After being at a new church just after I was married, I was chatting to another relative newbie. We were seeking a home group to join. You know: get to know people, share our lives, pray together.
He told me that he went to a really great group, and why don't we come along?
Great, we thought. He gave us time and place, and we were set. Thrilled. Happy. Included. Welcomed.
On the evening of the meeting we were well ready in time and then sat to dinner.
A phone call.
It was the curate (it was an Anglican church).
He wanted us to not come along.
Hang on; run that by me again.
He wanted us to not be part of this group...you know...don't come. Cancel your idea of attendance. Nick off, or as they say in the pub, get fkd.
That's how we felt. Devastated.
Were we incipient lepers? Liable to mad Christian disease?
No idea. But, here's a tip, the group was dominated by the parish...no, the diocesan worthies...we surmised that we were simply 'non-U'.
This was the gospel according to the Duke of Bedford, not The Lamb of God.