Radically Happy

Write this in the style of Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club.

ChatGPT Prompt

You don’t talk about Christ Club.
Not because you’re not allowed.
But because the moment you try, it slips through your teeth like communion wine diluted with too much metaphor.

You can’t explain Christ Club because the language is broken.

You can’t explain Christ Club because the language is broken.
Because words are just meat-suit syllables trying to carry something atomic and invisible.
You try to explain Christ and you end up with bumper stickers and televangelists and hashtags that rot faster than yesterday’s bread.

Christ Club isn’t a sermon.
It’s not a fish decal on a Prius.
It’s not WWJD bracelets or megachurch coffee bars with gluten-free Eucharist.

Christ Club is a whisper that shows up at 3 a.m.
When your marriage is cracking and the pills stopped working.
It’s the ache behind your ribs when you look at your father and realize you never learned how to forgive him.
It’s not Jesus knocking.
It’s Him kicking in the door, grinning, and saying, “Follow me.”
No map. No itinerary. Just follow.

It’s not Jesus knocking.
It’s Him kicking in the door, grinning, and saying,
“Follow me.”
No map. No itinerary.
Just follow.

You don’t invite people to Christ Club.
You bleed into it.
You break into it.
You fall face-first into it, because you were chasing everything else and woke up empty with blood on your knuckles and a prayer you forgot how to say.

And when you try to explain it, you sound like a madman.

And when you try to explain it, you sound like a madman.
Because Christ Club isn’t about belief.
It’s about death.
Yours.

It’s about killing off the self that lies, cheats, scrolls, numbs, buys, shames, poses.
It’s resurrection, but only after crucifixion.
You want Easter without Friday?
You want light without fire?

Good luck.

You want Easter without Friday?
You want light without fire?

See, Christ Club isn’t neat.
It’s not clean.
It’s not safe.

It’s the basement of your soul, where God shows up not as an idea but as a fistful of truth and a basin of water.
He doesn’t ask what church you go to.
He doesn’t care how many verses you can quote.
He wants to know if you’re ready to die to yourself.

To your pride.
To your plans.
To your need to explain Him.

Because the moment you try to bottle Christ, He’s already somewhere else…

Because the moment you try to bottle Christ, He’s already somewhere else—talking to a hooker, flipping tables, spitting in dirt and healing the blind.

So yeah.
The first rule of Christ Club?

You can’t explain Christ Club.

And if you think you can,
you’ve probably missed the point.

See also: The Ringless Gym: A Lament for the Church