Last year, a week before Thanksgiving, a homeless man stabbed three people to death in Manhattan. The morning spree was random—not the result of a drug deal or premeditated attack, but rather the product of a sick soul.
When I heard about the killings and saw a picture of the killer, Ramon Rivera, I ran his face through a mental lineup. Did I know him? Have I passed him on the street? Was he the one hunched over, masturbating, at Astor Place? Maybe he was the tweaker always near the bodega on Second? The naked man who wandered in at the end of Friday morning Mass? The guy who sleeps face-down on subway grates near Grand Central? No. I did not know Ramon Rivera, but I’m sure there were thousands of New Yorkers who did, who were startled when they ran through their own mental lineups that Monday morning. The homeless men of this city may be lost and invisible on a social level, but they are quite literally seen by thousands daily. And, to those thousands, especially those who profess Christianity, they present a profound challenge: How can one love a neighbor like that?
Read Full Article »