I should like you to picture a newly-converted direct access hostel in a city in South West England, where homeless men and women can simply turn up, and if there is bedspace, spend the night in warm accommodation with the possibility of a shower and hot food. I should like you to dispel the myth of this city as a tourist town, the departure point for sailings to Brittany, a larger version of a quaint Devon cream-tea village; and instead see the granite-grey buildings as reflecting the harshness of life at the end of the line, literally and metaphorically, for many people. A downstairs room in this hostel with two people seated in conversation – they are about the same age, one a former narcotics user, the other a recently ordained curate trying to understand the work of the hostel situated in an Urban Priority Area (UPA). The details of the conversation are not important; the impression, however, was memorable. The narcotics user (Simon) had been through a local rehabilitation programme, which enabled him to reflect on his life experiences and his addiction. For the priest, the encounter seemed godly, though God was never mentioned. The experiences themselves and the insights into life offered by Simon seemed to speak of God, or at least like the woman with a flow of blood (Luke 8. 43); we touched the hem of Jesus’ robe. There was an irony in the reversal of the roles – the priest learning about God from the man who might in other circumstances be seen as a subject for conversion. Surprise, irony, humility, the impact of such an experience, these were the starting points for an investigation into how marginalised people comprehend God, and what they can teach us, the wealthy, about life, about ourselves and about God – their part in our conversion.