christ does. As Paul the apostle wrote to the church in Rome:

How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed?

And how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard?

And how shall they hear without a preacher?

And how shall they preach except they be sent? Romans 10:14-15a.

Here is the sequence:

A preacher is sent and preaches to the unsaved.

The unsaved person hears the Word of God.

He believes and is saved.

He can then call upon the Lord as a saved believer.

The case of Cornilius and his house was a classic case. While Peter was still preaching to them, suddenly the Holy Spirit fell on all of them in an instant. There was no "sinner's prayer". Instead, they believed without a word spoken, Acts 10. 

Paul and Corinthian referred to me as a Babe in Christ as we finished our drinks. They then began to introduce me to the Family, a group of Christian men and women living together as a community. With the help of photos of happy-clappy people, all around my age, I eventually agreed to go with them to the colony in Bromley. Fortunately, I had some spare cash, as the two admitted they had no means of returning.

We headed for Charing Cross Station, and I bought three one-way tickets to Bromley North Station, as instructed. We boarded the train, and soon afterwards, a large group of the Family began to fill the carriage before the train pulled out. A couple had guitars, and as they settled, they began to sing praises to God to the tune of the guitars. In a public train! I was astonished. I have always associated "religious" music with the church organ. But a guitar...

It looked as if I was the only "Babe in Christ" on that train. If so, then how did the rest of the Family get their tickets to board the train without the convert's money? The only answer I could think of was that they had return tickets already on them. If so, then why did I buy tickets for Paul and Corinthian?

After a fairly long journey, the train terminated at Bromley North Station. We all alighted and walked across a couple of blocks to what looked like an abandoned factory. On the front face was a large sign with John 3:16 on full display. Over the door was a smaller glass panel with childish lettering, "Children of God".

We went in through the reception room into the deserted workshop. It was here that the machinery making jam was located, but the chamber now stood empty. A corridor led into what used to be the canteen, a room almost as large as the shop floor itself. Unlike the main factory, this room was lively with men and women of my age, tables and chairs. At the far end was a group of hippies, around three or four of them, deep in sleep. Had they just flown in from California, then it would have been very difficult to imagine such a group on board a Silverwing transatlantic flight to the UK, dressed the way they were, and served by stewardesses. Such a contrast to flying back in those days. Very expensive, and sitting with posh, smartly-dressed ladies and gents.  They were left undisturbed while the rest of us sat around a table. From an adjoining kitchen, food was served.

Some time later, a row of mats was laid on the floor, each one side by side, dormitory-style and forming a row which took up the length of the room. I was assigned a mat, and I lay on it, fully clothed. Then it was lights out.

I slept poorly, as I usually do in a strange environment. As the new morning began to break, gradually a shape was beginning to appear on the nearby wall. Being December, it got light rather late, and the image took a long time to consolidate into an easily recognisable figure. It turned out to be a colourful life-size mural of the Pied Piper leading some children to a mountain. Back then, I never knew that the very dormitory I spent a near-sleepless night in was once rented out to a nursery.

In another sense, the Pied Piper was warning me of danger. But, of course, I didn't know that - yet.

Somewhere, totally out of our sight but not far away, the founder, David Brandt Berg, was committing incest with his own daughter, Faith.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Week, the magazine on the chair.