The meetings did not take place around a conference table. They took place in a large circle overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

On the wall of that room, hand-lettered in careful calligraphy on a white-painted brick surface, were names. Dozens of them.

The names of homeless men and women who had died on the streets of Santa Barbara. One name per brick. A record kept by the late Ken Williams, a county social worker who spent three decades walking the margins of this city, learning the names of people many others had forgotten.

We balanced plates of food on our laps and listened to one another beneath that wall. Around the circle sat social workers, clergy, physicians, elected officials, outreach workers, activists, philanthropists and community members united by concern about the growing crisis of homelessness in Santa Barbara.

At the time, it felt like a lunch gathering. Looking back nearly two decades later, I believe it was one of the most important civic spaces in the history of Santa Barbara’s response to homelessness.

The Homeless Activist Luncheon met regularly at 101 Mesa Lane, the home of entrepreneur and philanthropist Chuck Blitz.

The gatherings were organized and facilitated by Cath Webb, whose warmth, intelligence, and gift for bringing people together made the meetings possible.

In a city often divided by professional roles, political affiliations and organizational boundaries, Webb created a space where people could speak honestly, listen carefully and think collectively.

The timing mattered. When I first began attending in 2007, homelessness was becoming increasingly visible throughout Santa Barbara County.

The service system was fragmented, with no coordinated entry system and no dominant framework. Much of the work depended on relationships, improvisation and local initiative.

Then came the Great Recession, and the crisis deepened.

The circle at 101 Mesa Lane brought together people who rarely occupied the same room.

Gary Linker of New Beginnings Counseling Center became one of my most important mentors.

Williams’ quiet commitment to those living on the streets helped shape my understanding of what it means to bear witness to suffering.

Peter Marin, writer, social critic, and founder of the Committee for Social Justice, challenged us to see homelessness not as an individual failure but as a civic responsibility.

Then-Mayor Helene Schneider and Santa Barbara County Supervisor Doreen Farr regularly participated.

So did Jennifer Ferraez, Mike Foley, Emily Allen and Jeff Shaffer, whose meal-sharing ministry crossed organizational and ideological boundaries.

What made the gathering remarkable was not simply who attended. It was what happened when people began to trust one another.

Ideas became collaborations. Collaborations became projects.

As Linker later reflected: “These gatherings proved what many of us intuitively knew — that working together, in true collaboration, could accomplish so much more than any of us could have achieved on our own. We truly believed in the cause and were committed to helping our brothers and sisters living on the streets and in vehicles.”

Shaffer described what the luncheon meant personally: “The Mesa group helped introduce me to the most passionate individuals and organizations aligned with the best interests of friends without homes. I found my tribe at the initial stages of having the meal sharing.”

Ferraez captured a sentiment shared by many: “I never planned on being an advocate, but at a certain point I realized there were certain underserved populations who had little voice in our society and I had to speak out. Knowledge is responsibility.”

From those conversations, action followed. The Freedom Warming Centers grew from discussions among people unwilling to leave vulnerable neighbors outside during winter storms.

The Longest Night Homeless Memorial Candlelight Vigil, now an annual Santa Barbara tradition, emerged from relationships forged during that period.

Many initiatives familiar to Santa Barbara’s homelessness response today trace their roots back to that circle.

The most important outcome, however, was not any specific program. It was the education many of us received simply by participating.

The people in that circle taught me that outreach begins with listening, that effective advocacy requires relationships, and that policy matters — but so do trust, compassion and humility.

Most important, they taught me the practice of witnessing: learning to see suffering clearly and refusing to look away.

The original luncheon eventually faded.

In later years, David Hopkins — known to many as “Hopper” — transformed his own journey through chronic alcoholism and homelessness into a career in outreach and later revived the gatherings at Trinity Episcopal Church.

For a time, the spirit of collaboration was preserved. But the historical moment had changed.

The original luncheon occupied a unique civic window when key advocates, service providers and elected officials were still building relationships and the system remained fluid enough that a circle of people sharing a meal could genuinely shape what happened next.

That window had closed.

Today, Santa Barbara’s homelessness response system is larger, more professionalized and more institutionalized than it was in 2007.

Yet communities solve problems long before they solve them formally. They begin by gathering, listening and creating spaces where people can learn from one another.

I often think back to that circle overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The food balanced on our laps. The conversations that crossed professional and political boundaries. The wall of names reminding us why we had come together.

What appeared to be an ordinary lunch was something much more. It was a community teaching itself how to respond to suffering.

And for many of us, it was where we first learned how to witness.