Hope in Action: Serving the Poor Amid America’s Growing Housing and Homelessness Crisis

In neighborhoods across the United States, the simple dignity of home is slipping out of reach for millions. At any given time, over half a million Americans are homeless, with countless more living on the edge; couch-surfing, sheltering in motels, or fearing the next eviction notice. This isn’t just a crisis of statistics; it’s a daily reality for families, veterans, young people, and senior citizens. As the mission of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul calls us to grow in spirituality through service to the poor, we are called not just to recognize this crisis but to respond to it with mercy, love, and tangible action.

The Faces Behind the Crisis

Visit any city or small town, and the signs of homelessness are visible: tents beneath highways, “Help Needed” signs at intersections, families lining up at food banks, children living in uncertainty. Yet each person caught in the web of housing insecurity has a name, a story, and a soul loved by Christ. The causes are complex; soaring housing costs, stagnant wages, mental health challenges, addiction, and the lingering effects of the COVID-19 pandemic. But the call to respond is startlingly simple: We are invited to see, to serve, and to grow.

Catholic Social Teaching: The Preferential Option for the Poor

The words and actions of Jesus Christ leave us no doubt: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). In Catholic social teaching, the preferential option for the poor isn’t just a principle. it’s a commandment rooted in dignity, mercy, and solidarity.

Saint Mother Teresa, who dedicated her life to serving those abandoned by society, captured it best: “Each one of them is Jesus in disguise.” Whether it’s a family evicted from their home or a veteran living on the streets, our faith compels us to see Christ in the vulnerable. The Church teaches that true justice is measured by how the poor are treated.

Growing in Spirituality: Meeting Christ in the Margins

Service to the poor transforms not only those we help but also our own hearts. Volunteers often share that encounters with the homeless, whose possessions may fit in a backpack or a shopping cart, bring unexpected lessons in humility, gratitude, and faith. To sit with someone on a park bench, to serve a meal in a shelter, or to listen to a story of struggle is to enter a sacred space where God is powerfully present.

I recall a moment that moved me deeply while I serving at SVdP in Atlanta. As the CEO of SVdP Georgia I was visiting one of our Thrift Stores. I began helping a man find shoes in the store while I was there. He told me he used to own a construction company but lost everything because of medical bills. He had more hope than I did, even after all he’d been through. I recognized Christ in his perseverance, and I was a better person for having interacted with him.

Service, when rooted in love, is never a one-way street. As we accompany our neighbors facing homelessness, our own spirituality deepens. It becomes less about charity and more about solidarity, a shared journey toward wholeness.

Living Mercy Here and Now

While the enormity of the housing crisis can feel overwhelming, Vincentians and volunteers have always found creative and meaningful ways to answer the call. For many, serving in local shelters and food banks is an opportunity not just to provide necessities, but to build genuine relationships through listening and offering compassionate presence. Others become advocates for affordable housing, lending their voices to legislative efforts and supporting organizations dedicated to increasing access to safe homes. The simple act of assembling kits filled with essentials like hygiene items, socks, snacks, paired with words of encouragement can offer comfort and hope to those on the streets. Prayer vigils and community events bring awareness and spiritual support, while sharing skills through mentorship or job training programs empowers those striving for stability. By supporting families at risk of eviction and educating their communities about homelessness, we help transform compassion into action and engage people of all ages and abilities in works of mercy.

The Spiritual Discipline of Ongoing Mercy

It’s tempting to see service as something we “do”. A task to check off or a solution to implement. But Catholic social teaching insists that service is also about continual conversion. When we give of ourselves, we discover our own dependence on God and on others. We recognize the brokenness within ourselves and grow in humility. The discipline of mercy is ongoing: it lasts beyond one meal served or one shelter shift.

Saint Oscar Romero, martyred for defending the poor in El Salvador, said: “When we leave Mass, we ought to go forth as if we have just discovered a wonderful secret to share.” For Vincentians, the “secret” is Christ’s presence among the poor, and the invitation to encounter him through mercy, justice, and service.

Called to Action: Mercy That Transforms

As economic challenges, social divides, and uncertainty continue to affect communities across the United States, the call to serve is louder and more urgent than ever. Vincentians have a unique opportunity to be the hands and feet of Christ in a time of deep need. We are invited not only to relieve immediate suffering, but also to journey alongside our brothers and sisters, advocating for lasting solutions and growing ever deeper in faith.

