Refugees

You come here to worship,
to this broken temple,
this place you live,
this place you cannot escape,

tentative and in awe,
without pretense of perfection,
in awe that God would choose
a place of such ruin

to dwell, to infuse with light
that somehow glows joy,
and draws the battered and the holy,
refugees from the darkness.

About this poem

I am constantly awed by how broken people heal others. It’s a myth that we have to be perfect to minister. Often, I think, the broken minister more effectively.

The picture was taken in Rome.

Tom