How very odd it seems, dear Lord,

That when I go to seek your Word

In varied towns at home, abroad,

I'm in the company of the absurd.

The others who come, as I do,

Starving for need of sacrament,

Who sit beside me in the pew,

Are both in mind and body bent.

I kneel beside the old, unfit,

The young, the lonely stumbling few,

And I myself, with little wit,

Hunger and thirst, my God, for you.

I share communion with the halt,

The lame, the blind, oppressed, depressed.

We have, it seems, a common fault

In coming to you to be blessed.

And my fit friends, intelligent,

Heap on my shoulders a strange guilt.

Are only fools and sinners meant

To come unto you to be filled?

Among the witless and absurd

I flee to find you and to share

With eyes and ears and lips your Word.

I pray, my God. God, hear my prayer.

From city streets and lanes we come.

I slip unto you like a thief

To be with you, at peace, at home,

Lord, I believe. Oh, help my unbelief.

-Madeleine L'Engle, The Ordering of Love