Let us remember: every act of kindness, however small, is a gateway to transformation. Every face we encounter on the street, in shelters, and in the margins reflects the image of God. Our mission is not only to “help,” but to see, to listen, and to walk with. In so doing, we fulfill the Gospel’s deepest command and embrace the mystery of mercy in action.

A Prayerful Reflection for Volunteers

As we serve, let us ask Christ for eyes that recognize his presence in those who lack home and hope. May our hands be merciful, our hearts generous, and our spirits humble. Let every encounter remind us of our own dependence on God and inspire us to grow in love. And may the transformation we experience through serving our brothers and sisters deepen our commitment to justice and mercy, bringing the light of Christ’s compassion to our communities and our world.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John

Finding Joy in the Chaos of Service (and Life)

I was blessed to grow up in a community filled with friends, neighbors, and classmates from diverse ethnic, religious, and cultural backgrounds. Our tight-knit circle of school friends, many of whom I still keep in touch with, spent countless hours in each other’s homes, celebrating holidays and special moments together.

I attended my Jewish friends’ Bar Mitzvahs and shared Seder meals at their homes; they joined us for Christmas dinners and came to our Confirmations. It was a joyous way to grow up. We were all beach kids, growing up on the ocean, and our common bond was the water. Whether it was surfing, swimming, or late-night beach parties, we forged lifelong friendships.

My closest friend was Jewish. His parents were immigrants from Germany, and I still remember an expression his mother used to say when we’d start dreaming out loud about our future plans (which, of course, mostly involved becoming rock stars, world-champion surfers, or lifelong beach bums). With love and a knowing smile, she’d say: “Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht,” Man plans, and God laughs.”

The Punchline of the Universe

Many of you have probably heard that expression before, though perhaps not in its original Yiddish. It’s one of those rare proverbs that manages to be both deeply philosophical and a perfect punchline when life throws a pie into your meticulously laid plans.

You might hear this phrase from grandmothers, spiritual sages, or anyone who’s ever had a Monday. But its power lies not just in charm or self-deprecation. It speaks to a universal truth: no matter our intentions, life retains the right to improvise.

We map out our days, plan years in advance, and read books titled Things Fall Apart, assuming, of course, that our particular things will not. Then, the universe, with the comedic timing of a late-night writer, throws in a snowstorm, a flat tire, or a missing cat just to keep us humble.

But this isn’t cruel. The laughter in “God laughs” isn’t the cackle of an omnipotent prankster. It’s the loving chuckle of a parent watching their toddler plot a path to the cookie jar, completely forgetting the laws of physics (and the family dog). It’s a cosmic inside joke and an invitation to loosen up and remember even the best-laid plans are subject to rerouting, revision, and reruns.

Plans Meet Real Life: The Volunteer Edition

Nowhere does this proverb’s wry wisdom hit harder than in the world of volunteer work.

You arrive, eyes shining, plans in hand, ready to fix every woe in a single afternoon. You’ve got a PowerPoint titled Operation Soup for the Soul, color-coded schedules, and an uplifting playlist queued up. Five minutes in, the oven rebels, toddlers outnumber adults three to one, and nobody can find the ladle.

The universe (and, perhaps, God) chuckles gently, tossing in a dash more chaos to your recipe for good.

And yet, and here’s the twist, magic sneaks in through the cracks. The moments you remember aren’t the ones you scheduled, but the laughter during dishwashing, the surprise carrot-chopping talents of a retired dentist, and the mysterious appearance of twelve extra cakes.

Your plan wasn’t the plot. And that’s where the gold is.

The Hero Complex Gets a Reality Check

You’ve probably heard of the “hero complex,” that well-meaning urge to swoop in, fix everything, and earn a modest (or resounding) round of applause. The heart is in the right place, but the ego is riding shotgun.

You rush forward, cape flapping (even if only in your imagination), determined to “save” the community, cure all injustice, and be remembered in stories, preferably with inspiring background music.

But here’s the kicker: reality, like God, has a wicked sense of humor. The hero complex can quickly morph into overconfidence or tone-deafness. You plan to “lift” a community, only to find it already has its own plans, and, more often than not, already built the ladders.

“Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht” pops the ego-balloon before it floats too far. It reminds those of us prone to heroism: don’t assume you’re the protagonist. Ask instead: “What do you really need?” and “How can I help without making this about me?”

That shift from control to curiosity reveals the true spirit of service. The best stories rarely star us alone. They emerge when everyone has a voice when we serve with, not above, others.

