Riot of Love - Chapter 2: The Radical Reframing

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

Thursday evening in London smelled like rain and fried chicken.

"You’re telling me," Jay said, staring up at the peeling intercom of a terraced house in Brixton, "that the Yoda figure who is going to save our ministry lives above a dry cleaner?"

"He didn't say he was going to save us," Leo corrected, checking the address on his phone for the third time. "He said he had tea."

"I don't do tea," Jay grumbled, hitching his backpack higher. "I do Monster energy and existential dread."

Mia checked her watch. "We have exactly ninety minutes before I need to be on a Zoom call for the district planning committee. Let's go in, get the wisdom, and get out. Efficiently."

Chloe was silent, hugging her puffer jacket tight around herself. Her mascara was fresh today, but her eyes were darting around nervously. "Do you think he’s going to tell us off? About the service on Sunday?"

"Probably," Jay said.

"Hopefully," Leo muttered.

He pressed the buzzer. A moment later, a buzz sounded, and the door clicked open.

They trudged up two flights of narrow stairs, the carpet worn thin in the middle. Leo felt that familiar knot of anxiety in his stomach-the one that usually screamed you’re not prepared, you’re not spiritual enough. But mixed with it was curiosity. The conversation in the alleyway on Sunday hadn't left his head. Resign, David had said. Hand in your notice.

The door at the top of the stairs was open. David was standing there, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, holding a tea towel.

"The Squad," David smiled, ushering them in. "Come in. Wipe your feet. The carpet is vintage, which is a polite way of saying old."

The flat was warm and cluttered in a way that felt intentional. Bookshelves lined every wall, overflowing with theology, biographies, and what looked like manuals on car repair. There was no neon sign. No stage lighting. Just a few lamps casting a golden glow over a worn leather sofa and a mismatched collection of armchairs arranged in a circle.

"Sit," David commanded gently. "Tea is brewing. There are Hobnobs on the table. Help yourselves."

Mia sat on the edge of the sofa, her spine rigid. She pulled a notebook out of her bag before she’d even settled. "So, David. Leo said you had some feedback on our operational structure? We’re always looking to optimise our workflow for maximum engagement."

David chuckled, setting a teapot down on a coffee table that was really just a wooden crate.

"Workflow. Optimisation. Engagement. You lot speak a very interesting language."

"It’s the language of growth," Jay challenged, sinking into an armchair and crossing his arms. "If you’re not growing, you’re dying. That’s basic biology."

"Is it?" David poured a mug and handed it to Chloe, who took it with a shaking hand.

"Cancer grows. We don't usually celebrate that."

Jay blinked. The room went quiet.

David sat down on a wooden stool, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I’m not here to critique your sound desk, Jay. Or your clipboard, Mia. I’m sure they are very efficient. I asked you here because on Sunday night, I saw four people trying to fuel a Ferrari with apple juice."

"We’re just tired," Leo said, his voice quiet. "It’s been a long term."

"It’s not fatigue, Leo. It’s friction," David corrected. "You’re trying to run a Kingdom operation using the World’s operating system. And it’s tearing your engine apart."

He reached behind him and grabbed a pair of glasses from a shelf. They looked ridiculous-thick, plastic lenses that looked like they belonged in a science museum gift shop.

"Put these on," David said, handing them to Leo.

"Why?"

"Humour me."

Leo sighed and slid the glasses onto his nose. Immediately, he lurched forward, grabbing the coffee table to steady himself.

"Whoa."

"What do you see?" David asked.

"Everything is... upside down," Leo said, nausea swimming in his gut. The ceiling was the floor. The lamp was hanging precariously upwards. David was sitting on the ceiling. "It’s completely flipped."

"Keep them on for a minute," David said. "Try to pick up that biscuit."

Leo reached out. His hand went high when his brain said low. He clawed at the air three times before his fingers finally brushed the Hobnob. It was disorienting, frustrating, and made him feel incompetent.

"This is stupid," Leo said, taking the glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

"That," David pointed a finger at him, "is exactly what you are doing with your life. You are trying to navigate God’s reality using the world’s perspective. No wonder you’re missing the target. No wonder you’re exhausted."

