Luke Rollins
Post by On 22 September 2014


It hasn’t taken long. I’m already at a loss. I start writing and stop, start thinking and drift, start processing and stall.


I don’t wish to sound melodramatic, to be hyperbolic, to sound unnecessarily sensationalist but I’m wrecked again.

And to pretend I’m not degrades the authenticity of this blog. I’m witnessing a beautifully messed up Kingdom advance here in Ibiza and there no hiding its consequences. 4 days in and this could be a 10 page entry to the glory of God. I’m tempted but I’ll refrain. Perhaps.

So not the same old same old then Luke? No, not even close. Don’t misunderstand me, the premise is the same, the foundations are the same, the heart is the same, the situations, the vomit and the excess are the same. God though is singing a new song here and it’s getting louder. It’s a song of community, a song of love, of reconciliation, of peace. It’s a symphony that was clearly audible last year but I’m hearing a new layer, new nuances, fresh timbres of hope, lush tones of grace. It’s ridiculously beautiful. And beautifully ridiculous.

I hear it in the nocturnal conversations. Mark* tells me about his difficult year, his drug addictions, his experimentation with Buddhism, his search for meaning and peace with science as his guide, his lack of fulfillment and then holds us tight, arms around each other and let’s us pray hope, truth, grace over him. You are beautiful people, he says. Beautiful people. Why are you here? And why did you stop for me? He takes a bible reverently. No one, least of all him, would have believed that coming to Ibiza would give him the answers he so desperately needed, that he would meet with God. He looks around suddenly. Why has it gone so quiet around here?

I hear it on the beach. Paul* tells me that by giving him an orange and stopping to talk and listen, we have provided the highlight of his holiday. You are the first Christians I’ve met who haven’t forced an agenda down my throat, haven’t judged me, he says, peeling his orange and necking a Desperadoes. In a couple of years this is the kind of conversation that might change my life, might make me choose a life like yours. I can only nod silently. If there were chairs on the beach, I would have ended up more sandy and undignified than I already was.

I hear it on the streets. Graham* has lost his wife and is having an anxiety attack, probably fuelled by excess alcohol and the trouble he’d ran into the night before. Gathered around him are not just our team, but West End staff, bar owners, bouncers, the police. There is concern, community, hope, prayer, compassion. It’s a sound that is totally at odds with a stereotypical Ibiza hell hole tabloid depiction. In the prayer room, Graham is a hot intercessory topic and hope and protection are being sung over this situation. Eventually, Graham can wait no longer and starts walking down the West End despite our pleas. Halfway down the madness and melee, an innocent pr singles us out and beckons us over. Sorry to bother you guys, can you help a sec?

Ummm we’re just with this guy, what’s going on?

Well there’s a woman over here who’s lost her husband….

I’m not sure what amazed me more, the answered prayer or the joy at the news of the reconciliation. Bar staff, owners, pr’s, 24/7 united in celebration. The police allow themselves a rare smile and move quietly on. This is a communal raising of voices that would have been unimaginable not so long ago. My colleague hugs Graham. Don’t forget to thank the big man upstairs, he says. Graham smiles and nods in the arms of his wife, the West End crowding and shouting around us. I won’t, he says over the chaos.

And I hear it in the prayer room. There’s strategy, battle cries, persistent prayers, response, tears, laughter, determination and cobble shattering, wall crumbling, drug inactivating words of love. This is 24/7 prayer, the lifeblood of all we do and it’s working. It’s working. The legacy of years and years of intercession is resonating through the streets, transforming atmospheres, scoring itself on the walls; the very melody of God carried and spoken through His chosen vessels. Us. Incredibly. Us.

This is a snapshot. There isn’t time for the divine appointments, the pictures, the ‘coincidences’, the struggles, the victories, the growth, the change, the protection. They all form part of a song that is complex, delicate, rudely ambitious. And it’s rising. I hope you can hear a bit of it now, like a bad recording taken on a cheap dictaphone. God’s song is radical, it’s unstoppable, it’s victorious. There’s a bass line that’s rattling foundations, a treble that’s piercing hearts, lyrics that are lodging themselves in minds, hummed for the first time in lonely apartments and cheap hotels. It’s God’s song. Peace, joy, hope, love in an offensively original, improbably chosen key. And it’s our privilege to try and join in with singing His masterpiece.

*names changed

*taken from Lukes personal blog. you can find it at



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