Module 3 - The Final Third

I got a flat behind.  I know there are many flat-assers out there who resonate.

I recently got a personal trainer. Partly because. well no fully because, my arms are still the same size they were as when I was doing my music BTEC. I’m 35 now. Now that’s not a phase anymore, that’s a conscious lifestyle choice on my end. My grace for 'i'm in a development period' ran out about a decade ago. My metabolism has already collected it's pension, hands out Werther Originals and plays bowls on weekdays.

I have all this back stiffness, so I assumed the issue was.. well the back. It turns out the main issues was weak glutes. Yep a flat ass. There was basically nothing there, like Milton Keynes in the 60's, nothing.

And that’s the problem: when one muscle is weak, the others overcompensate, get pissed off, and that’s where injury happens. Muscle imbalance is one of the main causes of injury.

I think it's the same in the Church.

Romans 14:17 – “For the kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.”

Paul doesn't present one kingdom value he presents 3. Righteousness, peace and joy.They reveal how God's kingdom operates.

Have we developed a spiritual muscle imbalance?

Has the Church got a flat behind?

Has it atrophied?

If the joy muscle isn’t being used, righteousness and peace start overcompensating. Suddenly everything feels heavy, serious, strained.

We’re technically healthy—but we’re not moving well. We are not moving how we are designed to function.

Righteousness without joy slowly drifts towards legalism.

Peace without joy quietly settles into passivity and sloth.

We don't want to be running at 66%.

Especially in Britain.. Joy can feel… suspicious. That's being generous..

If someone is genuinely joyful, expressive or playful, people get their judges wig and gavel and make a verdict."They're a bit much.""They're immature."

" How much attention do you need?"

In England if you’re too joyful, people have already assumed it's either ADHD or autism.

Joy gets mistaken for silliness. Silliness gets mistaken for weakness. 

Meanwhile stoicism gets discerned as maturity. We've somehow concluded that the less emotional you appear, the holier you must be. I honestly don't think that's what the Lord looked like.

Children ran towards Him. Not away from Him. He went to weddings. He enjoyed meals with people. He was criticised for celebrating too much.

Hebrews even says He was anointed with the oil of joy above His companions.

I’m convinced most Christians are running at about 66% alive. We’ve got righteousness down… We’ve got the peace… but joy? Hello??? We’ve settled at this mediocre place called “joy lite.”

We are running at joy deficit.

In terms of what the church emphasises, we’ve smashed righteousness out the park: We all know don’t watch porn, love your neighbour if they are at least semi-normal, don’t smash the place up, no Christian sex before you put a ring on it, donate your crocs to charity shops etc. Righteousness. Tick. Emphasised. We are aware.

We're comfortable with peace:“Do you have peace about it?”“Lord, we just pray for peace in this situation…" 'I just felt this peace' Yep tick. Emphasised. Aware.

But, how often do we actually pro-actively and include joy as an emphasis. As a value. As even as a realistic option. I'm not talking about by-product joy, “peace that leads to joy.” Or "Peace and righteousness with a few chuckle brothers thrown in." (RIP Barry) I'm talking about one third of the kingdom here.

I think we the church like the idea of joy in theory—but only at appropriate times. Controlled environments. Never too much, and definitely not weird.

We like joy in the 1 minute transition gap after a worship set where they say 'lift up a cheer', joy that's your slot knock yourself out go get it!

Let's put it in football terms: (This seems the only way I learn these days) How many pundits talk about the final third. The final third where the action happens. You have to enter the final third if you actually want to score. This is where games are won, not the halfway line.

What if joy is the final third of the Kingdom?

What happens if we could raise our joy level to the same level as our righteousness and peace level? Suddenly we are operating at above 66%.

Setting the captives free doesn’t always have to be serious. Isaiah didn't give explicit instructions that it had to be intense and somber. Not everything has to be a deliverance bro. I think if any emotion personified freedom the most it would it not be laughter?

The gospel is better news than a mere behaviour modification program. Our inheritance is more than adhering to the rulebook and being culturally irrelevant. True inheritance is true abundance, now. John 10:10.

We need step into it, claim it.

Why can't we be in a  joy surplus. Is that not allowed? Are we not allowed to have offensive joy. Isn't that who we are? We challenge the pharisaical spirit. We challenge cultural norms, we live from a different governance system I thought. Dual citizens no?  I thought that was what we signed up for.

So I am committed to continue living out a joy that is offensively higher than the appropriate allocated amount. We should have a joy that is provocative. A joy that forces people into a decision.

