Aftertwoyearsofdialogues,it wastimetotakethe
nextstep,toseewhatwecouldlearnbylivingin
communitytogether.Weputouta callfora “pilot
residency”—insearchofa groupofSistersthatmight
beinterestedincohabitingwitha groupofmillennials
forsixmonths.TheSistersofMercytookuson.
WespentmostofthatsmokyfirstweekatMercy
insideourquarters.
PeelingappleswithSisterJudy,welearnedabout
upcomingmergersofmajorhealthcaresystems
andheardupdatesonthepeopleinimmigration
detentioncentresthatthecommunityhasbeen
accompanying.Atthe Zendo on the ground floor we
sat with Father Greg, a redemptorist priest and Zen
Roshi. In the auditorium, we joined the celebratory
final meeting of an interfaith coalition featuring
reflections on solidarity and action from Muslim and
Christian leaders, youth reciting from the Koran, and
the Mercy High chorale. At the meeting, Sister Carol,
in her late 80s with sparkling blue eyes, shared that
we are all one, but need to know that and feel that
through direct experience and embodied action.
We had the first of what would become our weekly
Shabbat dinners with Sisters, full of song, spacious
sharing and a homemade meal, complete with a
challah covered in a dishcloth depicting nuns in habits.
The challah was blessed, broken and shared. Like
our lives. Like the eucharist. We became com-pan-
ions in the truest sense of the word, breaking bread
together. I sensed a line of ancestors standing behind
and above each one of us, watching on, smiling.What we had begun here was not a program, not a
new curriculum in spiritual formation or interfaith
community building. Unlike the novices who’d entered
this very same place decades before, our time would
not be defined by hierarchical structures and rigorous
rules, but by real-time inquiry and mutuality. We
would make the road by walking, creating structures
based on the needs and insights that emerged.There was only one day during the first week that I left
the convent, for an event in the city. The discordant
sites on a single street corner accentuated the
apocalyptic sky from the fire in the north. Upon
getting out of the car, I watched folks crossing the
street wearing air masks, walking their leashed dogs
with eerie normalcy. To my right, a half-clothed man
draped in a blanket was swaying and talking to himself.
To my left, five or six people (unmasked, and likely
Central or South American) climbed all over a giant
blackSUV,scrubbingit byhandata bustlingcar
wash—allon a day where the sky was still a dark gray
and there were more parts per million of carbon dioxide
in the air in the Bay Area than in Beijing or Delhi.E S S AYS 11