Riot of Love - Chapter 1: The Burnout

Part I: The Disconnect (The Identity Shift)

Chapter 1: The Burnout

This is a fictional story of Leo and friends, inspired by the book P3: Prayer, Power & Proclamation.

The bass drum from the worship band was vibrating through the floorboards, shaking the stack of paper cups Leo was balancing, but he didn’t feel the rhythm. He just felt the headache that had been sitting behind his left eye since Tuesday.

"Leo, the livestream is lagging again. Frame rate is dropping. It looks like a potato filmed it."

Leo spun around, nearly colliding with a Year 9 girl trying to smuggle three doughnuts out of the hospitality area. Jay was standing by the mixing desk, one headphone cup pressed to his ear, his face illuminated by the blue glare of four different monitors. Jay was the Squad’s tech wizard, the skeptic, and the only person Leo knew who could look bored while the sound system was peaking at 110 decibels.

"Reset the router, Jay. Again," Leo shouted over the bridge of a song that was demanding everyone surrender all. "And check the uplink. I can’t do miracles, mate. I’m just the volunteer coordinator."

"Miracles would be nice," Jay muttered, turning back to the screens. "Or decent broadband. I’ll take either."

Leo exhaled, a sharp, ragged breath that didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. He looked around the converted warehouse that served as the youth hall for City Life Church. It was aesthetically perfect. Exposed brick, industrial lighting, a neon sign on the back wall that buzzed WELCOME HOME in electric pink. It was curated, cool, and chaotic.

And Leo was drowning in it.

He adjusted the lanyard around his neck. It was a heavy, plastic thing that swung like a pendulum every time he moved. The card inside read: LEO – MINISTRY TEAM – HERE TO SERVE.

Here to serve, he thought, the words tasting like stale coffee. Here to run errands. Here to fix the WiFi. Here to make sure everyone else has a spiritual encounter while I try not to pass out.

"Leo!"

This time it was Mia. She was weaving through the crowd of teenagers, a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. Mia was the organiser, the engine of the group. She operated on caffeine and a terrifying level of competency, but today, her usually pristine ponytail was fraying, and her eyes looked tight.

"Chloe’s crying in the girls' loos," Mia hissed as she reached him, pulling him into the shadow of a pillar. "Again."

"What is it this time?" Leo asked, rubbing his temple.

"She messed up the Instagram caption on the morning post. Typo. She thinks everyone’s judging her. She says she’s 'ruining the brand of the Kingdom'." Mia rolled her eyes, but there was sympathy there, buried under the stress. "I need you to go talk to the speaker. Stall him for five minutes. I’ve got to get Chloe out before she melts her mascara off."

"Mia, I’ve got to fix the stream, the coffee urn is leaking, and I think I’ve got a Maths mock tomorrow that I haven’t revised for."

Mia grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm. "Leo. We are the leaders. We serve. That’s the job. If we don’t do it, who will?"

That’s the job.

Leo nodded, the automatic response of a well-trained employee. "Yeah. Okay. I’m on it."

He watched Mia dart away, then looked over at Jay, who was aggressively typing code-or possibly just venting frustration-into a keyboard. Then he looked at the stage, where hundreds of hands were raised in what looked like genuine adoration.

Leo raised his hand too, mostly to check his watch. 7:45 PM. Two more hours. Then he could go home, stare at his ceiling, and wonder why, despite doing everything right, he felt completely hollow.

By 10:00 PM, the neon sign had been switched off. The warehouse smelled of Lynx body spray and cooling electronics. The silence that followed a loud event always felt heavy, like the air pressure had suddenly dropped.

The Squad-Leo, Mia, Jay, and Chloe-sat in a circle on the stage steps, surrounded by coiled XLR cables and empty pizza boxes. This was their ritual. The post-game analysis. Usually, this was where they hyped each other up, shared the 'wins', and acted like the spiritual spiritual-forces they were supposed to be.

Tonight, the vibe was less 'conquering heroes' and more 'survivors of a shipwreck'.

Chloe was aggressively scrubbing at her eyes with a wet wipe. "I just feel like I’m faking it," she said, her voice small. "I post these verses about joy and peace, and then I freak out because I missed a comma. It’s performative. It’s all just... content."

"It’s not content, Chlo," Mia said, though she was staring blankly at her phone, scrolling through her calendar. "It’s ministry. You’re reaching people. The algorithm is a tool for the Gospel."

"The algorithm is a beast that eats souls," Jay deadpanned, spinning a roll of gaffer tape on his finger. "We’re just feeding it. The stream cut out three times tonight. I saw the comments. People weren't 'encountering the presence'; they were complaining about the buffering. I spent two hours praying for bandwidth. Is that what God cares about? Upload speeds?"

