Crystal Sanchez, President of the Sacramento Homeless Union / Western Regional Co-Director of the National Union of the Homeless

“They sell the innocent for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals. They trample on the heads of the poor as on the dust of the ground and deny justice to the oppressed.” — Amos 2:6-7

He was a radical homeless man, dirt on his feet and fire in his heart. He shattered every box people tried to force him into, crossing lines others wouldn’t even approach. He held fast to what was right, no matter the cost. It’s wild: today people worship him for the very things that once got him vilified. Back then, the acts they now preach: walking the streets, sitting with outcasts, feeding the hungry just made him a menace in their eyes.

He never turned away from anyone sleeping rough or going without. Where most saw a problem, he saw a person worth stopping for. He listened, gave what he could, never asking for explanations or credentials. Healing, feeding, helping these weren’t side projects. This was simply life. He didn’t waste time in endless debates or meetings. He walked. He acted. He cared. If you wanted to find him, you’d look in the tattered corners, in alleys, wherever pain and hunger pressed in. His presence brought comfort, not spectacle. He didn’t fight the system with noise; he lifted up those everyone else stepped over. That’s what remains; not clever words or rituals, but the way he kept showing up.

The testimonies of his story are written in the book you hold close and worship on Sundays. Every page bears witness to how he lived—who he stood with, who he lifted up, how he loved without limits. It’s all there, clear as day. His story isn’t just ancient history; it’s the legacy he entrusted to us.

She carries that same flame, making sure no one disappears into the margins. She knows the names of people in tents and doorways, and she never turns away when someone needs help. It’s not just about food or blankets, it’s about truly listening, standing up for dignity, and holding the line when everyone else looks the other way. Her compassion isn’t just a feeling; it's lived out, day after day, shaped by real experience and the simple truth that we belong to each other. She’s laughed, fought alongside and wept with those the world ignores, sharing not only what she has, but who she is. She’s rallied folks with nothing left, helping them find their voice, and their power. She’s there through freezing nights, city sweeps, and those bleak moments when hope is running on fumes. What she does isn’t charity, it's solidarity. She knows this work is about loving our brothers and sisters as our own flesh and blood, refusing to look away or give up. She’s not waiting for a hero to show up. She’s out there, every single day, refusing to let anyone get left behind, and in doing so, showing what real love looks like in the world.

He moves with the same conviction, but there’s a strength to him that can’t be missed. He doesn’t keep his distance. He’s right there in the thick of it, refusing to flinch in the face of hardship. He shares what little he has, offers comfort, and stands up for dignity even when it means putting himself on the line. You’ll find him on the curb, listening to stories nobody else has time for, showing up with a hot meal, putting himself between the vulnerable and whatever might harm them. His leadership isn’t about applause; it’s about fearless service and real love in action. He’s got grit; the kind that runs toward struggle, not away from it. He’s willing to get close, to shoulder someone else’s pain, to celebrate their joys, to grieve their losses. He loves people as if their pain and joy were his own, carrying their burdens with a fierce tenderness that refuses to let go. He doesn’t draw a line between “us” and “them”; he knows we are all bound together. His compassion is a force; there in the way he listens, in the way he stands up, in the way he keeps showing up even when it’s hard or thankless. Every move he makes is a statement: you matter, and no one gets left behind. This isn’t just service, it’s the kind of love and strength that lifts the whole community, a living reminder that to love your neighbor is to love yourself.

Each of these stories is a testimony—different lives, maybe yours, same heartbeat. One walked dusty roads two thousand years ago, another is out there today making sure no one gets forgotten, and a third sits shoulder to shoulder with the people he serves. What ties them together isn’t just compassion, but a refusal to turn away. They don’t wait for permission or applause; they move with conviction, standing up when it matters, loving when it’s hardest. Their lives echo each other, proof that justice, mercy, and courage aren’t relics of the past. They’re alive, right now, in anyone bold enough to follow that path.

If we really believe in something, it should light a fire under us. It’s easy to talk about compassion or justice from a padded chair at a meeting, but real conviction means stepping out, being present with the very people these words are supposed to lift up. Change doesn’t come from closed doors or empty talk. Change walks in when we do, when we show up, roll up our sleeves, and refuse to settle for a world that leaves anyone behind.

Belief means nothing if it doesn’t lead to action. If our values are real, they show up in how we spend our time, who we stand with, and which risks we’re willing to take for those who are hurting. Empty promises and good intentions aren’t enough. What matters is showing up—getting our hands dirty, walking the streets, sharing meals, listening, and demanding justice because it’s right. Faith and solidarity become real only when we live them out, wherever the need is greatest, making sure every person is seen and heard. This isn’t about earning a reward after this life. It’s about how we treat each other right now, especially our brothers and sisters who are hurting or pushed aside. What counts isn’t what we say, but how we love.

We are one people. Every act of courage, every bit of kindness, every hand reaching out these are the things that connect us. Our stories and struggles are intertwined. When one of us rises, we all rise. When we show up for each other, we become fully realized.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?” — Isaiah 58:6-7