“Who’s My Case Manager?” and Other Questions We Hear Every Day

(Palm Sunday reflections from the Cecil)

Palm Sunday begins with a question echoing through the streets of Jerusalem: “Who is this?” The people gathered, waving branches and laying down their cloaks, not because Jesus arrived in force—but because he arrived with compassion. Because he showed up. Because he walked alongside.

A Basket of Palm Fronds from Palm Sunday last year at the Hotel Cecil.

Every week at the Hotel Cecil, I hear a different version of that question: “Who’s my case manager?” It’s whispered or frustrated, asked at a desk or in a hallway, but at its core, it’s the same plea: Who is here for me? Who knows my name?

My usual answer is, “Call the agency or organization that issued your voucher or subsidy.” And that’s not wrong. But it's also not enough.

The truth is, the systems built to support folks who are newly housed are often complex, siloed, and overwhelmed. That leaves the residents—many of whom are navigating trauma, disability, or deep instability—feeling adrift. And so, people turn to those who are present.

As chaplain at the Hotel Cecil, I’m often one of the first people residents come to with these kinds of questions. My role isn’t just to offer spiritual support—though that’s part of it—but to help them navigate a system that isn’t always built for clarity or care. Alongside dedicated staff and a small but committed team, I spend a lot of time doing what would traditionally be called case management: tracking down phone numbers, printing documents, calling social workers, scheduling appointments. Sometimes I just sit and listen. And often, that’s the most important work of all.

There is extraordinary strength in the community here. People help one another. They ask questions for each other. They care. But no one should have to fight so hard just to find out who’s supposed to help them.

I think of Mark, who’s been dealing with some minor but important medical issues. Last winter, he found out—without warning—that his housing voucher had been rescinded. No letter. No call. Just vanished. Since then, I’ve been walking alongside him as we work to reconnect him with critical services and get his footing back.

I remember Jacob, who at Palm Sunday Mass last year had a mental health crisis that left my friends from Esotouric's Secret Los Angeles scared for their safety (and led to positive changes in ingress and egress at the building). After a few more crises, Jacob was arrested. It may have been the best thing for him. He is now in a program, learning to live with the weight of his past without it defining him. Though Holy Week begins with protest, it ends with new life and the promise of the Resurrection!

Now, with the recent upheaval at the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority (LAHSA)—including funding cuts and leadership changes—the uncertainty has only deepened. The ripple effects are being felt across the city, adding layers of complexity to an already strained system.

This Palm Sunday, I’m reminded that Jesus didn’t change lives by remote control or distant policy. He walked with people, sat with them, knew their stories, and bore their burdens. That is still the model—especially here.

So if you're ever wondering what the work looks like—it looks like walking alongside others and doing the quiet, essential work—even when the system can’t.

Support my birthday fundraiser for Friends of the Cecil

This year, instead of gifts, I’m asking for support for the work we do every day—quiet, essential, and rooted in love. Your gift helps us walk alongside our neighbors when systems fall short.