David sat back. "Jesus didn't just come to be a nice moral teacher. He came to bring a Kingdom. But His Kingdom is an Inverted Kingdom. It works in the exact opposite way to everything you’ve been taught by school, social media, and yes, even some church culture."

Mia clicked her pen. "Opposite how?"

"Let's look at the logic you live by," David said. "The logic of the World." He held up one hand. "Worldly Logic says: Status. Be seen. Promote yourself. Build your brand. If you’re not posting, you don't exist. If you’re not on stage, you’re not important."

Chloe looked down at her phone, which was face up on her knee.

"Worldly Logic says: Power," David continued. "Seek control. Assert your will. Win the argument. 'Might makes right'. If the tech fails, force it to work. If people don't listen, shout louder."

Jay shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Worldly Logic says: Success," David looked at Mia. "Winning. Being right. Crushing the competition. Achieving personal fame. Amassing followers."

"And what does the Kingdom say?" Leo asked.

David leaned in. "The Kingdom says: The last shall be first. The way up is down. If you want to be great, become a servant. If you want to find your life, lose it. If you want to be rich, give everything away. If someone slaps you, turn the cheek."

"That sounds... weak," Jay said bluntly. "In the real world, you get eaten alive if you do that."

"In the world's system, yes," David agreed. "But we aren't citizens of that system anymore. We have a new passport. When you try to gain spiritual authority by using worldly methods-hype, control, performance-you get exactly what you’ve got right now: Burnout. Anxiety. And a distinct lack of miracles."

David stood up and walked to a whiteboard propped against the wall. He drew a line down the middle.

"We need to reframe everything," he said. "You’ve been wearing the wrong name tags. Leo told me on Sunday he felt like an employee. A runner."

Leo nodded, the memory of the panic attack still fresh.

"An employee works for a wage," David wrote EMPLOYEE/SLAVE on the left side. "An employee is motivated by fear of being fired. An employee has limited access-they can't just walk into the CEO's office. An employee relies on their own resources to get the job done."

"That’s exactly how I feel," Mia whispered. "Like if I drop the ball, God is going to find someone better to run the youth group."

"And that," David said softly, "is a lie from the pit of hell."

He wrote CHILD/HEIR on the right side of the board.

"A child," David said, tapping the board with the marker, "works from love, not for approval. A child has the family name. A child has the inheritance. A child has unlimited access. If Prince George walks into Buckingham Palace, he doesn't need a security pass. He’s family. He owns the place."

David turned to them. "You lot are operating out of a Servant Mentality. You think you need to earn God’s love, impress Him with your smooth livestreams and perfect captions. You’re striving. The Kingdom is about abiding."

"So we just... do nothing?" Jay asked, skeptical. "Just sit around and sing Kumbaya?"

"No," David smiled. "The heir actually has more authority than the employee. The employee can only do what they're told. The heir can speak on behalf of the Father. But the heir knows the resources don't come from their own pocket. They come from the Father's bank account."

He picked up a stack of small index cards and tossed them onto the coffee table.

"Activity time," David announced. "And Mia, put the official notebook away. This is personal."

Mia hesitated, then slowly closed her notebook.

"I want you to be honest," David said. "I want you to identify the 'Worldly Logic' or the 'Slave Mentality' that is running your life right now. The thought that keeps you up at night. The lie that tells you you’re not enough."

He picked up a card. "On one side, write the Servant Thought. The lie."

Chloe reached for a card first. She uncapped a sharpie, her hand trembling. She wrote quickly, as if afraid that if she stopped, she wouldn't do it.

My value is determined by how many people like me.

Jay took a card. He stared at it for a long time, his jaw tight. Eventually, he scrawled: If I don't control everything, it will fall apart, and it will be my fault.

Mia wrote: I have to be perfect to be worthy of leadership.

Leo sat with the card in his palm. He thought about the alleyway. The crushing pressure. The feeling of God being a distant manager. He wrote: I am a disappointment. I am defined by my lack of power.

"Good," David said, looking at them. The room felt heavy, but it was a good kind of heavy. The kind of pressure that comes before a seal breaks. "Now, flip the card over."