Laughing with the Divine

One of the secret gifts of this Yiddish proverb is permission to laugh at yourself, at the universe, and at the micro-dramas that unfold in every charitable kitchen, food pantry, or fundraiser.

Jewish humor, forged through centuries of resilience, finds its strength in irony, self-effacement, and the ability to smile in the face of absurdity. That spirit is contagious. Those who can laugh when the soup burns, the flyers multiply inexplicably, or the event flops gloriously are the ones who recover, adapt, and build true community.

There’s liberation in this laughter. It frees us from perfectionism and opens the door to creativity. Sometimes the failed event becomes the beloved tradition. Sometimes the missed connection becomes a lifelong friendship. And sometimes, busted plans and quick recoveries turn out to be the best team-building activity ever invented.

Planning with Open Hands

So, the paradox is: “Man plans, and God laughs” doesn’t mean we shouldn’t plan. We should. Plans are useful. Intentions are meaningful. Structure helps.

But clinging too tightly to a plan, bristling at every deviation, (you know who you are) is a surefire way to miss out on the richer, more joyful surprises that come when we let life breathe.

Instead, approach service with ambition and agility. Shoot for the stars, but pack hiking boots and a sandwich just in case the road is actually a roundabout, and the stars are hiding behind a cloud.

What does this look like in practice?

Be prepared, but open-minded. Show up ready, but expect the unexpected, and when your plan falls apart, look for what’s trying to break through.

Perhaps the deepest lesson isn’t that we shouldn’t plan but that we should hold our plans with both commitment and curiosity. In volunteering, this means centering the community’s voice, respecting lived experience, and remembering that partnership always beats paternalism. Some of your greatest contributions might be the ones you never saw coming.

The Invitation to a Better Story

So, by all means, lay out your plans. Bring your best intentions. Leap into service with enthusiasm.

Just don’t be surprised when things go sideways. And if the universe winks, or bursts into laughter, don’t insist on being the straight man in life’s ongoing improv.

Chase your big ideas. But welcome the plot twists. Laugh with the divine, with your neighbors, and most of all with yourself.

Because sometimes, plans falling apart isn’t the joke. It’s the invitation to an even better story.

Oh, and by the way, I still think I would’ve been one heck of a professional surfer. (Cue God chuckling.)

– Peace and God’s blessings,  John

Walking from Jerusalem to Jericho

This past weekend the Gospel reading was one of my favorites, the parable of The Good Samaritan. This is one of not just my, but a lot of people’s, favorite parables. You might call it one of Jesus’s greatest hits. It is so famous it has a hospital named after it in about every city in the country. And it is quoted by politicians, philosophers, and by that relative at every holiday dinner who manages to turn every conversation into a lecture for everyone at the dinner table.

But let’s look at it a little differently. We know the obvious point, right? ‘Help people in need.’ Yet if this parable were only about emergency roadside assistance, we would be done by now; grab a Band-Aid and a bottle of oil, and we are Saints. But Jesus never told a story just for the surface lesson. So if that’s the case, and we know it is, let’s dig deeper, with a smile, with honesty, and, I hope, with a spirit that finds real hope, not guilt, in his challenge to us to find his message.

The road from Jerusalem to Jericho, back in the day, was steep, twisty, and notorious for trouble. The star of the story, the Traveler, gets mugged and left half-dead. Enter three characters: first, the Priest, followed by the Levite. Both see the poor man but pull off the world’s earliest and most literal example of “ghosting.” Now, I do not know about you, but I think that if there were smartphones back then, I’m betting one of them was busy pretending to text while tiptoeing away. (“Sorry bro, can’t help, on an important call with my camel dealer!”)

And then comes The Samaritan, cue the dramatic gasp from Jesus’s original audience. Samaritans and Jews hated each other. Absolutely hated! If you were writing this as a modern sitcom, the soundtrack would add seriously ominous music. This Samaritan, who had every cultural excuse to pass by, stops, helps, pays, and promises to return.

But Jesus doesn’t end the story there with, “So, go and make better to-do lists for good deeds,” but instead, he flips the question the legal expert asks, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus answers, in effect, “Go and be a neighbor.”

Fast-forward 2,025 years. The Jericho Road is now a six-lane highway, and our roadsides are crowded with not just one, but millions left battered by poverty, caught by cycles of injustice, overlooked by a world zooming past. We find “travelers” in every city and suburb, some homeless, others burdened by injustice, isolation, or the crushing weight of being unseen. And if we are honest, most of us have, at times, played every role in the story. Some days, we are rushing by, busy and tired. Other days, we stop and help. Some days, we are the one in the ditch, praying someone will notice.

