I listen when they speak of homelessness,
of people sleeping beneath the open sky,
of tents beside the highways,
of cardboard beds where cold winds fly.
And I ask myself,
Where are they talking about?
For I have walked these streets,
I have listened to the people who live here,
I have asked questions,
and I have seen another story beneath the story we are told.
They say, “America has homeless people.”
And I pause.
Because I have seen a nation that stretches out its hands,
a government that, in many ways,
tries to become the Good Samaritan.
Remember the man on the road;
beaten, wounded,
left between life and death.
The robbers had taken what they could and left him helpless in the dust.
But a stranger stopped.
He did not simply look at him and walk away.
He came closer.
He touched his wounds.
He poured oil and wine upon them.
He lifted him onto his own animal.
He carried him to an inn and paid for his care.
“Take care of him,” he said.
And if there is more to pay,
I will settle it when I return.
Is that not, in its own way,
what a great nation attempts to do?
Life attacks people.
It robs some of their strength,
strips others of their security,
breaks families,
destroys opportunities,
and leaves some wounded on the roadside of society.
And the hand of government reaches out.
A bed.
A meal.
A shelter.
A place to sleep.
Medicine.
Counseling.
Daily necessities.
Programs to rebuild.
Programs to heal.
Programs to return a person to the community from which life had pushed them away.
The inn is open.
The door is there.
The Samaritan has not disappeared.
Yet here is where the story becomes complicated.
Some arrive at the inn but do not want the rules of the inn.
They want the bed,
but not the boundaries.
They want the food,
but not the structure.
They want assistance,
but perhaps not the responsibilities that come with rebuilding.
They may want cash,
alcohol, cigarettes,
drugs, or the freedom to live without restrictions.
But the inn cannot become everything the wounded person desires.
It can offer shelter.
It can offer food.
It can offer care.
It can offer a path toward healing.
But it may not offer every appetite.
And when someone walks away,
choosing the pavement over the bed,
the street over the shelter,
the night over the roof—
we look at them and say,
“America has abandoned them.”
But is that always the whole story?
Perhaps we should ask another question.
Why did they leave?
Was help unavailable?
Or was help offered but refused?
Was there no door?
Or did someone refuse to walk through it?
Was there no bed?
Or did the rules of the bed become too difficult to accept?
I do not say every person outside has chosen the street.
No.
Some are victims of circumstances they did not create.
Some are struggling with realities far deeper than what strangers can see.
Some have been failed by systems,
families, communities,
and sometimes by themselves.
Some need help that is difficult to find.
And some may desperately want to come inside but cannot yet find the door.
So I am not asking us to harden our hearts.
I am asking us to open our eyes.
For sympathy without understanding can sometimes hide the truth.
Then there is another group whose story is different again—
those who fear the very hand that could offer assistance.
People who live in the shadows,
afraid to approach the inn,
afraid that asking for help might expose them to deportation.
They stay away.
They hide.
They sleep where they can.
And from a distance we call them homeless.
But their story may be one of fear, immigration status, uncertainty, and distrust.
So when I see a person sleeping beneath a bridge,
I will not immediately write the ending of their story.
I will not assume that nobody cares.
I will ask:
What happened to you?
Did you seek help?
Was help available?
Could you accept the help offered?
Was there a door you were afraid to enter?
Was there a bed you could not remain in?
Because a person lying outside an inn does not always mean the inn has closed its doors.
Sometimes the door is open.
Sometimes the meal is waiting.
Sometimes the bed is prepared.
Sometimes the Good Samaritan is still paying the bill.
And sometimes the deepest tragedy is not that there is no shelter—
but that the wounded person cannot, or will not, remain inside it.
So before we tell the world
that the Good Samaritan has abandoned the man beside the road,
let us look again.
Let us investigate.
Let us listen.
Let us ask the uncomfortable questions.
Because compassion must have eyes,
and justice must have ears.
And perhaps, when we finally understand the whole story,
we will discover something we never expected:
The Good Samaritan was there.
The inn was open.
The bill was being paid.
The door was unlocked.
But the road outside was chosen by a story we had never bothered to hear.
