I got the dreaded lurgi off some Christians last Sunday.

They said they couldn’t stay away for fear of missing something, and as it was one of those a caring, sharing, huggy fellowships, it was difficult to miss what was on offer.

Being scrupulously fair, Marie, the practice nurse, is also in the frame.

Two days after the hugs, she jabbed me full of dead-ish lurgi to inoculate me against the real thing.

“It hasn’t worked,” I snivel between Lemsips, though admittedly, it’s not the worst flu I’ve ever had.

If Asian flu’s the killer, I’m wallowing somewhere off Southend-on-Sea.

Anyway, ‘twas in this sorry state that I logged on to read what nice things people had written about last week’s column. That didn’t take long.

Most bloggers were like Mike who thought the church should right itself before any external pontificating, asking, “Have you sat and listened to a church service recently?”

Amid flu fumes, I thought he had a point. Some Sunday efforts make me wish I’d turned over for a lie in.

Some old expressions of Church are the religious equivalent of last Tuesday’s jab – a weak, powerless version of the real thing.

That said, I wouldn’t have missed last Sunday for all the flu in China.

It was exciting, enjoyable, challenging and packed with a vision that could equip most of us to cope with another weary week of this difficult 21st century.

Mike, you’ve might been inoculated with dead churchianity.

Do try again, especially at Christmas.