This has been a real labour of love for me. I was struck by a stat I read in Dr Peter Brierley’s book ‘Pulling out of the nosedive’ a few years ago, which revealed that around half of the UK’s churches still don’t do any work with teenagers at all. When you get to age 14, the numbers get even lower. Now, when the church is by far the UK’s biggest provider of youth work, that’s bad news for young people, let alone for the the future of the church.

So, driven by a passion to see more churches take on the challenge of reaching out to young people, I’ve written this really, really practical book. It takes you from the planning stages, through volunteer recruitment, setting up good structures and delivering your first session, right through to evaluation. There’s also stuff on safeguarding, programme planning, and also a bit on the philosophy and theology behind what we do. By no means do I claim that it’s a work of staggering academic depth, but I do think it’ll get you up and running – and I really pray that it does exactly that for a number of projects around the UK and beyond.

A couple of other things to mention. First – because I am increasingly a believer in collaboration – mine is certainly not the only voice in the book. There are some amazing contributions on a range of subjects from a number of my youth minstry friends: Gavin Calver, Matt Summerfield, Jenny Baker, Pete Wynter, Steve Griffiths, Pippa Elmes, Matt Costley and more. And second – there are quite a few photocopiable resources which I hope you’ll find helpful – observation forms to help you listen to your community, evaluation forms and appraisal/line management resources to keep you on track.

The book is strap-lined ’How to launch or revitalize a church youth ministry’ (apologies for the American spelling, my publisher insisted) and I honestly think it works in both cases – as a first step into starting from scratch, or as a handbook for implementing change to a youth ministry that’s gone a bit stale.

I hope you find it helpful. And if you don’t want to buy a copy, I’d love you to join me in praying that the right people do get their hands on it, and that it plays a part in increasing youth work provision in the UK.

You can buy a very limited number of copies of the book from me direct, for £12 here.

Or you can buy it from Amazon here.

Andrew Forsthoefel. Photo by Therese Jornlin, taken from transom.org

I don’t know how often you take the time to listen to an audio documentary – but let me give you a really strong recommendation of a hidden gem:

Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I found myself rather randomly listening to the story of Andrew Forsthoefel, who at the age of 23 decided to walk out of his back door on the East Coast of America… and keep walking. For the next 11 months, he walked the 4,000-mile journey to the opposite coast, wearing a sign that read ‘walking to listen.’ He decided to interview people along the way, asking them one simple question:

‘What would you say to your 23-year-old self?’

The responses he received were a mix of profound, hilarious and baffling. And while he had to edit 85 hours of recordings down to make just a one-hour documentary, the result is a really fine piece of work, which gives a really compelling window into the mind of the American man and woman in the street.

The bit which absolutely chilled my spine was his interview with Emma Lou Dailey, an elderly black woman from Beatrice, Alabama who died before the documentary was completed. Remembering the deep prejudices and hardships suffered as a black woman in the American south, hers is an extraordinary voice of faith, forgiveness and hope. Whatever your faith persuasion, there’s no disputing that what she says about those who oppressed her is nothing short of remarkable.

Anyway, take a tip from me – listen to it – ‘Walking across America’ really is a wonderful thing.

You can listen to the documentary by clicking here.

Numbers are always a particular source of joy. I think I’ve made my deep admiration and love for my fellow youth workers abundantly clear over the years, but if there’s one thing they can’t seem to do, it’s book in early. I don’t know if that’s because we tend to hold off for as long as possible in case a better offer comes along, or because we’re just not naturally organised.  Anyway, by this stage – a month to go – we’re always sweating slightly over the potential variance in our delegate numbers. Are we planning for 900 people, or 1,900? Right now, we just don’t know.

As I say though, I really am learning to embrace the chaos and the uncertainty. And here’s why.

This event has been in the planning for twelve months already. We started that process by praying and listening to God, together seeking to discern what he might want to say to the youth leaders of the UK. For the first time, we believed that it was right to introduce a proper ‘theme’ to the event, which moved the day from a collection of great moments, to more of a journey. That arguably happened by holy accident in 2011, but this year we’ve decided to make it intentional. So as I say, we prayed, and then we felt we heard from God. A very clear theme. Some Bible passages. Building blocks with which to construct YWS13. Hopefully that will be very clear if you experience the day on May 18th.

God has something to say to youth leaders. And as long as we help that, rather than get in the way of it, YWS13 is going to be splendid.

