When the White House announced in February that the stimulus bill included $1.5 billion for homeless programs over the next three years — nearly the same amount the federal government already spends annually — local shelter operators' ears perked up. They've had a rough few years.

In 2006, a change in Bush administration homeless policy — moving away from in-shelter services and focusing instead on getting the chronically homeless, particularly those with severe mental disabilities, into immediate housing — resulted in Philadelphia's shelter system losing $10 million in federal funding. The shelters, in turn, cut services. Perhaps the biggest hit came in case management, in which shelter residents meet with someone who helps them navigate the bureaucracy to obtain benefits and find appropriate housing. Shelters need beds to let the homeless in, but they need case management to get residents back out.

When the economy cratered in November 2008, Mayor Michael Nutter forced city departments to make deep cuts — and the Office of Supportive Housing (OSH), which administers the city's homeless programs, was no exception. Loath to eliminate beds, OSH directed its shelters to cut even more resident services — including what was left of case management —instead.

But with the stimulus, things were looking up. The city was awarded about $21 million in stimulus money over three years — a little less than $7 million a year. That's hardly chump change. OSH's total annual budget is $100 million, about $38 million of which comes from the city. In October, the money began flowing in.

It was with some surprise, then, that most shelter operators learned they wouldn't be getting much of that assistance — and neither would many, if not most, of the shelters' residents.

Angelo Sgro is executive director of the Bethesda Project, a nonprofit that operates several facilities for the homeless — including Our Brother's Place, one of the three largest shelters in the city with 150 beds for single men. Like other shelters, Our Brother's Place has slashed its services, going from six case managers to two in a few years.

Sgro had hoped to use some of the stimulus money to plug those holes. But most of the Bethesda Project's requests to the city, which doles out the stimulus money, went unfilled. (The city did eventually come up with about $47,000 to help fund one case-management position.)

Instead, Sgro was asked to refer his residents to new programs that did get funded, which he says he's happy to do — if, that is, he can find residents who qualify. So far, there aren't many.

"They asked us to deliver 25 people a month," Sgro says. "I can't imagine we would have that many people. I don't see these people being eligible."

That's because these stimulus dollars are targeted to a specific group of people— those with the resources, financial and otherwise, to be quickly and successfully put back into housing, and back on their feet.

The city's program has two components: "Homelessness Prevention," aimed at those just entering shelters or in danger of becoming homeless; and "Rapid Rehousing," for people who've already entered the system. Candidates for the former have to demonstrate that they're experiencing a financial crisis and facing homelessness — and that they have enough income to almost make it. Candidates for rehousing must demonstrate that they have enough resources —including enough income —to succeed in new housing with minimal assistance, and to be independent within three years, when the stimulus money runs out.

The logic is sensible enough. The stimulus targets those who have or are about to become homeless because of the recent recession, not necessarily those who are chronically homeless. The idea is to keep people from having to enter a shelter in the first place, and to identify those families in shelters that might just need a little boost to get back on their feet.

But many shelter residents don't fit that description. Most of the homeless who come to Sgro's shelters have mental health or drug and alcohol issues, or fundamental life-skill problems that require more than just a helping hand. These chronically homeless, Sgro says, need intensive and long-term case management — the very thing that was de-funded by the Bush administration, and which nobody wants to fund now.

"That's what's missing from the federal stimulus, any kind of long-term case management," Sgro says, "I'm disappointed. I thought we'd be able to use this money to help the chronically homeless."

Sgro is hardly alone. Joe Willard, of the People's Emergency Center, says that he, too, is also supposed to encourage residents to apply for stimulus programs, but he doubts that many of them will qualify. Of the 52 families his organization serves, he foresees only "a small proportion" meeting the programs' standards. Many need more help, and for longer, than the stimulus provides.

"Most of them are not working," says Willard. "Or if they are working, they're not making enough income to afford market-rate housing."

Ted Weerts, executive director of the Travelers Aid Society of Philadelphia, reports the same. Travelers Aid, the largest family shelter in the city, serves a little more than 100 families at a time; but as of Dec. 1, the agency was able to identify only 16 families for referral.

"When we saw the guidelines, right away, we thought, gee, not many of our families are going to be part of this," Weerts says.

OSH hopes to eventually refer 1,000 families from shelters to the rehousing program. According to Joye Presson, OSH's chief of staff, the office has already referred 205 families and individuals to these programs — although she says it's likely that most are still waiting to be rehoused.

And indeed, nobody in the shelter system thinks the stimulus program isn't a good thing — especially the homelessness prevention side of it. With shelters already at capacity, preventing a surge of newly homeless is crucial, and frees up resources for those who do require shelter.

The problem is one they and their colleagues have faced for decades — it just isn't enough.

Weerts, for example, acknowledges a rise in the number of "situationally homeless" families — families that might qualify for the stimulus programs — coming to his shelter.

But he points out that the number of families who don't fit that description hasn't slowed down. In fact, it's been increasing for years — from about 1,200 10 years ago to 1,700 now. And this, in a city that is losing population.

The stimulus programs, moreover, are funded only for the next three years —a blip on the decades-long timeline of homelessness in America. Even if the programs work as they're supposed to, they will have essentially maintained the status quo.

"Look, we house 150 people," says Bob Hayes, director of shelter services for the Bethesda Project. "One year from now, stimulus or not, we're still going to have 150 people here. If you want to have results, like anything, you have to invest to get a return."

The stimulus programs do represent an investment —but, considering the massive scope of America's homelessness problem, not a big enough one to even remotely resemble a solution. What that solution might be, homeless advocates say, is a tough question. But they agree that ultimately most homelessness comes from old problems — poverty, inequality, the lack of affordable housing — that a temporary infusion of cash will never solve.