I guess it’s common knowledge that people change, but it’s not something we talk about much in our ferociously paced lives. Physically, we are always changing, every second. Scientists will tell you that millions of skin cells replace your existing frame continuously (if you talk to scientists much.) Though our DNA is set in stone, every single part of us alters as we negotiate our way through life.

This week however, I’ve noticed one of the most stark shifts in my genetic make-up so far. My personality, my ”me’ gene, my general perception on likes and dislikes is transforming.

Five years ago I was taken through a detailed personality test which highlighted I was an extrovert. In fact, I turned out more puppy than man. Throw me into a crowd of humans and I’d have enough energy to fuel Bristol. The idea of solitary confinement was about as tempting as two hours fighting a peacock.

In the last two years however, the core of my being has been slowly shifting. This is hugely challenging for my understanding of how God creates/recreates us, because it poses the question: Is the Spirit of God changing me, or is it just indigestion?

Recently, I’ve started to harbour a longing to withdraw from crowds on a regular basis. I’m opting for one-to-one chats with my mates as oppose to creating carnage with a group of lads. Some older people have commented that I’m ‘calming down’ and one man said he thought my life had been ‘quietened.’

The sound of traffic is becoming almost unbearable as is the noise of hand-dryers in pub toilets. Something in me yearns for a silent place, where even birdsong has been abandoned.

And though this causes slight anxiety attacks for people who think ‘communicators of the Christian faith’ need to swallow a megaphone every morning, I am quietly excited to be honest.

I’m listening to people these days. But not just getting the gist of what their saying, I’m hearing every single word. I’m waiting to hear what’s said in-between sentences, the sighs of disillusionment, the mumbled concerns of doubt, and the deep breaths of fear.

I’m often kneeling to pray whilst passing through my living room. (Usually both my feet wouldn’t make contact with the laminate flooring due to their hastiness.)

“Alex, I love you quiet, loud, stupid or ill” my girlfriend Miriam said in response to my concerns this week.

I can imagine quite a few lads have experienced a similar change in themselves. I don’t see much point in clinging to your old skin when the new stuff is already forming.

Peace.

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It looked like it had been designed by a team of angry killer whales. When I’m at the supermarket, there are very few things that can slow me down. One of those things happens to be awfully designed table and chairs placed proudly in the foyer. A huge sign with “Just £40” stood beside the garden furniture (and even the sign was ashamed of it.) The table was shaped like a trampled Oxo cube with chairs slightly too big for a family of Borrowers. I was angry that my pace had been slowed down by such a dismal creation.

I started jabbing the table with my finger as if I’d found a new species of jackal I was sceptical of. The surface was wrought iron, probably fashioned from the gates of Mordor. I wanted to cast it out of this world and back to middle earth where it would provide a fitting addition to Saruman’s kitchen. Not to labour this point too much, but I was very tempted to pick up one of broom’s on sale, stand in the store entrance, and shout “You shall not pass!”

As I pondered on this table and chairs, two married couples came to check out the offer. I noticed they saw me looking at the furniture and naturally came to see it up close. Before I knew it, six people were eyeing up the set. I watched the strangers test the strength and weight of the product as they mumbled quiet affirmations. “Quite strong this yes. Hmmmm, look good in the garden I think.”

In a matter of 14 seconds, they all wanted one of their own and scurried off to find the supermarket staff to reserve a full set each. I was gobsmacked. The fact it was about as appealing as Homer Simpson’s hairstyle was irrelevant. They had seen someone looking at it, and were instantly drawn in. And as soon as a few people cast their gaze towards the table and chairs, the others soon fell in line.

This week I’ll be reading my bible in the presence of others. I’ll be saying grace before meals at any cafés or restaurants. I’ll be looking at Jesus in front of those who look elsewhere for meaning.

Matthew 5:16

In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.

Peace.

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Everything I owned was positioned around me like statues peering down at an infant, though I’d never been more aware I was now a grown up. My new flat welcomed me with old stains and strange smells to remind me of the cost of downsizing my life. Helped by a couple of bottles of Miller, I starting unpacking my life in boxes. Uncontrollable laughter at bizarre gifts from Miriam’s family was often followed by a sudden outburst of tears as I read cards from loved ones no longer with us.

During my adventure into my possessions I soon realised that only the things which were affiliated to shared memories were worth keeping. I got rid of around a quarter of everything I owned (mostly scrap paper and odd socks). I dreamed up an idea for wristbands entitled What Would Jesus Scrap? but concluded it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone not moving house or working in the scrapyard industry.

