California’s homelessness crisis didn’t appear overnight, and neither did the policy tug-of-war over how to treat addiction. On one side are officials like Gov. Gavin Newsom who’ve repeatedly leaned into looser rules and so-called “harm reduction.” On the other are front-line ministries and recovery workers who watch people get sober every week and say the state’s message is setting them up to fail.
Newsom’s now-infamous line—“clean and sober is one of the biggest damn mistakes this country’s ever made”—has aged poorly as tent cities and overdose deaths have climbed. Even more jarring was his attempt to normalize “self-medicating” with a glass of wine while arguing for fewer restrictions on those living on the street. To people actually doing the hard work of recovery, that sounded like surrender.
Matthew Barnett, who runs the Dream Center in Los Angeles, didn’t mince words on Allie Beth Stuckey’s “Relatable” podcast. He called Newsom’s stance “one of the most discouraging statements ever made by our governor,” adding it felt “like something that was said that came from the spirit of darkness.” In plain English: it tells broken people they’re beyond hope.
Barnett’s team serves the very population Newsom claims to champion—men and women battling fentanyl, meth, alcohol, and the trauma that often accompanies homelessness. He says the story the governor is selling simply doesn’t match the reality he sees daily. “They’re getting free and getting clean,” Barnett told Stuckey. “They’re excited. They’re praising and worshiping the Lord.” In other words, sobriety isn’t a “mistake.” It’s a lifeline.
The theological language may not sway Sacramento, but the principle is universal: what leaders praise, people will tend to practice. If the state shrugs at addiction and implies recovery is unrealistic, why would anyone believe the fight is worth it? Barnett called the message a “total slap in the face” to those sweating through detox, rebuilding trust with family, and clawing their way back into the workforce.
Harm-reduction advocates insist their strategy saves lives by keeping users alive long enough to seek help. But in practice, California’s cocktail of permissive policies, public drug use, and open-air encampments has become a magnet for despair, not a stepping stone to change. It’s not compassionate to hand out a clean foil if the subtext is, “You’ll never be clean.”
Barnett’s alternative is old-fashioned and stubbornly hopeful: structure, accountability, faith, and the expectation that people can change. That expectation matters. It animates volunteers, sets a standard for participants, and creates a culture where milestones—one day, one week, one month sober—are celebrated like championships.
Allie Beth Stuckey summed up the spiritual side: the voice telling you “You’ll never get better” isn’t mercy; it’s accusation. Policy has a moral tone whether politicians admit it or not. California can keep normalizing addiction—and keep getting the same results—or it can start amplifying the people and programs that actually move souls from the street to stability.
Newsom says “clean and sober” was a national mistake. Barnett’s streets say the opposite. If the state’s goal is fewer overdoses, fewer tents, and more restored lives, it should start by pulling the bullhorn away from defeatism and handing it to those watching redemption happen in real time.