Leo sat with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. The lanyard was dangling between his legs, tapping against the wooden step. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"At least you guys are doing something tangible," Leo said quietly.

They all looked at him. Leo was the anchor. Leo was the one who was supposed to be going to seminary, the one with the 'call of God' on his life.

"What does that mean?" Mia asked, putting her phone down.

"I mean, I’m running around fetching things," Leo said, his voice rising slightly. "I’m moving chairs. I’m calming people down. I’m ticking boxes. I feel like God’s unpaid intern. Like, I show up, I do the grunt work, I hope the Boss notices me in the corridor and gives me a thumbs up, and then I go home and panic about whether I did enough to keep the job."

"Don't say that," Chloe whispered, looking scandalised. "He’s our Father."

"Is He?" Leo snapped. The anger surprised him. It flared up from nowhere, hot and sharp.

"Because it feels like He’s a CEO of a massive corporation, and I’m just employee number 4056 in the basement trying to earn a promotion. I’m tired, guys. I’m properly shattered. I’m trying to save up for Uni, I’m trying to keep my grades up, I’m trying to lead this youth ministry, and I feel... nothing. I pray, and it feels like I’m leaving a voicemail on a crowded line."

Jay stopped spinning the tape. "Deism," he said.

"What?"

"God is a clockmaker who wound up the universe and walked away," Jay recited. "That’s what it feels like. Except we’re trying to impress the Clockmaker by keeping the gears polished."

"That’s heresy, Jay," Mia warned, though there was no bite in her tone. She looked as tired as Leo felt. "We’re just... in a dry season. We need to push through. We need to serve harder. Sacrifice more. That’s how you get the breakthrough."

Serve harder.

The words hit Leo like a physical blow. He stood up abruptly. The plastic lanyard swung against his chest.

"I can’t serve harder," he said, backing away. "I’m empty. There’s nothing left in the tank to serve with."

"Leo, where are you going?" Mia called out, standing up.

"I need air," Leo said, turning towards the fire exit. "I just need a minute."

He pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the alleyway behind the church. It was raining-standard London drizzle that soaked you without you realizing it. The air was cold and smelled of wet tarmac and exhaust fumes.

Leo leaned his back against the rough brick wall and slid down until he was crouching, hugging his knees. His chest felt tight. Too tight.

It started as a flutter in his ribs, then escalated into a vice grip. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. Panic attack, his brain registered. Great. Add that to the CV.

He closed his eyes, trying to force the air into his lungs. He tried to do what he’d been taught in Sunday School since he was five.

Pray. Just pray.

"God," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, please. Help me out here. I did the setup. I managed the team. I didn’t lose my temper with the Year 9s. I’m trying. I’m really trying."

He waited. He listened to the rain hissing on the pavement. He listened to the distant siren of a police car.

Nothing.

"I need to know what I’m supposed to do," Leo pleaded, bargaining now. "The Uni applications are due. My parents are asking about the future. The church wants me to step up. I’m drowning. If You’re there, just... give me something. A sign. A feeling. Anything."

He clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. He imagined God sitting in a high-backed chair in a glass tower somewhere beyond the clouds, looking at a stack of paperwork, too busy running the universe to notice the teenager hyperventilating in a rainy alleyway in South London.

I’m doing it wrong, Leo thought, the shame washing over him colder than the rain. I’m not holy enough. I haven’t prayed enough. I haven’t earned the right to be heard yet.

He looked down at his chest. The streetlamp above buzzed, flickering orange light onto the plastic card hanging around his neck.

MINISTRY TEAM – HERE TO SERVE.

He stared at the word SERVE. It felt like an accusation. It felt like a chain.

"I’m just a worker," he muttered to the damp air. "That’s all I am. A cog in the machine."

He fumbled with the clip at the back of his neck. His fingers were shaking so bad he couldn't get it open at first. He yanked at it, harder than necessary, until the safety clasp popped open.

Leo held the lanyard in his hand. It was just plastic and fabric, but it felt like it weighed a tonne. It represented the crushing expectation to perform, to manage, to sustain a spiritual reality he wasn't even sure he possessed. It was the badge of the employee who hopes that if he sweeps the floor well enough, the Master might look at him.

He wanted to throw it across the alley. He wanted to scream.

Instead, the back door opened.

"Leo?"

It wasn't Mia or the others. The voice was deeper, older.

Leo hastily wiped his face with his sleeve and scrambled to his feet, shoving the lanyard into his hoodie pocket. "Yeah. I’m here. Just... checking the perimeter."

A man stepped out into the rain. He didn't look like the usual church crowd. No skinny jeans, no curated haircut. He was wearing a battered leather jacket and looked like he’d lived a few lifetimes. He was holding a takeaway cup of tea, steam rising into the night air.