"We’re going to rewrite these," David said. "Not with positive thinking. Not with 'manifesting'. But with Kingdom Law. With the truth of who you are as Children."

"I don't know what to write," Chloe sniffed, wiping a tear that had escaped. "I don't feel like a child of the King. I feel like a mess."

"Your feelings are like the weather, Chloe," David said gently. "Real, but changeable. The Truth is the landscape. It doesn't move. Write down what the King says about you, not what Instagram says."

David looked at Leo. "Leo, give me yours."

Leo read his card aloud. "I am a disappointment. I am defined by my lack of power."

"Okay," David nodded. "Now, put on the upside-down glasses. What is the Kingdom truth?"

Leo thought about it. If he was a child, not an employee... "My Father is proud of me," Leo started, testing the words. "Not because of what I do, but because I’m His."

"Keep going," David urged.

"And..." Leo took a breath. "And I don't need my own power. I have access to His."

"Write it down," David commanded.

Leo wrote: I am a beloved Son. My identity is 'Child of the Most High'. I have access to the family resources.

Chloe was next. "My value comes from the Father, not the followers," she whispered, writing it down. "I am chosen, not just 'liked'."

Mia wrote furiously. My perfection is in Christ. I lead from a place of grace, not grinding.

Jay looked at his card. He didn't write anything for a long time.

"Jay?" David asked.

"It's hard," Jay admitted, his voice rough. "To let go of the control. If I’m just a kid... that means I have to trust the Father to catch me."

"That is exactly what it means," David said. "The Kingdom runs on trust. Worldly logic runs on control. You have to choose which engine you want to use."

Jay sighed, a long, deflating sound. He wrote: The outcome belongs to God. I am a partner, not the saviour.

David sat back, picking up his tea. "This," he gestured to the cards, "is the radical reframing. You cannot operate the power of God-the P3 lifestyle we’re going to talk about-if you are stuck in the identity of a slave. Slaves beg. Children ask. Slaves worry. Children trust."

"So," Leo said, looking at his card, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper. "What happens now?"

"Now," David said, standing up. "We stop trying to impress the clockmaker. We start talking to the Father."

He walked over to the bookshelf and pulled down an old, battered Bible.

"You’ve spent years making shopping lists for God," David said. "'God, give me this, fix that, bless this'. That’s transactional. That’s an employee filing a requisition form."

He tossed the Bible to Leo. Leo caught it; it felt heavy, solid.

"Next week," David said, "we’re going to learn how to pick up the phone. The Direct Line. No more voicemails. But for tonight, take those cards home. Tape them to your mirror. Put them on your phone lock screen. Every time you feel the panic, every time you feel the urge to hustle for approval, look at the card. Flip the script. Put on the upside-down glasses."

Mia stood up, putting her notebook away. She looked lighter somehow. Her shoulders weren't up by her ears anymore. "It feels... risky," she admitted. "To just let go."

"Oh, it's incredibly risky," David grinned, and for a second, he looked like a mischievous teenager himself. "Living in the Kingdom is the most dangerous thing you can do. It will cost you your pride, your ego, and your need to be right. But the retirement plan is out of this world."

The Squad laughed-a genuine, unforced laugh that broke the tension of the last few months.

They walked back down the worn stairs and out into the Brixton night. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening under the streetlights.

"He’s weird," Jay said, but there was no bite in it. "Good weird. But weird."

"I like him," Chloe said, clutching her index card in her pocket like a talisman. "He didn't tell me to post more."

Leo took a deep breath. The air still smelled of fried chicken, but underneath it, there was something fresh. He touched the pocket where his old lanyard was crumpled up. He thought about the card in his hand. Beloved Son.

"He’s right," Leo said, looking at his friends. "We’ve been doing it wrong. We’ve been trying to build a Kingdom without knowing the King."

"So, we resign?" Mia asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Yeah," Leo nodded, feeling a spark of something that felt suspiciously like hope. "We resign. And we start over."

Above them, the clouds parted just enough to reveal a single, bright star, hanging upside down in the reflection of a puddle at their feet. The disconnect was ending. The upload was about to begin.