Rain or Shine

Rain or Shine

by Michael P. Evans, MDiv, PhD

It was a cool, damp Sunday in mid-November at UN Plaza. The threat of rain had loomed all week—our first real reminder since March that winter is returning to San Francisco. Open Cathedral, I learned from Deacon Katie Laurence, meets rain or shine; tents go up if needed. 

In the end, the weather held. Gray skies, chilly air, but no downpour. It felt symbolic of the tension we all live in: everything shifts, and yet something holds.

This Sunday also marked a milestone. Deacon Katie, who has served Open Cathedral for years, was formally installed into her role through the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Her installation was celebrated with donuts during worship, a sweet recognition that sometimes new creation shows up in simple, joyful ways (the donuts did not, as I briefly wondered, replace communion).

Lately I’ve been reflecting on impermanence. Health fails. Bodies weaken. Institutions falter. Traditions fade. And yet, within the Christian imagination, and within many spiritual traditions, there is this deep intuition that something remains. That even as everything else falls away, God does not. Or, in a more interfaith way of saying it: there is a ground of being, a sacred constancy, that holds us even when the world does not.

That message was clear in Pastor Liz Muñoz’s sermon. She preached from Luke 21:5–19, the passage where Jesus predicts that even the magnificent temple will one day lie in ruins. Everything that seems permanent will change. And yet God’s presence endures, drawing us into something new.

Pastor Liz reminded us of Isaiah’s promise that in the midst of loss, God brings forth new creation. Old forms may crumble, but new expressions of community emerge. Open Cathedral is one such expression—raw, authentic, and grounded not in architecture but in relationship. A reminder that church is the people, not the building.

And Deacon Katie’s ministry, officially affirmed this week, is a new creation too—open, growing, full of potential.

I generally center these reflections on the voices of communities we serve rather than the message preached from the front. But this week, the message and the moment resonated deeply—both with me and with the congregation.

Pastor Liz asked everyone to raise a hand if they had known loss or suffering. Every hand went up.

It wasn’t surprising. To live is to lose. And among those who survive on the streets, impermanence is a daily reality: unstable housing, unpredictable health, shifting safety. Nothing is guaranteed.

And yet, they show up. They gather. They worship. They join together in a community that adapts, heals, and rebuilds itself Sunday after Sunday.

After the service, I spoke with Richard, an usher I interviewed earlier this year. In that interview, he marveled that through everything he’d endured, he was “still here.” This Sunday was the first time he’d made it back in weeks. His body has been giving him trouble, and the cold weather is harder for him to bear.

Richard told me he has a tumor he does not wish to treat. “I’d rather leave this in God’s hands,” he said. “God’ll decide what to do.” Months ago, Richard’s story reminded me of resilience. This time, it reminded me of impermanence, how quickly things shift, how fragile “still here” can become.

And yet he came to worship, to celebrate Katie, to be held by the community that has held him so many times before.

Standing there in the November chill, surrounded by people who know loss intimately and yet gather with hope, I felt the message of the day settle in:

Impermanence is real. But so is renewal.

Things fall apart. And yet love rebuilds.

Church buildings crumble. But the living, breathing  church goes on.

At Open Cathedral, under cloudy skies and shifting forecasts, something enduring is always being born.

It is church, rain or shine.

The holiday season is officially here,

and we at SF Night Ministry are sending you warmth and gratitude for all you are and all the goodness you bring into this world. 

As we enter the longest nights of the year, Michael’s story reminds us: impermanence is real—but so is renewal.

At Open Cathedral, on the Care Line, and across the city after dark, your support helps us be a steady, compassionate presence for people who need a little bit of renewal in the midst of the realities of impermanence.

Please consider a gift today, and thank you for joining us-not just this season, but year-round.