A man. A man shivering on a bus stop. He is wearing a pair or old khaki shorts and an old forest green polo shirt, both so worn that they look gray and could not possibly be very warm. Day in, day out, he either sits there, trudges through the shopping center nearby or he sits someplace else. He has a hard time talking, so he can't get a job.
He would like shelter, but he can't imagine where there might be such a thing for him. He is often hungry, but sometimes people give him something to appease his hunger. Life is this cycle of cold days, cold nights (or hot days, hot nights) with no end in sight.
He watches the cars speed down the freeway, not really caring anymore, having learned not to care or wish himself in that impossible to reach world of comfort.
Perhaps he never cared.
All he knows is that he is hungry, and cold, and uncomfortable and lonely. He knows, subconsciously, that almost nobody in the assortment of middle-class cars really cares for him, or even notices.
He might not even know that God loves him, that God made him. How is he to know this? Nobody has much of a desire to come in contact with him. Of course, God is absolutely capable of leading this man to Himself though he were on a deserted island in the middle of the Arctic ocean.
But God has directed his children to feed the hungry, for if anyone does this unto the least of him their brethren, they do it unto him. Why, then are Christians just standing by?