On Sunday, Sept. 28, 2014, I left my wallet and keys in my Sacramento, California, office, picked up a backpack and a sleeping bag, and walked across the street to take the light-rail train downtown. Without a plan, I found myself interacting with homeless people, seeking their advice on where to go for food and other services.

The decision to live among the homeless for two weeks came about in response to a request from our mayor, Kevin Johnson. Funding was needed to keep open a winter shelter program that was a cooperative effort of several local churches. Johnson asked whether I could help raise private funding to keep it going. Our team dreamed up the idea for me to live on the streets as part of a social media campaign to raise the necessary funds.

Local media outlets picked up the story, and the community rallied behind our efforts. We raised the money needed in a week.

I could have gone home, but I did not. Something was happening in my heart that I did not anticipate. I stayed the second week because of the spiritual awakening that was occurring in my own soul.

My homeless experience caused me to see people who had been invisible to me for the 20 years I had lived in my city.

In the middle of that second week, I met up with a few friends who were curious about how things were going. It was the first time I had attempted to explain what I was experiencing, and I was surprised by the emotion that surfaced. In this conversation, one of my friends used the word “incarnate.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You put yourself in others’ shoes,” he said.

It was a turning point for me. I began thinking about Jesus — and the homeless, and all kinds of broken people — in a whole new way. I began seeing John 1 and Hebrews 4 differently, because I started seeing what God did for me in a different way.

Incarnation isn’t just a fancy theological term for me anymore. Jesus incarnated. He came into my world. He experienced life like I do. All of it — the hurts, the pains, the sorrows. If anybody understands what I’m going through, Jesus does.

Jesus came to serve. The Incarnate One. He saw my darkness and my humanity, and He was drawn to me. He did not push me away. Jesus knows where I’m weak, but He doesn’t condemn me for that. His grace covers me. He came to shelter me. He came to love me. He did not tell me to get my act together. He came to resolve my troubles. He carried my sin to the cross. He carried my sickness to the whipping post. He came to take the pain — all that I would ever have — on himself. He came to take my place. Jesus says, “I want you to be healthy. I want you to be well. I want you to be with Me in eternity.”

My heart began to break for broken people. Thinking about the way Jesus approached broken people, I found new passion to do my best to follow His example. As I interacted with drug addicts, alcoholics, people with mental illnesses, and lonely and rejected souls, I saw their pain. Suddenly, they began to matter to me. They had value in my eyes. They were me.

The world is full of people to serve, not enemies to defeat. The Incarnation is a story of compassion for others. When Rabbi Mona Alfi invited me to participate in an event at her synagogue marking the 15^th anniversary of an anti-Semitic bombing, I felt compassion for those suffering injustice in my community. God’s presence was in the room.

When Imam Mohamed Abdul-Azeez invited me to speak at a Ramadan event where the Muslim community gathers for a feast to break their fast, I was moved with compassion for them. I was asked to talk about the spiritual disciplines of my Christian faith. I felt God’s Spirit in a beautiful way as I did my best to reflect the love of Jesus.

When George Floyd was killed, I was moved with compassion for my Black and brown brothers and sisters who were impacted deeply by this injustice and the buildup of injustice over the past 400 years. I sincerely want to understand the pain. We are all one people. One Lord. One baptism. One crimson bloodline.

There is something I can do when my neighbor says, “This hurts.” I can listen. I can mourn with those who mourn and weep with those who weep.

I can take the time to hear someone’s cries without trying to tell them why their cries are not justified. I can be better and do better. I can learn what it is about the injustice that has led to the pain being carried.

We are not called to name calling. We are called to love and mercy.

My homeless experience caused me to see people who had been invisible to me for the 20 years I had lived in my city. They were not on my radar. I had something else to do. They were not my concern. Basically, they were not people to me. I had my latte and my ministry appointments.

If I noticed them at all, I thought, They can’t be helped. They’re mentally ill. They want to be out there. They don’t want a place to stay. What can I do? They are drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes and criminals. They made their bed; let them lie in it. It’s their problem. All of those people are living off my taxes. Why don’t they get a job? What’s wrong with them?

Now, for a few extraordinary days, I saw them. I was with them. They became human beings to me. It wasn’t about the concept of homelessness. It was about people. The people for whom Jesus came. The people His Incarnation was for.

Homelessness can seem like an impossible problem to solve. I don’t have the answers to this societal burden. Seeing the immensity of the issue can be paralyzing. But instead of thinking I need to solve this massive problem, I am simply moved to do what I can for the broken person in front of me.

I can’t help them all. But I can still make a difference by seeing and serving one person at a time.