Crizzos i'll end with this.

What if we've got it wrong, what if actually the thing that attracts people to our faith is our joy rather than how well we behave? Joy is our weapon. Our joy is one of our biggest evangelistic tools!

I believe the Church at large needs to be reintroduced to joy—because joy mirrors the one we represent. Let the joy re-education program commence.

Module 2 - “Give Me Two Minutes of Tongues Right Now!”

My friend Jeff and I went to this big Christian conference. We felt like the Lord was “on it.”

Now, it’s always difficult to tell whether the Lord is “on it” or “in it.” “On it” usually relates to opportunity and excitement. It could be anything—from a date with a Latina on the welcome team to venture capital funding for your meat app idea.

“In it,” on the other hand… “in it” is more like “you might have diabetes.” If someone’s praying over you and they say, “Thank you, God, that You are in this situation,” you’ve got a bad situation, you probably need insulin.

It turns out, on this occasion, the Lord was not “on it” or “in it”—He was, in fact, nowhere near it.

Me and Jeff thought it would be a good idea. I mean, we were both single men—maybe God would help us find some BBL's (Beautiful Bible Ladies).

However, I’m still learning to discern between the Holy Spirit and horny spirit. They have a similar dialect. It’s almost as if they grew up in the same town and went to school together..

After a five-hour drive (plus stops to charge the car) we finally pulled up to the monolith: the maximum-security, prison-like building. It looked just as dull on the outside as it was on the inside.

There’s nothing that releases the joy of Heaven more than a grey auditorium, overpriced linguine, and more than a mile hike between the two. It’s almost as if the planners had assigned joylessness as a core value and built the entire setup around it.

“Wristbands up!” the security would command every morning in a tone that they believed we were undocumented migrants crossing a border.

It seemed even laughing itself had been banned—or at least frowned upon—greeted with toddler-like stares, as if it were everyone’s first introduction to the concept.

This would’ve all been fine if it were just a day trip—even a weekend. No. This was a five-day grind. Four sessions a day. Thirty minutes for lunch.

What had we signed up for?

Jeff and I discarded our hopes of meeting our wives as quickly as you discard liquids before going through airport security.

We took our seats and started the marathon.

The first guy that appeared on stage had the demeanour of someone in the running to present SAS: Who Dares Wins. You might have thought a greeting would be necessary to break the ice—nope.

With no introduction whatsoever, he shouts in an aggressive, drill-sergeant tone: “Give me two minutes of tongues right now!”

Everyone was startled.

“Right now!” he doubled down.

After a few seconds, people awkwardly started to speak out in their prayer language. Nobody dared be seen silent. I’m sure there were people there just faking it. I heard a lot of “Hakuna Matatas” and “boom shakalakas” in the air.

But hey—fake it till you make it, right? I got the gift of tongues by repeating the country “Burundi” over and over.

“Give me 20 more! Push! Push through! Are you guys even Christians!? PUSH!”

It was like Insanity for spirituality. Chrinsanity. I felt like I was in a charismatic spin class with a TK Maxx Tony Robbins barking orders at me. “I’m sick of a weak church who doesn't know how to pray!” I was waiting for him to start the sermon but he was only introducing the main speaker! He was just the hype man!

The next guy came up, the main-eventer —very serious, but less boot camp instructor, more wise, stoic chief with a beard well groomed. Again, very serious. Did I mention that already? He approached his message differently.

The first five minutes of his sermon were… well... silence.

We, the un-briefed audience, had to figure this out. Slowly, people started to catch on and pretended they’d been in intercessory prayer the whole time. Jeff had a viral cough and was ruining the silence, he should've probably gone to Urgent Care instead of the conference.

The theme of the guy's message was the light-hearted topic of: “we are nothing, and Jesus is everything.”

He particularly focused on the nothing part.

If you’re partial to feeling like a piece of s***, this was the message for you.

He then brought a keyboardist on stage to set up for the home-run alter call.

Every life-defining moment needs a keyboard pad accompaniment. It makes anything feel more spiritually heightened, I try to have pad accompaniment when asking housemates to take out the bins or discuss the cleaning rota, or even breaking up with someone.

I looked around, and people were already sobbing. It seemed like a competition—who could feel the worst about themselves? Who could be the most sorry? Whoever was the most teary and the most ashamed seemed to be winning.

“If you want to repent and give everything of yourself to Jesus, come to the front now.”

Many people ran forward. Mostly young people too.

Jeff and I drove home exhausted, overpriced linguine in the back seat.