After the great purge had finally come to an end, I eyed up my belongings which were still fearing the axe. And after a few breaths I arrived at a sobering epilogue. I have nothing of my own. Despite my HD TV and the receipt to match, my Seagull guitar giving to me by Dave Magill, a bread maker and am armchair fitting for Scrooge, none of it is mine. I cannot prove this to you, but I can explain.

There is nothing in this life which I can keep my hands on for a substantial amount of time. The things that last the longest are probably relationships, everything else will need replacing and destroying at some stage. I have nothing. I didn’t even contribute to the clothes on my back, and if I had done, they still wouldn’t feel like they were mine. As life walks me down its random path I am quickly losing all sense of ownership. And the strange irony that surrounds it all, is that things which are closest to “brand new” in my apartment, feel the most alien to me.

As my musings meandered into hunger for a poached egg on toast, I pictured Jesus on the cross with nothing in his hands but nails he didn’t put there. A peace I’d not tasted for a long time proved a fitting appetiser for my healthy lunch which followed.

Luke’s account of Jesus returning to the Father reads:

It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” When he had said this, he breathed his last.

The centurion, seeing what had happened, praised God and said, “Surely this was a righteous man.” When all the people who had gathered to witness this sight saw what took place, they beat their breasts and went away. But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.

Peace.

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A crept slowly towards my balcony overlooking the car park where the gang loitered. “I can see you” I whispered, like a cross between James Bond and Fireman Sam. They had been hanging around Ady’s BMW and my slightly older Fiat Punto for days but this time I wasn’t going anywhere. My eyes were fixed on this army of tracksuits.

I pondered on their intentions. Maybe they were eying up potential cars with a five-finger discount. Perhaps they preferred to leave their mark on the side of vehicles with a set of house keys. Or maybe they particularly liked standing in the middle of a private car park watched by yours truly: Eagle Eyes Willmott.

One of the gang members walked away from the group and stood beside my car. I had my iPhone ready to call the authorities like any good journalist would. “I’ve got you now fella” I muttered under my breath. And what happened next was truly incredible. As soon as the estranged gang member turned his back, the others scarpered down the alleyway…they were playing a game of hide & seek.

I watched for five minutes as the lad scurried around the wheely bins and nearby trees in an attempt to find his mates. Of course I could see where they were all hiding, which made it far more exciting for me.

Is it wrong to fear for the welfare of a Fiat Punto I call Stan? Probably not, but I’m sure it’s not healthy. I guess my hope is to become a bit more optimistic when viewing those around me as I get older.

Ephesians 4:31-32

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

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Incredible. Out of all the apartments in the town, God chose to move into my block. I remember it so vividly, the moment I learned the almighty had moved in. I parked my trusted Punto in my designated space and clocked a brand new BMW a few places down. Though in the Bible God models true humility, it seems things have changed for the creator. The car’s number plate proudly read: Ade is God. Hallelujah. Its finally happened I thought.

I fell to my knees majestically in the car park, awe-struck. I chose not to dwell on the fact that God had revealed his new nickname, and also chose to spend £79,999 on a vehicle when some of his neighbours struggled to come to terms with devastating redundancies…after all, God can do what he likes. Hallelujah.

Some of the residents watched bewildered as I bowed continuously to the Lord’s chosen chariot. I felt sorry for them. How they would rue the day when they refused to bow before their God. I knelt for hours until it happened. The moment I’ve been anticipating my whole Christian life. I was approached by the Lord. He stood at just 5ft 6″ tall, and wore torn G-Star jeans and a t-shirt which had pictures of women on the front. Hallelujah, God cares about fashion…and women.

He looked at me as I bowed before him. And then he actually spoke. I broke down in tears as his voice engaged with my sinful being. “What are you doing mate?!” He asked me powerfully. I assumed the reason he called me “mate” was because I’d accepted the atonement of Christ which makes me a friend of God, saved by Grace, through faith so none can boast.

I mumbled an answer repeating the words Lord, saviour, forgive me, thank you. He opened his boot and reached for his robe, which was disguised as a brown River Island leather jacket. I waited for the moment where I’d have to give an account for my faith. But it never came. In fact none of the things listed in Revelations took place. I looked through my tears for the unattainable number of people groups singing in different tongues the songs of praise and worship for their saviour. I listened intently for the music of the heavenly realms and prepared myself for a glimpse of the new creation. But nothing happened. I slowly dried my eyes as BMW Ade stood over me and told me I was embarrassing him using some uncouth language and a violent gesture. “I thought you were God” I mumbled.

