The other day, in downtown Athens, Greece, I saw an old woman sprawled on the ground like she'd been crawling and ran out of will power. A noticeable tremor ran through her limbs while the Athenian sun cooked the fabric on her back. She turned her skarf-covered head from side to side, perhaps looking for help. In her left hand she held an empty, crushed plastic cup, which awaited the clink of donated coins.

This is not an uncommon site in Athens, but I've never seen it at such an extreme. A familiar pang ran through my stomach as I approached this person, my conscience wanting to help her, guide her into the shade, give her water and a sandwich. But like everyone else, I walked past her and my heart morphed into a cold stone.

I thought of Jesus Christ healing people like this 2,000 years ago and compared it to my own shortcomings, paranoid that if I touch this woman I'd catch a disease, or she'd steal from me. Where did this paranoia come from? And is it for this same reason that so many others bypassed a chance to help? Or are we dealing with pure indifference, an overall apathy that is more crippling than whatever ails that old woman, who is forced to crawl like a stray dog upon the hot stones of the cradle of civilization.