We had some Jack Daniel’s and watched Doug’s 1st Movie, and laughed silly.

I think I met the Lord more in that moment than the whole conference.

The Balancing Act

I am obviously not saying reverence is wrong. It is important and necessary. We should be led by the fear of the Lord. As a wise man once said, “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (I think it was Bono).

However, reverence is not better than. Seriousness isn't more spiritual than un-seriousness. Reverence and joy are meant to live in tension together, to be integrated, not in separated.

Overplaying Joy

I am not naive that joy is just as capable of being overplayed—becoming an idol—as reverence is. There’s a risk of Churches being certain they have a 'joy culture' when, in fact, it’s just hyper, loud, obnoxious people who spend half their rent on Starbucks.

A 'joy culture' where God only seems to speak through silliness and spontaneity, whacky, outlandish things get put on a pedestal. It’s assumed that it’s only the Lord if it’s weird.

Suddenly you have 'joy culture' but have lost sight of the 'joy-giver'. A 'joy culture' where people become slaves to our own impulses, trying to force a “moment.” A 'joy culture' that ironically says 'freedom' is it's core value but is, ironically, rigid and formulaic—running the same playbook every week.

Believe me, I’m not interested in that either.

Ultimately, we need both.

You might have already worked out—that I have a bias. I lean towards joy. That doesn’t mean I don’t value both.

Maturity is discerning between emphasis and value.

If you want a perfectly balanced post, this isn’t it. Maybe you should read something like “The Reverence and Joy in Complete Balance Curriculum.”

I am an advocate, attorney, and ambassador for joy, I don't apologise for that. I’m sure reverence has a lawyer out there too, probably a dead boring guy named Clive or something who drives a Ford Mondeo estate. From what I can see, reverence hasn’t exactly lacked representation throughout Church history.

I think it’s time for joy reform.

Joy was never meant to be in the back seat whilst reverence drives.

We should be far less suspicious of a joyful Church than we are by a dead one.

Module 1 - Don’t Take 4 Imodium

In 2022, I moved to California for a so-called “one-year sabbatical” to study at a ministry school—which is a whole other story. I was embarking on a new chapter. I was tired of London, depressed, burnt out, disappointed. I had had enough of benign weather chat and cold stares on the tube, so the West Coast it was.

When I fly, I always take Imodium. For some reason, when I go on holiday, my digestive system does too, it downs tools as soon as we’re in the air. To put it in layman’s terms, I get well loads of diarrhoea. The emphasis on 'well loads' here.

Usually, I take one Imodium. That solves it. End of story. Case closed. Verdict reached. A done deal. The final word.

However, for some reason this time—and to this day I don’t know why, maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was the excitement of a new chapter, but anyway—I took four.

Four.

Not two, not three… four.

Four Imodium. Let the adventure begin. Can I get an Amen?

Little did I know I was about to have a throne-room encounter that would shake me to my core, I would never be the same again.

I made it to Los Angeles and stayed with a friend. No issues. I was living in this blissful, diarrhoea-free utopia. I could barely even remember I had taken four - yes again, four! I was in la-la land—both physically and gastrointestinally. (is that a word?)

The next morning, I flew to where the ministry school was. I was met by my host. I’d never met this guy before—his name was Ivan, he seemed quiet, introverted, a sweet guy. We went for a lovely Chinese buffet meal in the upstairs of an airport which should be better signposted, I feel they are losing money. Anyway we then drove back and he showed me around the pad, what would be my home for the next nine months.

Thankfully he was also British, so we made small talk, bonding over shared cultural nuances and habits of queuing and politely apologising. I was slowly settling in. My nervous system was beginning to calm. Beginning to feel at one almost. Look at me, I had moved across the world all as a response to God's call, I was almost impressed with myself. I wonder if the great saints ever felt like this.

And then it hit.

“I need the toilet.”

I promptly entered the bathroom Ivan had shown me moments earlier.

I loosened my trousers, expecting routine drop-off.

Very quickly, I realised this was anything but routine.

This was a once-in-a-generation moment. A moment akin to 9/11 or JFK—one that shifts something globally,  one whose aftershocks are felt for years to come. My children's children would mark this occasion.

To say I was congested is putting it lightly. That’s like saying Hitler was bad at painting.

I was stuck. It was like LA traffic in there. Nothing moving. Gridlocked.

I knew I had the fight of my life on my hands.

I began to strain. To dig deep. To mobilise muscles I didn’t even know existed. I felt like Jacob wrestling the angel in the book of Genesis.