Turns out he’s not the messiah, he’s a very naughty boy.

Peace.

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In the company of my fellow Morrison’s shoppers, I stood appalled at the scene which played out in front of me. A mother had left her newborn in a trolley-seat near the tills as she tootled off looking for shampoo. The baby was left alone to cry for around five minutes before a member of staff paid it some attention.

We scanned the store from our standing positions as the growing concern became as thick as the two for one milkshakes on offer near the checkouts. I broke the silence after a short while: “Has anyone got any idea who the mother is?”

Heads starting shaking around me. The store manager was approaching the tanoid system, before a young woman arrived startled at all the fuss. The elderly Morrison’s worker handed the baby back to the mum calmly. She encouraged the mother to “Try to be more careful”.

I walked out of the store quickly, resisting the temptation to sarcastically explain why mothers shouldn’t abandon their newborn babies in a crowded supermarket.

As I took my trolley back to the designated bay, I thought of how much better I’d be as a parent. I pondered on how I would take extra care of those things which mattered most. A judgemental smile soon grew across my face on my approach to my well-parked Fiat Punto.

The problem was that I’d lost my car keys. As I prayed that God would help me find them, I remembered my previous thoughts.

(How could I say I’d be a better parent if I can’t even look after my own car?)

Thankfully, someone had handed in my keys to an elderly Morrison’s worker who had been previously tied up handling another situation. As she handed me my shame, she encouraged me to “Try to be more careful”.

I’ve been reading Matthew 25 this week: “After a long time the master of those servants returned and settled accounts with them. The man who had received five bags of gold brought the other five. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘you entrusted me with five bags of gold. See, I have gained five more.’

“His master replied, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness!’

Alex – the forgiven hypocrite.

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I see the rush of the city engulf my friends in suit jackets and nice shoes. I watch crowds of people fill stadiums with songs as hotdog stands sell out at half time. Life’s awkward scenarios slow my closest friends down and sideline my loved ones. Moments of immense achievement bring celebration as academia, job promotion and sporting excellence is found. Some churches flourish in these testing times as various congregations stop meeting together in parishes once vibrant, but now a distant memory.

The vastness of the universe which surrounds mankind grows ever distant as sunsets never fail to blow my mind. Children are born around me. Friends get married at the alter to exchange vows in front of crowds littered with recently divorced couples.

My own fears wake me up in the early hours as I dream of war, natural disaster, grief and mistakes I’ve not yet made. Cars fly passed me on the M1 reminding me of the frailty of life.

And as the things of my existence overwhelm me, I concede that God’s plan for this world is above and beyond my understanding. My calling is far simpler than the complexities of being human in the 21st Century.

99.9% of everything is bigger than me. I am half a grain of sand at the bottom of the seabed. My understanding of the ocean around me is a secondary issue.

And so with a sense of elation I read Ecclesiastes 2: 24-25

A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment?

And amen to that.

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“If you think you’re going to pass out Mr Willmott, try and let me know first” the young lady said, as I wept into the bed. Never has one man been reduced to so little during a back wax session.

As the beauty therapist inflicted what can only be described as prisoner of war torture on skin which previously surrounded my spine, I could only blame myself. (For who is more foolish, the fool, or the fool who follows him?)

For any women reading this, let me give you license to stop waxing. And if this annoys your fella, please tell him to get in touch with me. In my life I have broken my ribs, feet, fingers and split my head open twice, but I would gladly endure them all at once than step back into that beauty salon. Oh if I could only revisit the moment when the idea was dropped into my mind.

My CVM colleague Jonathan Sherwin AKA Dead Man Walking, had his back waxed prior to a trip to the beach with his girlfriend whom he wanted to impress. Some men scoff at such antics, however, I found it utterly romantic. And alas, this weekend I am going to a spa hotel with my lovely girlfriend who will see me in just a pair of shorts for the first time. Mr Sherwin told me back waxing doesn’t hurt at all. He said: “In fact mate, its quite relaxing when they pour hot wax on you”.

Within half a second of the first layer of DNA being torn from my virgin skin, I envisaged feeding Jonathan Sherwin to a pack of wild dogs wearing Welsh rugby shirts. The pain wrapped around me like a scene from Reservoir Dogs. How could such a quiet young woman be guilty of crimes against humanity?