So I’m not concerned at all, at least not about numbers, or logistics. Why should I be? We have a great team; we have delegates who come to us thirsty; moreover we have an amazing God intrinsically involved in what we’re doing. I have nothing to fear. I embrace the chaos with the deepest faith I can muster.

Come and join me at the Youthwork Summit. Whether you’re a youth worker, a volunteer, a teacher or a church leader, there’s loads for you. Bring your friends! Visit the website for more info, or book now by clicking here.

Some forms of rejection are inescapable – we’re forced to process them, often in front of and with the help of friends and family. Relationship breakups, unsuccessful job interviews – our hopes are dashed in public, and our reactions are quietly scrutinized by those around us. That’s probably helpful; as I say, it forces us to process our emotions.

Other forms are more subtle; secret even. The long-term hope that never seems to come to fruition; the unsuccessful conversation with that guy or girl who no-one knew you liked. Many of us are faced with painful thoughts and feelings – we might feel unattractive, unskilled, foolish, deluded even – and at the same time we’re faced with a decision: do we tell others about it, and allow them to see our discomfort and insecurities, or do we bottle it all up? If you’re anything like me, you may gravitate towards the latter option.

A true story to illustrate my point, and a fairly uncomfortable one to share…

Six months or so back, I wrote an email to a guy I didn’t know very well, asking him if he wanted to go out for a drink. I had a suspicion (from our previous meetings) that we would get on well, and  so I thought I’d see if he wanted to hang out. I’m aware culturally this might sound a bit odd, but this is how friendships start, isn’t it? You just don’t normally write about it in this way.

Anyhow, he said that’d be great, but that he was a little busy. He asked me to drop him a line again in the New Year to arrange it, and so that’s what I did. At this point I wasn’t feeling particularly vulnerable, but then, I didn’t know what was coming. A few weeks later, I finally got a reply from this chap, and it read along these lines:

“I’m sorry, I’m really busy with all the things that are already going on in my life, and maintaining all my current relationships, so I don’t think I’m going to have time for a drink with you.” (the subtext being ‘not now, not ever.’)

I don’t know how your self-esteem might have coped with that email, but mine didn’t fare particularly well. Of course I felt rejected that this person couldn’t see ANY opportunity in the future for a coffee with me, but there were other things too – I felt silly and a little strange for having asked in the first place; I wondered if this meant the guy thought some of the worst things I sometimes think about myself. It was a pretty ugly moment, and I was shocked at how hard it hit me.

I share that rather awkward story because I’ve been pondering my reaction for the last couple of months, and I have a sneaking suspicion that others may have had similar experiences of secret rejection. They might have taken the form of a publisher’s rejection letter (or ten), or a single off the cuff comment which the speaker had no idea contained such power. I’m sure the chap in my story has no idea that he has hurt me. But these things do hurt, and when they come along we leave them unprocessed at our own peril.

That’s partly because we do ourselves no good by bottling up pain – the amateur psychologist in all of us knows that will only lead to problems down the line. More importantly though, things like this give us a really good opportunity to ask the question: where is my identity rooted?

Those of us who are Christians all know the ‘correct’ answer to this – it’s Jesus of course! But that response is utterly meaningless if it’s not what we actually know and feel. My story clearly demonstrates that my sense of who I am is not entirely defined by what God thinks of me. But it is a strong encouragement to me to make that the case. That’s certainly how I’ve focused my prayers since it happened.

I’ve been reflecting a lot then on what it means to have my identity rooted in God – in what he, my Father and creator, thinks of me. My own sense of guilt at the things I get wrong in life can cloud that, but the truth is that this isn’t Biblical. ‘As far as the east is from the west,’ Psalm 103:12 tells me, ‘so far has he removed our transgressions from us.’ When God sees me, he doesn’t see my brokenness; he sees his forgiven child.

Another Psalm, 139, reminds me in v14 that ‘I am fearfully and wonderfully made.’ That’s got to be the most quoted Bible verse about self-esteem, but that doesn’t stop it being true. And I wonder if sometimes when we read that verse, we get the emphasis slightly wrong. It’s used so often to reassure us, but it’s actually about God – it’s about the fact that He doesn’t make mistakes.

