They prayed about illness, grief, addiction, war, and heartbreak. None of the prayers ended in despair—and that’s what surprised me most.

The forecast said rain. Life said loss. And still, Open Cathedral gathered—donuts, doctrine, and all—bearing witness to what endures when everything else shifts.

He barked through most of the service, lunged at other dogs, and pulled relentlessly at his leash. But at Open Cathedral, even those still in training belong.

He interrupted the service to declare his love for Jesus. By the time we talked afterward, I realized I’d been sitting beside one of the clearest sermons I’d heard all day.

I came for meditation. I stayed for the socks. Somewhere between wet pavement and dry feet, metta took on a whole new meaning.

I showed up an hour early to a Buddhist meditation service—and accidentally found sanctuary on a curb. Before the service even began, something holy had already taken shape.

It was a chilly mid-April evening—Holy Thursday—when I arrived at the corner of 16 and Mission. I had just finished a full day at Stanford Hospital and driven straight from Palo Alto. As I stepped out of my car, the wind cut through my sweater, and I wondered for a moment if I’d even find the gathering. The Mission was alive, bustling with movement, noise, color, and clamor. But before long, I spotted my colleagues setting up for San Francisco Night Ministry’s 6 PM bilingual Open Cathedral service.

This was my first time attending the Thursday night service. Compared to the quieter feel of Sunday’s Open Cathedral at UN Plaza in the Tenderloin, the scene at 16th and Mission felt like sacred chaos. The city didn’t pause for us: buses groaned, conversations in Spanish spilled into the square, a police cruiser idled close by. At one point, someone attempted to walk off with part of the Night Ministry setup, only to be gently but firmly stopped by members of the congregation.

At the BART station on Market and Spear,
Night Minister Tamunoemi isn’t immediately visible.

Then we spot her—