All Are Welcome (Terms and Conditions Apply)

Based on Acts 11:1-18 and Revelation 21:1–6 – God’s Fellowship has no fences (but we still keep building them)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of creative nonfiction. While the characters and specific events are fictionalised, they are drawn from a collection of real experiences and encounters from the author’s own life. The story seeks to honour the truth of those moments while protecting the privacy of the individuals involved.

There was a small, scattered community—newcomers from across the world—drawn together by language, loss, and faith. Many had arrived in Australia with stories pressed into silence, their hopes carried in plastic folders, and their wounds bandaged with whispered prayers. Some had lived in detention; others in limbo. But together, they had found in worship a way to breathe again.

Their gatherings were simple: scripture in two or three languages, songs sung out of tune, and children circling like satellites around prayer. They met wherever space was available—a picnic shelter, a community hall, even under a gum tree once, when the rain held off long enough to let joy spill out.

One day, the pastor helping guide this group—let’s call him Elias—thought it might be time to worship in a church building again. The community had grown, and it felt right to seek shelter, not just from the weather, but from the sense that they were always on the move.

He approached a church that was easy to get to by public transport and fairly central for everyone. It was well-resourced, tastefully progressive, and known in town for its strong social conscience. He asked, gently, if the refugee congregation might be able to use the space for worship once, just once, Sunday afternoon to begin with. Nothing fancy—just prayers, music, and scripture.

The conversation went well at first. The church leader spoke warmly of inclusion, of justice, of standing with the marginalised. Then, as the discussion reached its end, there was a pause. A shift in tone.

“We just want to be clear,” the leader said. “We are fully inclusive of LGBTIQ+ people, and we would want to ensure that nothing in your service contradicts that. We don’t allow anything to be preached here that might be interpreted as non-affirming. I’m sure you understand.”

Elias did understand—though perhaps not in the way the leader expected.

He hadn’t planned to preach about sexuality. He hadn’t planned to preach at all. A young man from the refugee community was going to give a testimony that day—something about God being faithful in prison, and how scripture had held him together.

But now the conversation was no longer about hospitality. It was about compliance. It wasn’t a question of welcome—it was a test of acceptability.

Elias thanked the leader, shook their hand, and left with the same calm he had entered with. But as he walked away, a question rang in his mind like a bell: If even sanctuary has conditions, where can the weary rest?

The next few days were hard. He didn’t share everything with the congregation. Just said that particular venue wasn’t available, and they would find somewhere else. Some of the people had started to hope—really hope—that they might be welcome in a church again. That maybe, after all their displacement, they had found a place where no one would look at them sideways for the way they dressed, or how long they prayed, or how unfamiliar their English still sounded.

Then, an unexpected message came. A minister from another congregation, one Elias knew, reached out. They had heard through community grapevines about the group and wondered if they would like to join them in worship.

Not use the space. Join them.

The invitation was simple. “We’d love to share the service with you. We have members from Sudan, Sri Lanka, Iran, and the Philippines. We don’t need to preach about hard issues. Just come worship with us. We’ll plan it together.”

So the following Sunday, the two congregations met.

It was nothing like anyone had expected—and everything they had hoped for. A psalm was read in Arabic and then English. Children from both communities coloured crosses at the back while a Tamil song filled the room. One of the older refugee women lit a candle and whispered, “God, you are still here.” The two ministers—one local, one not—stood together at the table and broke bread, each in their own style, yet perfectly in step.

No theological tests. No hidden terms. Just prayer. And welcome.

After the service, over a meal shaped by many hands and flavours, someone said, “I didn’t know church could feel like family with strangers.”

Elias just smiled. He didn’t need to preach about new creation that day. He had seen it, lived it.

No announcements. No applause. Just two communities standing in the same light.

And somewhere in the background, the Spirit sighed with relief.

All Are Welcome (Terms and Conditions Apply)
(shorter version)

Based on Acts 11:1-18 and Revelation 21:1–6 – God’s Fellowship has no fences (but we still keep building them)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of creative nonfiction. While the characters and specific events are fictionalised, they are drawn from a collection of real experiences and encounters from the author’s own life. The story seeks to honour the truth of those moments while protecting the privacy of the individuals involved.

There was a small, scattered community—newcomers from across the world—drawn together by language, loss, and faith. Many had arrived in Australia with stories pressed into silence, their hopes carried in plastic folders, and their wounds bandaged with whispered prayers. Some had lived in detention; others in limbo. But together, they had found in worship a way to breathe again.

Their gatherings were simple: scripture in two or three languages, songs sung out of tune, and children circling like satellites around prayer. They met wherever space was available—a picnic shelter, a community hall, even under a gum tree once, when the rain held off long enough to let joy spill out.

One day, the pastor helping guide this group—let’s call him Elias—thought it might be time to worship in a church building again. The community had grown, and it felt right to seek shelter, not just from the weather, but from the sense that they were always on the move.

He approached a church that was easy to get to by public transport and fairly central for everyone. It was well-resourced, tastefully progressive, and known in town for its strong social conscience. He asked, gently, if the refugee congregation might be able to use the space for worship once, just once, Sunday afternoon to begin with. Nothing fancy—just prayers, music, and scripture.

The conversation went well at first. The church leader spoke warmly of inclusion, of justice, of standing with the marginalised. Then, as the discussion reached its end, there was a pause. A shift in tone.

Continue reading the full story here.