Right there in Genesis 1 v 26, there seems to be some sort of inter-Trinity conversation about the making of mankind, where God says “Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness.” We are image-bearers of God himself. In some hard-to-fathom way, when other people meet, talk to or just look at us, they catch a distant glimpse of the image of God. We need to allow truth like this to soak deep into our being.

I haven’t got this one sorted by a long way. But I am starting to really appreciate – in secret, for real – that God loves me unconditionally, and looks on me with a huge beaming smile. Knowing those things for real – not just being able to recite them to others – will give me the tools to better process rejection when it next inevitably comes to visit, whether that’s in public or private.

How do I feel about my friend-who-turned-out-not-to-be? Disappointed, but no longer crushed. Having been on the end of rejection hasn’t just prepared me to deal with it better in future, it’s also helped me to gain perspective on how others must feel when I disappoint or reject them. My identity in Christ means that I must seek to grow more and more like him – that means submitting to and serving others, and as far as is humanly possible trying not be a source of rejection for them.

12: Bjorn decides that it’s time to step aside and give the young people the lead.

Dear Olaf,

It’s decided – I’m coming home. I was getting homesick here anyway – especially now that everyone is turning against Sven – but since neither my career as a sauna cleaner nor my secret life as a youth worker seem to be taking me anywhere, I think it might be time to return to Stockholm and return to the pig farming industry. I kind of miss the smell anyway.

The main reason for leaving the youth work of course, is that it doesn’t seem to need me anymore. The handful of young people in the church have been multiplying whenever I turn my back (through evangelism Olaf, I’m not that bad a youth worker), and on top of that, the new minister of St Eric’s isn’t just someone with a passing interest in youth – he’s completely passionate about them. Add to that Dave, who has grown so fast in his first year as a Christian that he’s now as well equipped to lead the group as me (last week he was leading a session and told us to turn to Zechariah, and I thought it was a joke, but it turns out there really is a book called that), and there seems very little reason for me to stay.

The new minister is a great guy though. His name’s Sam, and the first time we met, he was standing in the garden of his new vicarage, wondering why the front garden was completely bereft of plant life.

‘The last vicar was very fond of the garden,’ I tried to explain as I approached on the drive. ‘I think he decided to take a few of the plants to his new parish.’

‘He took the lawn,’ Sam replied, slightly incredulous. ‘I’m surprised he left me the windows.’

‘I’m Bjorn,’ I offered, almost embarrassedly. ‘I’ve been the youth worker here for the last year.’

‘Ah yes,’ he beamed ‘you’re the guy who set the youth work up from nothing! I’ve heard quite a bit about you from the diocese. I bet you’ve got a few things to teach me.’

‘Oh, I don’t know… Look, before we get started, I need to let you know that I’ve decided to go back home to Sweden…’

Sam’s face fell, and he lost interest in his mudbath. We then spent an hour talking, during which I tried to convince him how totally mediocre I had been, and he completely convinced me that he was a far better man to be overseeing Dave and co. than I was. He let me go eventually, after crying three times, hugging me for a full minute and praying for me in tongues. The elderly folk of this church have no idea what they’ve let themselves in for.

Dave was certainly less girly about it, but strangely, his reaction was one of anger. Considering I’d gone straight round to his house to tell him before anyone else did, and was offering him a junior leadership role on Sam’s behalf, I thought he could have been a bit nicer about it. Instead, I was soon up against an exceptionally well-dressed version of The Incredible Hulk

‘I thought we were friends!’ he huffed, stamping his feet. ‘I thought we were in this together!’

‘We are friends,’ I pleaded. ‘We were in it together!’ But it all seemed to fall on deaf ears. Dave kept using words like ‘betrayal’, and ‘cut to my very heart’, which I thought was a bit dramatic to be honest. Then there was a long silence, and he calmed down a little.

‘You don’t understand,’ he half-whispered. ‘A year ago my whole life was heading in a different direction. You helped me see what was really important in the world, and now God is all I live for – Him and this group. And we were just starting to grow, and turn into something really exciting, and then you, the leader on whom it all hinges, decide you’d rather go back to pig farming. It stinks!’

‘You get used to it after a few days,’ I explained. Then I realised what he meant. ‘But it doesn’t all hinge on me Dave, that’s the point. You’ve outgrown me, and if you want the group to keep on growing, I think I’m going to have to step aside.’ I added, ‘I do think this is what God wants me to do.’

Dave couldn’t really argue with that, and so he didn’t. There were just a few more awkward moments of silence, and I decided to slip away.

