We Are All Lost Sheep
We Are All Lost Sheep
by Michael P. Evans, MDiv, PhD
It was a bright Sunday afternoon in mid-September, and the Tenderloin felt alive. The sun was warm, the air clear, and UN Plaza was bustling with more people than usual as San Francisco Night Ministry’s weekly Open Cathedral service began. Folding chairs filled quickly. The dog park behind the altar was active with canines enjoying the weather, and quite a few furry friends were present with their humans for the service itself. The gathered congregation mirrored the texture of the city—diverse, complex, searching.
Beside me sat Ronny, a thin Hispanic man in his mid-40s with short brown hair and a ruddy complexion. Throughout the service, Ronny sometimes spoke out of turn, making comments that didn’t quite fit the structure of worship. And yet, in the middle of it all, he proclaimed loudly and without hesitation:
“Man, I do love Jesus!”
After the service ended, Ronny struck up a conversation with me. He explained that he normally lives in San Mateo County, but for the past few weeks he had been staying in a San Francisco shelter while waiting for a trial connected to an altercation back home. His court date, he said, was still a couple of weeks away. The shelter where he’s staying is also where he learned about Open Cathedral, and this Sunday was his very first time attending.
Ronny spoke candidly about his life. Drug use, he said, had been a major source of trouble. It had created distance in his family, especially with his adult daughter, Priscilla, who has cut off contact with him because of his addiction. He was tearful when he spoke about her, and it was clear that reconciliation with Priscilla is a deep hope and motivation for him to turn his life around.
He proudly shared that he has not used intravenous drugs for two years, though he admits he still uses in other ways. As he spoke about his court case, Ronny treated the possibility of jail almost like a certainty. He looks at this prospect not with dread, but with a strange sense of hope: “a roof over my head, three square meals a day, and the push I need to quit drugs for good,” he said. He added that when he is released, he hopes to return and find us again at Open Cathedral.
That day, Pastor Katie Laurence preached from the Gospel of Luke, the parable of the lost sheep. She reminded us that no matter the details of our own lives—our histories, our circumstances, our mistakes—we are all lost sheep.
I reflected on this message after my conversation with Ronny. He has made mistakes. So have I. So have all of us. Lostness is part of being human. But the deeper truth of the parable is this: no matter how lost we may feel, we still matter. We are still worth finding. We still have value.
Ronny’s first experience of Open Cathedral gave him a glimpse of that truth. And for me, sitting beside him on that warm September day, his words of love for Jesus—raw, unpolished, unrestrained—were their own kind of sermon. His story reminded me that we all carry regrets, we all lose our way, and yet we all still belong.
All of us wander, and all of us are worthy of being sought, seen, and loved.
Stories like Ronny’s remind us why San Francisco Night Ministry exists.
In the middle of a bustling city, people who feel lost, unseen, or forgotten discover that they are worthy of love and belonging. This is what your support makes possible—chairs in the plaza, multi-faith chaplains on the streets, listening ears on the Care Line, and communities where grace has no barriers.
Your gift helps keep Open Cathedral and all of Night Ministry’s programs alive for people searching for hope and connection. Whether it’s someone attending for the first time or someone who has walked with us for years, each person matters—and each gift matters, too.
🌙 Please consider making a donation today. Together, we can remind every neighbor: we all wander, we are all worthy of being sought, seen, and loved.
