The voice echoes through the simple sanctuary, "Forgive your enemies. Treat others as you would have them treat you." Difficult words to follow. And they're especially challenging for this audience —alcoholics, addicts, pushers, pimps, prostitutes, ex-cons, the homeless, and other skid-row denizens of the Ozanam Inn in New Orleans. Those assembled live amid a concrete wilderness of poverty and suffering. At Christmas, they are especially attracted to "the Inn," as locals call it, which ministers to the lost and the forsaken. The shelter dresses up for the holidays. A donated tree gleams with ornaments and lights. The building has cheerful papier-mâché holiday greetings, and the Inn's managers give residents wrapped presents, even though the gifts are simple and may contain only a pair of socks, a shirt, some underwear.

"We also distribute extra fruit—an apple, orange, or banana—for people to take with them. We want folks to remember it's Christmas, a special time," says the Assistant Administrator, Biaggio DiGiovanni, better known as "Mr. G." He says, "We don't force faith or religion on anyone. We only say, the chapel is there. Let's remember what Christmas is about."

And they do. A motley crowd gradually assembles in the non-denominational chapel. They wear disheveled, torn, malodorous clothes. The puffed, thickened features etched on numerous faces bear stark evidence to their owners' hard living and abuse of alcohol. Less visible are the needle-marked, ravaged arms.

Clad in his clerical robes, the gray-haired man speaks to the hushed congregation. "Did you know Jesus was born into extreme poverty? He had no worldly possessions, and he died with nothing more than the clothes he had on." Heads nod in sympathy.
"Jesus did not organize anything, build anything, or write anything," the minister continues. "His life was almost totally unappreciated at the time. His death held meaning to only a few. Yet His spirit urges us to go beyond ourselves—to heal a grudge, to be kind with those less fortunate than we are. In this period of celebration, we try again. We apologize when we are wrong. We appreciate what we have."

Then he adds more lightly, "Be gentle. Laugh a little. Gladden someone's heart. Protect the weak. Kindness is like snow; it makes beautiful whatever it covers. Speak the love that's in you."

He keeps on. "Jesus had no money or arms, yet he conquered more millions than Napoleon, Alexander, Mohammed, and Caesar. Jesus had no formal education, but he had an unsurpassed eloquence. He said, 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.' 'He that loses his life for my sake shall find it.' 'A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves.'"

Attention is keen. No one makes a sound. No one moves.

Standing near a small manger and in front of the altar with only a crucifix on it, the plain man says, "We admire gentleness, compassion, and patience. Act so that you will bring the same inspiration to others about you. Life's greatest reward is to befriend someone. Consider how you can give more than you get."

His message has an immediacy, an urgency. The souls struggling in this small place appreciate the earthy philosophy.

"To be important," he continues, "you don't have to be famous or great. But you must matter to someone or to something larger than yourself. The abundance or emptiness of your life can be assessed by its impact on others—make that impact positive."

Although decorated, the Inn's somber walls express an unspoken truth. Christmas yields little respite from the dangers of street life. Ozanam Inn stands surrounded by a hell without fire. Outside the building lies a metropolis tourists call "The Big Easy," but for these, the city is anything but easy. These humble celebrants fully comprehend their struggle. They accept the fury of the city's sudden, unanticipated terrors. They understand the lonely areas where sleep and death easily come together.

Inside the chapel, small bells tinkle and have an unlikely power. People listen deeply, sit or kneel quietly. Charitable thoughts seem to hover in the room. Voices, off key and without musical accompaniment, labor at the familiar hymns—"Away in a Manger," "The First Noel," "O Come, All Ye Faithful." For the moment, they have risen above their condition and are at peace as they wrap their ill-fitting clothes about them before re-entering the brisk winter outside.

During my 18 years, I have had some amazing experiences. These include being a high school volunteer in this difficult setting. To me, no greater beauty exists than the hope of these outcasts. They, like Jesus, have been rejected, neglected, abused, scorned, imprisoned. For most of their lives, they have experienced traumas and conditions few of us can imagine. Yet their sad eyes do not reflect regret or remorse, just acceptance that life has dealt them a tough hand, a hand they will play with as much dignity and hope as possible.

Year after year, the Inn's Christmas services bear witness that even society's most forlorn crave understanding, forbearance, and love. They sing "Silent Night," bow their heads in a final prayer, and then, in silence, depart. None want to leave, yet all know they must.

William Beaumont is a 12th Grade Honors student at Ben Franklin High School in New Orleans. He is a Past Master Councillor of Concorde Chapter in Harahan, La. He holds a national Table Tennis championship and recently won a prestigious Society of Colonial Wars history prize. He has also had an essay published in Unity magazine. He likens the Ozanam Inn experience to John Milton's words in Paradise Lost (Book II, Lines 432–433): "Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light." He hopes to make that journey easier for those who are trying.