And sadly, that appeared to be the end of it. One man had cried on me, another had screamed at me, and now there was little else to do but pack my bags and buy a plane ticket. Tying up the last few loose ends took a couple of days, and as I was sitting in my brother’s flat for perhaps the last time, finishing a letter which I am almost certainly going to hand you in person and pretty depressed to be honest, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find no one, but could hear the cackle of teenagers bolting from the scene. I looked down, and spotted an envelope, resting on the mat. I opened it, and found this written inside:

Dear Bjorn, I’m sorry that I couldn’t say this to you yesterday – I was pretty mad. But I wanted you to know that I’ve really, really appreciated everything you’ve done this year. I met up with the new vicar yesterday, and he seems really cool – we’ve got loads of ideas for how the youth group can grow. We had 15 kids at the group last night. I think we’re going to be ok. I just really wanted to encourage you too – you’ve been a brilliant youth worker. You set this group up from nothing – and there wouldn’t be 15 of us now if it hadn’t been for you. So don’t ever think that because God’s called you back to Sweden, he didn’t use you amazingly when you were here. Good luck with the pigs. Tommy says hi. Write to us. Dave.

It seemed like a fitting epilogue to my time here. My heart lifted, and my cab arrived. I’ll see you in a few hours.

Bjorn

Bjorn Argen is a volunteer youth worker in Stockholm, Sweden.

It’s this post – Comic Relief Humbug – from the Proclamation Trust website. I’m not generally a critic of Proc Trust; I know some people struggle with their reformed-ness, but since I came out of a conservative evangelical stable myself (I’ll blog separately about this at some point), I can see a lot of positives in their approach. But this piece, written to coincide with Red Nose Day, really vexed me when I read it this morning.

The writer suggests that Christians should be cautious about giving money to the charity Comic Relief for a couple of reasons – a) because it’s not clear where the money goes, and b) because some of the projects Comic Relief then makes grants to are what he brilliantly terms ‘Christianly dubious’. Let’s gloss over that assault on the English language for a moment, and take those points in turn…

The post author writes:

“First, it seems somewhat irresponsible to give to general campaigns without first doing some groundwork. There is little or no visibility of where your giving is actually going. That’s OK for Christian organisations (and there are plenty of worthy ones that we support corporately and personally), but for those who are not, how do you know how your money is being spent? I think churches should be nurturing specific relationships, either with individuals or projects or trusted organisations. That seems a more appropriate way to give.” 

The Internet is hard work, isn’t it? I mean, you have to go all the way to the Comic Relief website, and click on this page to find out where the money goes. Much easier to speculate that such a page doesn’t exist, isn’t it? But more ridiculous than this claim is the idea that it’s OK for Christian charities not to be transparent about where your money goes. Really? In my experience, some Christian charities (not all of them by any means) can be the worst when it comes to good use of resources. Do we forgive, overlook and continue pouring money into potentially poorly-stewarded things because these people sign up to the same set of doctrinal statements as us?

To be fair, I actually agree with his point about thinking more seriously about who we give to, and the bit about nurturing specific relationships is wise. But you can’t write off the importance of an event like Red Nose Day, the heart behind it, and the good it does, because you already give in other ways. That’s not particularly radical generosity is it?

But all of this is preamble. Here’s the bit that provoked me to write this…

“second, more specifically, some of CR’s projects are Christianly dubious. That’s because they give to alleviate injustice and they have a broader view of justice than you or I. They don’t publish a list of donations, but in the past when I’ve managed to get hold of the list, I found they have supported groups lobbying for women bishops in CofE and Lesbian, Gay and Transgender helplines for teenagers.”

Is it ‘Christianly dubious’ to support a young person who is struggling because of the bullying and rejection they’ve suffered because of homophobic bullying? Is it really ‘Christianly dubious’ to want to reach out to someone who might possibly be suicidal as a result? To save a life? To listen? To offer friendship? To love unconditionally? If anything around here is ‘Christianly dubious’ mate, it’s your blog post.

I wrote this for a couple of reasons. First, because there’s no facility to post comments on the Proc Trust blog, and second, because a few people have shared this piece on social media and thought it was generally good; and I disagree. I think it would be rather good if the original post was removed, and fast. As the author notes, we’re called to be both generous and wise as Christians – this post displays neither of these traits.

Oh, and you can give some money to Red Nose Day here. I might just go and do that now. Here endeth the rant.