As I lay there mourning each layer of skin, hair and pride which was quickly being ripped away, I was reminded of the first rule of journalism: Never Assume. I had taken a mate at his word and had paid the consequence with my own blood. I should have researched. I should have asked around. I should have left town.

I vowed only to take God at his word as I limped out of the Chesterfield house of beauty and torture. And if any word is worth digesting at first sight, its this one.

Matthew 6:19-22

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

“The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light.”

Peace.

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As the complaints board for BBC Radio one picked up the phone, I immediately had second thoughts. I had never filed an official complaint to the BBC in my life. I’m usually to lazy to take my complaints anywhere. The moment I’m offended I usually spit out some tasteless words before my mind wanders to the trusted Blackburn Rovers history or anything Welsh.

However, as I drove through the ancient city of York in Stan my Fiat Punto, enjoying BBC Radio one, something inside me changed. It was just before midnight on Wednesday night and DJ Nick Grimshaw was talking about lent. Now to be honest, I’d be the first to admit that so  many seemingly “Christian” festivals have become cannon fodder for commercialism. And when a journalist takes a pop at Christmas or Easter I usually shake my head, sigh a little and talk about the signs of the times. But Mr Grimshaw sparked something in me I haven’t felt for a long time.

As he talked about his failed efforts in giving up unhealthy food, he said: “It doesn’t matter, I’ll start lent again tomorrow, don’t let Jesus decide.”

Now in itself that isn’t offensive at all. In fact some people may argue the sentence wasn’t defamatory in the slightest. But my complaint to the BBC was two-fold.

1) I was offended by the way Mr Grimshaw discarded the person of Jesus as a non-entity.

2) If the same remark had been made about the frontman of any other faith, there would have been huge consequences for the gifted radio DJ.

Though in the bigger picture of our lives, my complaint is about as important as my empty bottle of olive oil. But I think in my heart, I’ve drawn a line for the future. As long as I have access to my phone, my email and my voice, I’m not going to stay quiet when I hear broadcasters who have access to millions of people, talk trash about the most important thing in my life. Because when I do stay quiet, I become a hypocrite.

Have a good weekend fellas.

Alex.

Praying for Japan and the Pacific Islands.

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A group of fifty-year-old men were sat three rows behind an eight-year-old boy with eager eyes. There were hundreds of them. “What do they expect?” I pondered, whilst holding eye contact with one of the largest crowds I’ve ever seen. Elim’s biggest youth gathering of the year played out in front of me and I was worried. I wasn’t scared that I would say anything stupid, (that’s usually guaranteed) and I wasn’t nervous that they wouldn’t laugh at my bizarre anecdotes, (as long as I laugh I didn’t care). I was worried that my experiences, my testimonies and my teaching would have no relevance to this daunting army of strangers.

I was alone. By this I mean that for the first time in my life I was addressing a crowd where I knew absolutely nobody. Usually there is a friend or two sitting in the back row encouraging me by pulling stupid faces or quietly heckling from a distance. But in Telford International Centre, I was armed with a book older than Gandalf the Grey, and stories about a Welsh town most English people will never visit.

It never fails to surprise me. The age-old method of teaching the bible to those open to Jesus still leaves an effect on men from every generation. As a movement of men across the UK we have laid down the foundation of our defence, our code of practice and our strategies for advance. We call it Codelife and we’re putting it in front of the next generation.

After my attempts to enthuse the masses, a 12-year-old lad called Ezekiel walked towards me. In one breath, he said this: “I’ve been thinking about the lads in my town and how there’s nothing out there for them. I thought it was only me that cared for their faith, but now I know about you guys. I’m really thankful CVM is out there with me. So thank you.”

The lads in Telford are standing with us. The lads in Exeter, Cardiff, Merthyr, London, York, Chesterfield, Bath, Belfast, Romford, Liverpool, Sheffield and beyond, they’re standing with us.

We’re making our stand across the UK, but how long we stand for, is up to you.

The future of the Codelife moment is in the hands of every Christian man in this country. We need your support to help us stand in every town and city in this land. We are not interested in a five-year stint; we want to be in this for the long haul, and this is up to you.

Will you help us stand for the next generation?

Donate your prayers – pray we will stand well. Stand with us. Stand now.

Alex Willmott

CVM

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