Even While We Wait:

Even While We Wait: Sanctuary at the Curb

by Michael P. Evans, MDiv, PhD

It’s a cloudy Monday in July, and there’s a light mist in the air at UN Plaza. The city is bustling as always, and gulls cry overhead. On this third Monday of the month, San Francisco Night Ministry gathers for Open Sangha, a monthly Buddhist meditation service at the corner of Leavenworth and McAllister.

Thinking the service began at 5:30, I left work early and gave myself ample time to deal with traffic or any other surprises on the way from Palo Alto to downtown San Francisco. It turned out that my caution on this particular day had been unnecessary.

As I arrived at the meeting spot, I checked my watch. It was 4:45. A bit early, I thought. I can wait. What I didn’t realize then was that Open Sangha actually begins at 6:00. I had over an hour to go. But what could have felt like an awkward mistake became something entirely different.

Just as I sat down on a stone curb near the dog park, a man approached me. Willy, a tall Black man in his 40s with a warm voice and an easy presence, recognized me and asked, “You here for the Buddhist service?”

“Me too,” he said. “First time trying this one out.”

Willy rolled a cigarette, had a seat beside me on the curb, and we waited together. In the mist and the lull of Civic Center, a kind of sanctuary started to form, not inside a temple or beneath a steeple, but on the curb of an open plaza between strangers-turned-companions.

Willy is no stranger to Night Ministry. He’s a regular usher and community member at Open Cathedral on Sundays and Thursdays, and he told me he’s trying to add Open Sangha and Open Shabbat to his spiritual calendar. “I’m soaking up all the spiritual support I can,” he said. “I need it.”

He shared that he currently stays in a shelter, though he doesn’t feel safe there. Theft, poor maintenance, and unpredictability leave him anxious. He’s been approved for private motel housing, but the process moves slowly. He’s from San Francisco originally. He grew up in an unstable home marked by poverty and violence. He never learned to read. And yet, he dreams of seeing the world.

But dreams are hard to chase when safety itself remains elusive.

“I’m always sad when these gatherings break,” he told me. “Because then I’m back out there.” He gestured around us—to the skyline, the chaos, the churn of a city where unhoused folks are routinely made invisible. “But here, I feel seen. People care for me.”

Willy’s longing for safety is not abstract. It is daily. It is spiritual. And San Francisco Night Ministry helps answer that longing, not by solving every crisis, but by offering moments of sanctuary. A circle on the sidewalk. A shared cigarette. A blessing. A sense that, even for an hour, someone sees you.

By 5:30, a few other familiar faces and four-legged companions from Open Cathedral joined us. The atmosphere was festive and supportive. The service hadn’t even begun, and yet we were already in it. Something holy had taken shape.

Open Sangha itself is a story for another time. What I want to remember about this evening is the beauty that bloomed in the waiting. The way strangers made room for one another. The way sanctuary came not from a sermon, but from sitting still together under a gray sky.

Safety is a rare and precious thing. For those living on the edge, it can feel impossible. But at Night Ministry, safety isn’t just a structure—it’s a practice. It happens when we show up. When we listen. When we wait together.

Even while we wait, sanctuary is possible.

Sanctuary is possible, even if briefly.

Sometimes it’s as simple as a shared cigarette on a curb. A quiet presence in the mist. A moment of peace in a life that rarely offers it.

For people like Willy, safety isn’t a given—it’s a longing. And still, he shows up. To Open Sangha, to whatever space offers him spiritual shelter.

At San Francisco Night Ministry, we don’t fix every crisis. But we stay. We listen. We wait together. And in that waiting, something holy happens.

Your support keeps us on the streets and by the phones, offering care where it’s least expected and most needed.

Make sanctuary possible.

Give now to keep us present.