It was David, a guy who had started attending a few weeks ago. He sat at the back, didn't sing much, but Leo had noticed him watching the chaos of the youth service with a strange, quiet intensity. He wasn't on the roster. He wasn't a volunteer.

"Perimeter looks wet," David observed, leaning against the doorframe. He didn't seem bothered by the rain.

"Yeah. Well. Gotta keep standards up," Leo said, his voice trembling slightly. "Did you need something? The service is over, we’re just locking up."

David took a sip of his tea. "I don't need anything. I just saw you bolt out the door like your trousers were on fire. Thought I’d check if you were breathing."

"I’m fine," Leo lied. "Just tired."

"You look more than tired, lad," David said gently. "You look like you’re trying to push a bus uphill with your bare hands."

Leo let out a short, bitter laugh. "That’s exactly what youth ministry feels like."

"Does it?" David tilted his head. "That sounds exhausting. And ineffective. Buses are heavy."

"Someone has to push it," Leo said defensively. "That’s the work. We’re labourers in the vineyard, right? That’s what the Bible says. Work hard, harvest the crop."

David looked at him for a long moment. His eyes were kind, but sharp. They seemed to see right past the defensive posture Leo was holding.

"Labourers, yes," David said. "But who told you that you were a hired hand?"

Leo blinked. "What?"

"You’re running around in there," David gestured with his cup towards the warehouse,

"acting like you’re terrified you’re going to get fired. You’re sweating, you’re panicking, you’re treating the people like customers and God like a manager you’re scared of."

Leo bristled. "I take my responsibilities seriously."

"I can see that. But you’ve got the wrong name tag on."

Leo froze. His hand tightened around the lanyard in his pocket. "I don't know what you mean."

"Imagine," David said, stepping fully out into the rain now, ignoring the drizzle soaking his grey hair. "Imagine you get a job at a massive company. You get a badge that says 'Runner'. You fetch coffee, you file papers, you stay in the lobby. You don't go into the boardroom. You don't eat the CEO's lunch. You work for your wage."

"Yeah," Leo said. "That’s life."

"Now," David continued, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more resonant. "Imagine the CEO comes down to the lobby, takes that badge off you, and says, 'What are you doing? You’re my son. You own this place. Everything I have is yours. Come upstairs and sit with me.'"

Leo stared at him. The rain was running down the back of his neck, but he felt a strange warmth in his chest.

"You’re acting like the employee, Leo," David said. "Trying to earn a paycheck of approval. But you’re the kid. You have the keys to the building, but you’re standing out here in the rain begging for someone to let you in."

The silence stretched between them. It wasn't the empty silence of the alley anymore; it was charged.

"I don't feel like the son," Leo whispered, the confession tumbling out before he could stop it. "I feel like if I stop working, God will stop turning up."

"That’s because you think you’re the battery," David said. "You think you have to generate the power. You think if you hype the music enough, or pray loud enough, or organize well enough, you can manufacture God. That’s a fast track to burnout, son. And it looks like you’ve arrived."

Leo slumped back against the wall. The panic was receding, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, dawning realisation.

"How do I stop?" Leo asked. "I don't know any other way."

David smiled. "You resign."

"Resign?"

"Resign from the job of being God’s CEO. Resign from the mindset of the slave. Hand in your notice." David finished his tea and crushed the cup. "We’re meeting on Thursday. My place. Just a few of us. We’re going to look at things... differently. Upside down. Bring your friends. The angry one with the headphones, the girl with the clipboard, and the crying one."

Leo’s jaw dropped. "How did you-"

"I watch," David said. "And I listen. Mostly to Him." He pointed a finger upwards.

"Thursday. 7 PM. Don't bring your lanyard. Bring your Bible. And bring your mess."

David turned and walked back into the church, leaving Leo alone in the alley.

Leo slowly pulled the lanyard out of his pocket. The plastic gleamed in the streetlight.

Ministry Team.

He looked at the door David had gone through. For the first time all night, the crushing weight on his chest lightened. He wasn't sure what David meant about the 'upside down' or 'resigning', but he knew one thing.

The way he was doing this-the striving, the anxiety, the performance-was killing him.

Leo unclipped the plastic card from the fabric strap. He looked at the word SERVE one last time, then shoved the card deep into his pocket, separate from the strap. He took a deep breath of the wet London air. It tasted cleaner.

He pushed off the wall and went back inside to find the Squad. He didn't know how to tell them, but he knew things had to change. The burnout wasn't just a bad mood; it was a symptom of a mistaken identity.

And Leo was done being an employee. He just had to figure out how to be a child