But before any guilt creeps in, I believe that we should view the message of the parable not as Jesus’ way of condemning us to a life of exhausted do-goodery. But rather as a call to discover the joy, the promise, the adventure of becoming neighbors in a world allergic to neighborliness. There is no room for guilt here, only the possibility to wake up and be happy as we do.

You see, maybe Jesus told this story with a twinkle in his eye. He knew that if he gave us a hero from an unexpected place, (a Samaritan!) and a cast of respectable bystanders who miss their calling, it would rattle us out of self-righteousness. The story is not about racking up merit badges for kindness; it is about the delight of seeing with new eyes.

The gentle shock of self realization in this parable is the great equalizer. After all, who among us has not crossed the street to avoid an awkward situation, pretending suddenly to be engrossed by a shop window, or suddenly finding great interest in a can of beans at the grocery store to avoid someone? Jesus understood this. He uses the priest and Levite to show us: you are not alone in your discomfort. We all get squeamish. But don’t worry! Today is a new day, and mercy is always waiting for its cue.

There is an old saying: “Guilt can make good house guests, but they shouldn’t move in.” The Good Samaritan never helped because of guilt, he helped because he saw. Mercy only comes from seeing.

Jesus invites us not to be superheroes, but neighbors with open eyes. The point is not to solve every problem overnight or save the world alone. The Samaritan did not defeat the muggers, set up new road policies, or even stick around for years. He did what he could, with what he had, right in front of him, and he kept the compassion going.

What is more, the story upends the idea of “us and them.” The Samaritan helps not because of obligation, but because he knows what it is like to be on the margins himself. When you recognize your own wounds, it becomes easier to admit: “There but for the grace of God go I. Today I am the helper. Tomorrow, I need a hand.”

How, then, do we live out this parable in a noisy, divided, and complex world? How do we approach poverty and justice without falling into despair, or worse, numb indifference? Here are a few thoughts, think of them as “Samaritan Survival Tips” for the modern age:

Slow Down, Look Around, See

• Look – rushing past is easier when we don’t look at people. The gift of the parable is the reminder that compassion starts by seeing, not solutions, not strategies, but faces. This week, try this as an experiment: wherever you go, make eye contact with one extra person. Notice who usually goes unnoticed.
• See: If you are met with a smile, celebrate! If you’re met with a grumpy stare, congratulate yourself for finding a true neighbor-in-waiting.

Limitations Are not Lethal

• The Samaritan did not fix everything; he just did his part. You won’t eradicate global poverty on your lunch break. But can you buy a meal for one person, write a kind note, or support a group working for justice? Absolutely.
• And if you are an overachiever, remember, even the Samaritan took that guy to an inn. He didn’t build a hospital on the spot!

Break the Paradigms

• The Samaritan crossed social divides. Today, that might mean listening to someone with a different political viewpoint (OMG, really?!?), religious, or cultural background, or inviting them for coffee.
• When you are tempted to judge or turn away, remember: every act that builds a bridge makes the world a bit less lonely.

Make Justice Personal

• There is a temptation to think justice is for “the professionals” or for someday when you have more time. But real justice begins with small, personal changes; paying attention, advocating when you can, supporting policies that help the vulnerable.
• It is the little things: fair wages for workers, welcoming newcomers, not hoarding all the snacks in the office kitchen (a true act of mercy!).

Practice Joyful Generosity

• The Samaritan’s help was not grim or resentful – it was generous, practical, and promised a return. Let us find ways to give that bring us joy, not just obligation. The smallest gift, given with lightness, can change someone’s life, and yours too.

The parable of the Good Samaritan is not a burden; it’s an invitation to a bigger, bolder, and happier life. It is about discovering our ability for mercy every day, in ordinary places, for ordinary people; travelers and strangers who are, in the mystery of faith, our very selves.

So, let us each walk our own Jericho road with our eyes open and our spirits light, ready for the unexpected. You may find your call not just in grand gestures, but in a smile, a meal, a shared laugh, or the willingness to be present when no one else does.

Remember: the world doesn’t just need more “good Samaritans;” the world needs more neighbors. Let us be those people together, with a bit of holy hope, and a lot of joy.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John

Who do You Say that I Am?  The unbreakable bond between faith and service

In this past weekend’s Gospel reading we hear Jesus ask Peter and the other Apostles the question “Who do you say that I am?”  My Pastor, and I’m sure many of yours, used this Gospel reading, and this question in particular, in his homily last Sunday as an opportunity to encourage us to explore our personal relationship with Jesus and to ask ourselves who do we say that He is to us in our lives?

