A cold Wednesday evening in May 2017 found me standing, as usual, in front of the meetinghouse on 9th Street in San Francisco. Few people passed by that night. In front of me, one of the many drug dealers who worked our neighborhood was crouched, his back to me. I grappled with conflicting feelings.
I had prayed earlier that night for God to break open my heart, having no idea of what that might mean. I stared at the drug dealer’s...