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.

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.

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.

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.

A Christian and a Muslim were walking down the road.

Sounds like the start of a bad joke doesn’t it? In fact, this was last Sunday. My newly met Muslim friend genuinely wanted to know whether she would be “allowed” to come to church with me.

I’d not really noticed the headscarf. Looking back, I suppose it was a bit of an odd picture; my gentle and quiet guest in her black hijab, discussing the book of Philippians with the talkative blonde student who thinks she’s a surfer and wears a bright purple bobble hat. It’s not the norm in church culture is it? My friend even flagged it up again at the end of the service: “Are you sure people won’t be offended by me being here? You don’t think they’ll mind that I can’t sing all the songs? Do you think they have a problem with me wearing this?”

In our Western culture of surface-deep philosophy, where the packaging is everything and appearance dictates our snap-judgement first-impressions, it’s no wonder my friend was acutely aware of being written-off for her religious garb that shouted “something different!”

And it only struck me then how it isn’t ok for me as a follower of Jesus not to walk with people from other faiths into Church. I don’t remember Jesus telling me to only invite certain types of people to His party.

In 1 Corinthians 9: 18- 20, Paul has this take on living out our faith:

“Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law.”

If my friend and her hijab don’t feel welcomed and accepted by God’s representatives on earth, then I think I’ve missed the point. If us women don’t sacrifice our own reputations, and change our focus away from each other’s appearances, we might as well go sit in Starbucks on a Sunday and people-watch out the windows.

A Christian and a Muslim were walking down the road. The Muslim turned to the Christian and said… “I’ll see you next Sunday for church.”

“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.

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.

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

If I didn’t mention it, maybe the experienced mechanic wouldn’t notice.

Stan, my 11-year-old Fiat Punto, hasn’t been working properly since I smashed it into a concrete slab at Bolton service station last year. Everything but the steering works. For a year I’ve been taking corners like a dysfunctional WW2 tank.

Today, I parked the green machine at a garage in Chesterfield, for a reluctant MOT. I didn’t mention the steering. The way I saw it, he was probably just checking the brake pads. (Whatever they are). Walking back to the flat from the garage was the closest I’ve come to leaving a loved one in a job interview or an exam. I actually turned around halfway down the road to catch what may be my final glance at Stan, the “roadworthy’ stallion.

Three hours later, the dreaded call came. Dave the mechanic had carried out the MOT and was delivering what felt like a judges verdict.

Dave: “Alex, I’ve changed the oil, shaved the brake pads and adjusted part of the engine which was leaking.”

Alex: “Superb, nice one Dave, I’ll pick it up now if you like?”

Dave: “Ummm. Well the thing is, I’ve had a look at the steering shaft.”

Alex: “Oh yeah? Any good?”

Dave: “It’s at a right angle mate. You must have caught it on something. I can get the part in and fit it tomorrow. It’ll cost you about £120 extra though mate.”

Alex: “Ok. My bad.”

The mechanic knew I tried to keep it hidden. He even asked me if I could feel half the car vibrating when I drove it. To which I replied: “Well, ummm, I guess there was, ummm, hmmm, yeah. Maybe”.

I learnt two lessons today. 1) You cannot fool an expert. 2) Do not try to fool an expert.

The truth is, my car will be a lot safer and live a lot longer now the steering is fixed. But somehow I persuaded myself that saving money was far more important. Keeping things hidden is definitely part of my genetic make up. I don’t know how it got there, but since I was a kid, I’ve always been aware of it.

Jeremiah nails it here:

“But blessed is the one who trusts in the LORD, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. 
It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. 
It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.”

The heart is deceitful above all things 
and beyond cure. Who can understand it?

“I the LORD search the heart and examine the mind, 
to reward each person according to their conduct, according to what their deeds deserve.”

Peace.

This week I celebrate a decade following Jesus. I say “following” because that’s the word that best describes what I’ve been doing. But to be honest, sometimes these words would have suited my journey better:

Searching, Chasing, Stumbling, Abandoning, Pestering, Entertaining, Embarrassing.

On February 16, 2001, I had no idea where my mustard seed of faith would take me. And here, ten years later, I still don’t. I read the stories of the faith heroes in the New Testament and long for more confidence in the message of Jesus. That same message, which gave me life to the max a decade ago, has been igniting the souls of men and women across the British Isles even today.

However, my faith anniversary will not take place without sombre reflection. I can think of hundreds of people I have spent time with who have not been able to see the wood for the trees. Men and women have poured out their broken hearts declaring an issue which has hammered their daily lives. I have watched my closest friends yearn for a cure to their deep-rooted lack of joy. I have witnessed the downfall of those closest to me. So many people have snubbed the message of Jesus as a religious anecdote bearing no relevance to their struggle with the human condition. Some of my mates have described in detail the hole in their soul, with wry smiles across their depleted faces.

Their lives come at them from every angle, yet they refuse to stand on the solid rock. They even express envy at the rock on which I stand whilst ignoring my open invitation for them to join me.

But the common denominator in every story I encounter, is the colossal sense of hope.

If the message of Jesus can radicalise a 16-year-old Valley boy on a cold night in February, then it can do the same for anyone and everyone. I know this to be true.

I, like so many others, have been entrusted with the most uplifting, counter-cultural message on the globe. It heals the broken-hearted, grounds the arrogant, inspires the weak, comforts the abandoned, rescues the reckless, exposes the liar, restores the hopeless, and makes me laugh in coffee shops. It is the ultimate game-changer for the human race.

And so I crack on to the next ten years. I forget the things that have hindered me, and I rub my hands for the next chapter.

Proverbs 2

My son, if you accept my words and store up my commands within you, turning your ear to wisdom and applying your heart to understanding, indeed, if you call out for insight and cry aloud for understanding, and if you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the LORD and find the knowledge of God. For the LORD gives wisdom; from his mouth come knowledge and understanding. He holds success in store for the upright, he is a shield to those whose walk is blameless, for he guards the course of the just and protects the way of his faithful ones.

Peace.