On Sunday morning, while the Fillmore District is brunching or sleeping in, I’m sweating to attend something I’ve never run for in my life: church. I’m hoofing it past hair salons, fast food chains, corner markets, and thrift stores to catch the start of mass. Just up the street from an abandoned pool hall and a windowless police station, I come across what looks like a dormant storefront window. I almost pass it, but I check the address. I’ve arrived.