An hour passed. No progress.

Ivan must have thought his tour had gone terribly wrong and I was deeply offended.

Meanwhile, I was in my own personal storm—praying, singing in tongues, playing worship music on my phone. I tried everything to shift the blockade.

At one point, I even attempted deliverance.

“I command you to get out now!”

I was like Gandalf, the toilet brush as my staff.

Ivan had probably already started looking for a new roommate based on the sounds coming from that bathroom.

At one point, I genuinely thought I might need like a caesarean. Doctors would have to cut it out.

Finally—after two hours of labour—I am relieved to say I gave birth.

Praise the Lord.

I could finally relax. I had gone to war, and I had won. I had passed through the dark night of the soul.

This is what being one of David’s mighty men must've felt like.

You would think that’s the end of the story.

Nope..

In my relief and exhaustion, I looked down.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Yeah… I know.

This is the part where people stop laughing and actually get concerned.

And just to add context—I struggle with health anxiety and obsessive thoughts.

So naturally, my first thought was:

“I am internally bleeding.”

Within seconds, I spiralled into a full-blown panic attack.

Where I’m from—where most people are from—if blood is coming from the behind it’s not a sign of good luck or blessing to come.

I started hyperventilating in the bathroom.

From outside the door, Ivan casually called out that he was about to put dinner on.

“Cool,” I replied, trying not to reveal the absolute chaos unfolding within me.

My thoughts were sprinting like Michael Johnson at Atlanta 96.

How long do I have left?Will my health insurance cover this?Did God bring me to California just to die? Is this my final farewell?

Do I qualify as a martyr?

I eventually edged out of the bathroom, my face like it had just seen Ghost with Patrick Swayze.

Remember—this is Day 1.

Day 1 of my new life.

I paced around my tiny box-room.

Why did my new life have to start like this?

Why couldn’t day 1 of my new era be learning how to use the oven or something? Or me getting out and about exploring the town?

Why was it me bleeding out my ass and believing I was terminally ill?

Eventually, I had to tell Ivan—a man I’d known for less than 24 hours.

“Hi Ivan…”

“You okay for towels? Bed alright? You know we’ve got a gym out there if you—”

“I’m bleeding.”

Pause.

“From behind.”

Another pause.

“Oh… okay.”

Not exactly the first impression I had in mind.

Ivan was very gracious, in fact he had actually been to medical school.

He calmly talked me down, reassured me it wasn’t anything serious, and explained that I had likely just caused a small tear..

(No, he did not examine me.)

In that moment, it felt catastrophic and life ending—but in reality, it wasn’t.

Out of all the people I could have been placed with, I ended up with a bloke who went to med school and could calmly talk me down off the ledge.

Ivan, to his credit, never brought it up again.

So why do I share all of this? Yeah I do ask myself that, why do I volunteer all of this information publicly? Do people really need a bleeding from the arse story to add to their day? Probably not. There are definitely more dignified ways of getting my point across.

But I share it as a reminder:

What is a drama in the moment can turn into a comedy for a life time. The Lord is in the business of turning short-term tragedy into long-term comedy. Serious to unserious. Mourning into joy. Water into wine.

Psalm 30:5 “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”

Yeah this isn’t a new trendy revelation, nor a complicated exegesis.

It's just the same old boring 'God works things for good'. That's it I suppose.

What feels temporarily overwhelming will not last forever. The heavy is expectedly waiting to be turned into lightness.

You might be in a “toilet” story of your own right now. You might even be in a "toilet era." I've been there. You're stuck. You cannot laugh, yet. The key word: yet.

Maybe you're not in a tragedy or stagnancy, it's just the story hasn't become funny yet.

Trust that one day the story will become funny.

Let the Lord turn your tough moments into a comedy, that you can share with people years down the line.

Most of us are in a joy-crisis and we don't even know. We have been accustomed to this anaemic joy. We think joy is a luxury, fleeting, short-lived.

Kingdom joy is essential and I am tired of it being underrepresented. We should be convicted by our own miserableness. That is something to repent for. Joy is not a luxury item.

Just because you took 4 Imodium doesn't mean your constipated for life. (Merch idea maybe?)

There’s a good chance that in five years, you’ll look back not in regret but with laughter and not a polite laugh, but a full-fat belly laugh.

That’s not to downplay the seriousness of what you’re going through, but I do know this.

The Lord is in the joy business much more than he is in the despair business. Let the specialist do His work. The story doesn’t end in the bathroom, it just hasn't become funny yet.

Don't take 4 Imodium.