Hang on, just going to pray before hitting ‘publish’ on this one. Yep, He seems ok with it. Maybe He’s got a ‘broader view of justice’ than the Proc Trust…

11: Two momentous changes hit Bjorn on his return from retreat.

Dear Olaf,

Have you ever been to a social gathering and wondered, ‘if I went home, would anybody actually notice?’ That’s kind of how I feel right now. My doctor sent me on a week’s holiday because I was in danger of burning out, and I reluctantly went. And then in that very week, the youth group I’d been dutifully plodding along with for nearly a year decided to burst into life. Now don’t get me wrong – that’s something I’ve been praying would happen for months – it’s just a bit of a kick in the teeth that it happened without me.

My suspicions were first aroused when I went to the church on Saturday afternoon to return my tent. There was a group of young people I’d never seen before sitting on the steps of St Eric’s. Initially, I was worried that they might be squatters, but then I spotted Dave, sandwiched right in the middle of them.

‘Hey Bjorn,’ he called to me. ‘Come and meet the guys.’

I looked at ‘the guys’. One had a chain attached to his nose, which was also attached to his ear. Another had pink hair.

‘Hey guys,’ I waved nervously.

‘I met them last weekend outside Dixons,’ Dave explained. ‘This is Clare, Josh, and Bobo.’

Bobo – the one with the weird nose/ear/necklace thing – nodded at me. No one explained why he’d been given the name of a performing monkey.

I offered a courteous ‘hey’ and took my tent inside. From bitter experience, I presumed my next steps would involve fumbling around in the darkness for a light switch, hitting my head on candelabrum, and getting a lungful of mustiness. Instead, the lights were already on, and plenty of people were home. Who most of them were though, was beyond me.

At the back of the church I found Tommy, playing Jenga with another group of older teenagers who I didn’t recognise. There appeared to be something wrong with his eyes, but I couldn’t quite place what it was. In one of the pews, the two girls who became Christians at Niceness in the Newtown™ were reading from the same Bible. Right at the front of the church, the group of Goths from the Baptist church down the road, who’d helped us on the same mission, were carving something into the altar. Including Dave and Bobo, there were 15 young people in the church. Now what were 15 teenagers doing in St Eric’s on a Saturday afternoon?

I dumped the tent, walked back out and took Dave to one side. I wanted to know what was going on.

‘Dave,’ I whispered, ‘where have all these young people come from?’

‘They want to join the youth group,’ beamed Dave. ‘Me and Tommy went out for a walk last weekend and we met them in the high street.’

‘All of them? Even Bobo?’

‘Yes – and then we invited them to come to the church.’

‘And they came? But how on earth did you convince them to…’

‘We prayed – just like you always tell us to. Tommy and I did an all-night prayer marathon the night before. We went through about 12 cans of Red Bull each, but we managed to stay up the whole night, although Tommy can’t blink anymore. Then the next morning, we went out to invite people to the group, and they were just really responsive. Oh, and by the way Bjorn, I meant to say, the vicar’s looking for you. Says it’s important.’

And then he trotted back to his mission field, leaving me, the supposed youth leader, on my own, feeling like an alien in my own youth group. What did all this mean, I wondered? I leave the group for a week and it explodes. Should I have taken a longer holiday?

I crept up the gravel of the vicarage driveway, trying hard not to alert the vicar’s big dog to my presence. The man himself was in the garden, uprooting the prettiest plants and plopping them into pots. He smiled warmly when he saw me approaching. Strange, I thought, he’d never done that before.

‘Hello Bjorn’, he beamed. ‘Good to see you.’ He NEVER said that.

‘You wanted to see me, Reverend?’ I asked, keeping an eye out for big dogs. ‘Is it about the youth group?’

‘We have a youth group? Oh, well done old boy. But no, I wanted to let you know that I’m moving on from my post.’

I was stunned. The doddery old fool was actually leaving?

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, ‘how will the church cope without your magnificent leadership?’

‘I know, I know,’ he replied. ‘But this one’s come right from the top of the diocese. Apparently Harley Newtown is becoming one of the big areas for young families, so they’ve restructured, and I’m moving to St Ethel’s, Roxwell.’

Lucky them, I thought. ‘Lucky them,’ I said.

‘Anyway, the vicar of St Ethel’s is a much younger man – apparently he’s done wonders with the youth and young adults over there – and they think he’s better suited to Harley.’