That question Jesus posed to his disciples has resonated across centuries, demanding a response not just from Peter but from all of us who claim to be followers of Christ. Today, this question is still the mirror that lets us reflect on our relationship with Jesus. For many of us, especially we Vincentians, that relationship finds its most powerful and meaningful expression not in abstract theological belief, but in tangible advocacy for, and solidarity with, the poor. We have come to understand (and thus to answer that question for ourselves) that to believe in Jesus as Lord while ignoring the marginalized is to offer an incomplete answer, a contradiction that severs faith from its purpose.

In the Gospel, Peter declares, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16). That was a profound statement of faith and understanding, not merely for its words but for its implications. Jesus’ identity as the Messiah was inseparable from his mission: to “preach good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind” (Luke 4:18). The early Church understood this, that turning faith into action made us who we were! James minced no words: “Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead” (James 2:17). Everyone who has answered Jesus’ question throughout the ages has thus declare allegiance to a Savior who himself became poor and who judges nations by their treatment of the “least of these” (Matthew 25:40). Our faith is hollow if it does not propel us toward the margins.

Vincentians know and believe service to the poor is non-negotiable. Jesus’ ministry was a relentless confrontation with systems of exclusion. A battle against injustice and mistreatment of the marginalized.  Jesus embraced lepers, he dined with tax collectors, and he championed Samaritans, all acts that scandalized the social norms of the day! Let us be real folks, Jesus today would be considered a radical, a revolutionary, a socialist, a ‘left wing’ crazy. His teaching today would translate to dismantling structures that perpetuate poverty: they would mean a fight against unjust wages; they would be a cry of agony about the lack of adequate healthcare for the poor and the attempt to slash it even further to fund tax cuts for those who probably really don’t need them.  Jesus would cry about the fact that, just like his Mother at the time of his birth, people cannot find a place to live because of the housing crises in our nation. And Jesus would ask why we treat refugees who are trying to escape tyranny and terror in their native lands so poorly when God provided the model of compassion and care for the refugee when he saved Israel from the Egyptians in the Old Testament?

Jesus taught us advocacy and justice. He taught us that they are INSEPARABLE! We know and understand Advocacy is not charity; it is justice at work, echoing the prophets: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed” (Isaiah 1:17). When we advocate for the poor, for legislation that protects the most vulnerable, for fair immigration policies, for ethical labor practices, or for climate justice, we embody the command to “loose the chains of injustice” (Isaiah 58:6).

Effective advocacy balances both global action with local action. Hence, our support for others across the globe through our Twinning and Global Relief efforts. Our support for a well project in Kenya, our relief programs in Lebanon and Palestine, succeed not by bringing material support but by partnering with local SVdP Councils and Conferences, allowing them to support the needs in their communities.

Our work with the poor is sacramental, our real and tangible encounter with Christ. Mother Teresa called the poorest of the poor she worked with “Christ in distressing disguise,” and Dorothy Day saw the soup kitchen as an altar. When we feed the hungry, we partake in the Eucharist’s deeper truth: Christ broken for the broken. This work transforms us. In the face of suffering, our tidy theological boxes collapse, revealing a God who dwells in scars. As we wash feet, we rediscover Jesus’ question: “Do you understand what I have done for you?” (John 13:12). Service is where faith sheds theory and puts on flesh.

A relationship with Jesus that avoids the poor is a half-truth. The theologian Bonhoeffer warned against “cheap grace,” grace without discipleship. To call Jesus “Lord” while ignoring Lazarus at our gate (Luke 16:19–31) is spiritual hypocrisy. The truth of our bond with Christ is known in the reality of compassion: “If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?” (1 John 3:17).

Today, as Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” our answer must not be on our lips but in homes restored, stomachs filled, and chains broken. Only then does our confession become real, a lived gospel where faith and justice embrace.

The Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi opens with such perfect words, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.” But we can also add another line, “Lord, make me an instrument of your justice.”

Let us ask God’s help to continue to strengthen us as we understand and acknowledge those places and times where maybe we have reduced faith to words, and to reignite in us the fire that burns for the poor.

And thus, may our answer to “Who do you say that I am?” be in actions inspired by faith and of love.

Peace and God’s blessings,

John