Ever since my college days, I've had a crush on San Francisco. I couldn't tell you why in particular. Perhaps I could mention the iconic bridges or colorful crops of houses sitting on hilltops. Or how the water surrounds the city in a way that few cities can, a gracious blue blanket inviting both warmth and adventure. I was born and raised in Southern California, and I will always call LA my home. But I cannot deny the beautiful mystery of the bay.
I'm sure this San Francisco was more a making of my imagination than anything. It makes sense because whenever I visit the city, I get to pick and choose the places I want. Travelers are afforded this privilege. We are creators of the romance and we decide how to frame the city. But when you are committed to a city as a resident, you are called to embrace her in its entirety. The good and the not-so-good parts, as they are interlocked. You can still isolate yourself to the nicer pockets, the gated communities and what not if you choose, but when you do, it is intentional. You isolate yourself knowing full well the other side of the story.
For awhile now, San Francisco has been considered a pioneer city for the most innovative and progressive movements in the country. But here's the other side of the story I could not ignore. It is also home to one of the most broken and dark neighborhoods—the Tenderloin. It spans about 50 square blocks. There are about 37,000 residents crammed into 500 SRO (Single Resident Occupancy) buildings, making it one of the most dense districts in the city. It is also one of the poorest and most violent regions in the area, with over 6,000 homeless residents and an average of three major crimes per hour. Many are struggling with all sorts of drug and alcohol addictions and are living paycheck to paycheck.
I knew about the Tenderloin, but I never really experienced it until last weekend. As part of the SF City Impact conference, I was able to serve and give back to this community. The organization made arrangements to close down several streets to set up service tents for nearby residents. Along with thousands of other like-minded volunteers from all across the country, we offered various services like grocery/meal delivery, foot-washing, dental and medical care, clothing, grooming, massages, haircuts, sports, and prayer.
As part of the prayer team, I got to witness the struggle and oppression first-hand. Many of the people I came across were battling alcoholism or loneliness or depression. We met and prayed for an older man named Rich, who recently lost both his job and his wife to cancer. In his darkest hour, he was simply seeking for a person to talk to, who can help shoulder his sadness. By the end of our conversation, we became friends and exchanged numbers to help encourage him in his journey. We even offered him a Bible, a gesture that genuinely moved him—he accepted it like a child struck with wonder.
On that Saturday, for a few hours, some of the lost and forgotten—those often considered the "dregs of society"—were given new hope and restoration. They were cared for and looked after, and in our tents, they meant something. It was brother lending a hand to fellow brother, strangers embracing like sisters, all of us together as co-strugglers in this journey called life. And it was powerful, even beautiful. This is what it feels like to be part of a movement that is so much bigger than yourself. I felt truly alive.
I'm reminded the best stories we've ever been told aren't the ones void of conflict or pain. They are often stories of how the conflict has been overcome. I won't ever fully understand the reason or purpose for suffering, the darkness in this life. But I do know it is universal, and we all suffer in varying degrees. And I've concluded we all have a role to play in this. We are either suffering or called to comfort those who are suffering. Sometimes, we're forced to see the ugly parts of the world because we're the ones who are supposed to do something about it.
I came to San Francisco this time around and got a good look at her without the makeup. She was broken, battered and bruised. This is true of San Francisco, and perhaps of all our cities and communities should we care to look and hear the voices of the marginalized. The funny thing is that's how I felt about myself before God found me, and I was no different. But the God I believe in is about rewriting narratives, and redeeming the broken parts and turning it into something wonderful.
For all its pain and sadness I won't ever look at San Francisco the same again. And that's a good thing. It is where I see the light of hope and truth, and it shines brightest in the darkness.