‘Well, you seem quite happy about it,’ I said.

‘Of course I am – it’s a much bigger vicarage. Plus, I’m taking the garden with me.’ And he wasn’t joking – he’d even rolled up the lawn.

As I wandered away (alright, ran for my life from the rabid Alsatian that had smelled blood) I pondered the implications of this double whammy. The church was getting a new, fresh, young vicar with a passion for youth, and was filling up rapidly with young people through no fault of mine. Would anybody at the party miss me if I went home now?

So, I guess this comes as something of a shock to you, but I’m seriously considering giving it all up. Living in someone else’s flat and sweating it out in a health club are bearable troubles, but if on top of that God doesn’t have a role for me here anymore, that changes the picture. Suddenly Stockholm seems to be singing to me again, although that could be because I’ve got an Abba album on as I write. Buddy, if you have some wisdom to offer right now, I could really do with hearing it.

Your friend,

Bjorn

Bjorn Argen is a volunteer youth worker based in Harley Newtown, in the North Midlands. *Not really.

10: After a hectic few months, Bjorn decides to take a well-deserved break.

Dear Olaf,

Our summer mission was an incredible time. We saw the community united, we mobilised eight unconnected young people to work together, and we saw young people become Christians. Also, I passed out twice in an allotment.

Now, while those first three achievements were excellent, and combined to show me why I’d come here in the first place, the last one was slightly less encouraging. In fact, it led me to pay a visit to the local doctor. I told him about what had happened, and then he poked me with a few things.

‘Mr Argen,’ he said, ‘what does an average week involve for you?’

I explained that aside from my forty hours at the health club, the eight hours per week that I spent with my youth group; the church service, the home group, the mothers and toddlers morning and the Thursday night Salsa dancing group, an average week didn’t consist of very much. Oh, and there were my mentoring slots with Dave, but they often overlapped with Salsa, so I didn’t bother mentioning them.

‘It seems very clear to me,’ said the doc. ‘You’re exhausted, and if you don’t take a break immediately, you’re going to die.’

‘I’m going to die?’ I replied, mortified. ‘Really?’

‘No, not really,’ he chuckled. ‘But that old chestnut gets people every time!’

I resolved straight away to do two things. First, to take a break from work and youth work as soon as possible; and second, to find myself a new doctor.

A member of St Eric’s suggested that I travel north and spend a week by a lake somewhere. I left Dave in charge of the youth group (Tommy), and my brother in charge of the health club, and packed a bag. The vicar found me an old tent that was knocking about in the vestry, and grudgingly sent me on my way, moaning about how he never gets a holiday.

Less than 24 hours on from my appointment with Dr Chuckles, I found myself at the foot of a mountain. There was a babbling stream nearby, and on my arrival, a bird briefly settled on my shoulder. In many ways it was an idyllic and tranquil place; reminiscent somewhat of a scene from Bambi. Although in Disney films, the birds probably don’t leave small deposits behind when they settle on your shoulder. Anyway, that apart, this seemed like a pretty good place to pitch my tent, as there were less people around here than you’d find in the average Wimpy.

Now, as you know, putting together a simple tent should pose no difficulty for me, a Swede. For one thing, I come from the land that invented self-assembly, and for another, we Scandinavians have always been known for our outdoor pursuits. Of course, here in England, I wasn’t actually naked, but that shouldn’t really have changed anything. And yet, for some reason, putting up the vicar’s old tent suddenly became harder than a nightclub doorman with a big dog. I had poles, and there was a considerable amount of canvas (which may have been stored at some point in a railway toilet), and there were ropes too. But nothing seemed to fit with anything else. I needed Dave and Tommy here to help me with this. How were they, I wondered? Had they seen the girls who became Christians at Niceness in the Newtown™? My chest tightened. Where was the groundsheet? Should I have gone on holiday so soon after the mission? Was the health club okay without me? Had I packed a mallet?

Suddenly, I let out a great, involuntary scream. It echoed around the valley, scaring the surrounding wildlife and causing another little bird to leave a deposit on my other shoulder. It was then that I truly realised how stressed I’d become. My mind was so caught up in missions and saunas and Salsa dancing that I now lacked the mental capacity required to erect a simple tent.

I folded up the tent, and stashed it with my bag in some nearby bushes. Then I set off on a wander around the valley, with no particular route in mind. I just walked, and breathed, and took in the incredible nature around me. After about ten minutes of just walking and breathing, I started to speak. They were just fairly childish words, which explained how I was feeling and what I was stressed about. It was only about six or seven sentences in that I realised I was praying. And it was only at that point that I became conscious of the fact that I hadn’t done this for such a long time. I’d prayed with Dave and Tommy, sure, but not on my own – just my Father and me.

Immediately I felt a little of the stress lifting. I kept speaking, walking and breathing – it was like a tidal wave of words pouring out of me. I didn’t return to the foot of my mountain for several hours, and when I did, the tent almost seemed to assemble itself. It was then of course that I spotted the gigantic hole in one side, but fortunately it was a warm night.

I spent the next five days doing pretty much the same thing – walking and praying and getting covered in animal excrement. I got round to saying everything to God that I’d been planning to; and when I’d finished, he said a few things to me too. When I returned to Harley, I was like a new youth worker. It had been the best kind of holiday, and even the news that my youth group had substantially grown without me, and that the vicar was leaving St Eric’s, wasn’t enough to tighten my chest again – especially as I’d got back in time for Salsa club.

God bless you buddy,

Bjorn

Bjorn Argen is a volunteer youth worker based in Harley Newtown, in the North Midlands. Not really.

With all the guest blogging that’s going on, it actually makes a lot of sense for God52 to have its own site, but my original reason for moving it there was because a wise friend (as well as a couple of less friendly people) pointed out how easy it would be for it to become a platform for me and my ego. That was definitely something that I knew wouldn’t be right – but of course I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to ignore my friend’s advice.

Since then, I’ve had various conversations – some informal, some more serious – around ways to develop God52 into something bigger; into a more powerful ‘brand’. They’re all definitely wrong. But because of the sort of person I am; because I’m obsessed with creating new stuff, some of them were quite tempting. So – in an attempt to protect myself from any moments of weakness, I’m going to list them here, so that you can be my witnesses. Here are a few things we’ll never do with God52:

God52 the book. You can imagine it now – coming to a Christian bookstore near you, another addition to the shelves and shelves of Christian books that didn’t need to be written. “Martin Whatshisname and Jamie Thingemebob reflect on a year of living more spiritual formationally.” Includes 52 challenges which you could just get off the Internet. One publisher has already approached me. So no: there will be no God52 book.

God52 the event. Part of my life involves launching, planning, hosting and speaking at events, so of course my natural instinct is to create some sort of ‘offline’ gathering around God52. But that wasn’t the original idea – God52 is an online project; an opportunity to use the Internet and social media for good (rather than for arguing about theology and women bishops). There doesn’t need to be an event. There are probably too many Christian events as it is. There will be no God52 event.

A cooler website. The God52 website is limited because Jamie and I know about as much about web design as we do about Nigerian cheese. Which is not a lot. But we like it that way – we’re not trying to build anything flash or clever, and we’d fail if we did. Simplicity stays – it’s a spiritual discipline after all.

Sponsored challenges. About a month in, I got my first email about this – I’ve had a couple more since. Organisations which – motivated by their own brilliant mission and vision – have asked whether we might do a God52 challenge that points people to their cause, or even directly to them. I don’t mind them asking, but the answer will always be a polite no. It’s a very short leap from there to sell-out city.

Year two. Here’s the big one. The stats on the God52 site are building steadily – the graph, if you were to draw one, would suggest explosive growth in year two, once word of mouth has spread about the idea. That’s when it could really take off and become a big deal in the British and even the international church. So there won’t be a year two. God52 is for 2013 only – someone else can come up with something new; something even more creative, helpful and visionary.

All of this is to say: God52 is a simple idea about developing character and spiritual discipline. And maybe the greatest act of discipline for me is going to be keeping it that simple. If I’ve done my job properly, then at the end of 2013, we’ll all walk away from this a little closer to God, and a little closer to each other. We’ll reflect on a good year, hopefully inspired to continue going deeper with God. And that’s it.

Do join in with God52 this year then. Lurk and read. Do the challenges when you feel prompted to, or try like me to accomplish them all (I’ve already failed at least one). Write a guest blog post. Invite your friends to join in – whether they’re Christians in your small group, or not-yet-Christians you know from the pub. It’s a simple idea, and it’s working as a result. I commit to you all now; it’s going to stay that way.

Visit the God52 site.