Foot-stomping gospel music and earnest testimonials about religious conversion enliven the video, but most people in the audience are slumped in their chairs asleep, nodding off, or staring vacantly.

Suddenly, at 6:15 a.m., the screen goes blank, the lights go on, and someone directs the congregation, row by row, to rise and proceed to the next room. It's breakfast time at San Diego Rescue Mission, which has dispensed "soup, soap, and salvation" to the hungry, homeless, and working poor downtown since 1955.

The cafeteria, which is part of the Mission's complex at 1150 J Street, is furnished with orange and yellow plastic chairs attached to tables. As the crowd of 200 files in, each person receives a beige tray and a plastic spoon wrapped in a napkin. The clothes of one man are filthy as though he had rolled in dirt. Another man needs to shave. One woman is drunk. Another woman shuffles along in flip-flops. Someone limps. A few people wear sunglasses.

James Jackson Jr. doesn't focus on physical imperfections or categorize potential mental problems that might stand out to other observers. "The way I look at it, when we serve the homeless, we're serving Christ," says Jackson, the Rescue Mission's new chief executive officer. "Our God comes through that door every morning." Doling out scrambled eggs isn't part of Jackson's job requirements, but he regards serving breakfast occasionally as one of his perks.

A deeply religious man, Jackson stopped teaching history at Point Loma Nazarene University two years ago to start a second career through which he might better express his beliefs. He was content working for his church, the First United Methodist Church, as its director of Christian adult education. Then, in May, Jackson accepted an offer that pulled him into the streets of downtown San Diego and the middle of a new baseball district.

The Rescue Mission was seeking an interim chief executive to succeed Bill Brunk, who had retired. Bert Wahlen, the mission's board chairman, says Jackson's keen intellect, compassion, and energy could help lead the nonprofit organization into the next century. About the only strike against Jackson, a former Habitat for Humanity volunteer, is that he has never worked with the homeless. Nonetheless, his stint in the ivory tower may serve the mission well; his expertise as a historian is urban migration.

Jackson is likely to relocate the mission within San Diego, assuming the board retains him permanently.

After only a week on the job, the environmental impact report for the Padres' proposed baseball stadium landed on his desk. The voluminous report hints that plans for shops, eateries, bars, and other concessions in downtown's East Village could result in the loss of the San Diego Rescue Mission, causing a significant impact on the homeless. Although the mission's various facilities do not appear on the Centre City Development Corporation's lists of properties to be acquired or organizations to be moved, a careful reading of the report's maps and guarded language reveals various adverse impacts on the mission.

Most affected would be the men's shelter, a 44,000-square-foot building where residents serve free breakfast daily to whoever arrives before 6:15 a.m. Several times a week the shelter distributes clean clothes and makes its showers available to homeless men. Because the second-floor dormitories rely on windows for ventilation, the stadium's light and noise would disrupt the sleep, study, and prayers of nearly 200 men, mostly recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. Jackson figures retrofitting the building with air-conditioning and new windows would exceed $500,000; he hasn't begun to research the cost of moving or rebuilding.

Despite such severe impacts, the mission last week endorsed the ballpark via Citizens for San Diego's Future. The loose alliance of civic groups -- ranging from the Asian Business Association to the San Diego Regional Economic Development Corp. -- bought a full-page advertisement in the San Diego Union-Tribune to tout the project as a way to revitalize East Village. The mission did not contribute financially; Citizens for San Diego's Future says it plans to raise money for the ad.

The mission's endorsement was a bold move for Jackson, who did not consult the board, which had remained neutral under Brunk. Jackson said an old acquaintance involved with Citizens for San Diego's Future persuaded him to sign. "From my perspective, it's a way to reach out, find solutions, and deal with the reality of the situation." Jackson claims he was not trying to curry favor but rather avoid the bitterness that ensued in the 1980s, when the city forced the mission to move from the Gaslamp Quarter.

The mission is unlikely to get special treatment; baseball would intrude on nearly all of its operations.

A proposal to widen 12th Avenue threatens not only the men's shelter sitting between 11th and 12th but also the mission's thrift shop at 443 12th Avenue. Plans for stadium parking would raze a warehouse at 1300 L Street, where the mission stores donations of food, clothing, furniture, and other items that are sold in thrift shops.

Other facilities may not be affected: a house at 1401 J Street accommodating about 20 "graduates" of the men's shelter; the mission's offices at 939 S. 16th Street.; and a nearby shelter for as many as 70 women and children, mostly victims of drugs, alcohol, and beatings.

Jackson has resigned himself to many months of uncertainty. During talks with city officials, "I've been told that it's inevitable that we're going to move. Then I've been told, no, we're not on any list to be moved, we're in the way of nobody," Jackson said. "Whether we move or stay, a constant for us is we want to be good neighbors, and we have a mission given to us by God to serve the poor, the homeless, the abused."

The proposed ballpark jeopardizes every charity in the East Village, including the Salvation Army and Volunteers of America, said Diane Dixon, who operates Christ Healing & Prayer, a volunteer lay ministry serving poor people downtown. The Rescue Mission is the most vulnerable, she said, because of its proximity to the stadium site. The neighborhood's largest organization serving the poor, St. Vincent de Paul, may not be touched because it is far enough away and its massive facilities would be too expensive to move.

"I don't think anyone has dealt with the human cost involved," said Dixon, who opposes the ballpark. "My concern is there's no plan to serve the unserved." The environmental impact report states only 100 homeless people would be further uprooted. However, more than 500 homeless inhabit East Village, according to the Regional Task Force on the Homeless -- an estimate reinforced by observation of dozens of people sleeping under awnings, in empty lots, against warehouse walls, and near railroad tracks.

The EIR proposes forming a committee to make recommendations for the displaced homeless, with no mention of funding. The report concludes, "Impacts of displaced homeless on surrounding areas would be considered significant and unmitigated."

The baseball stadium isn't solely to blame for such displacement. For years neighborhood groups and the Centre City Development Corp. have pressured downtown churches and nonprofit organizations to stop feeding the hungry and to curtail emergency services. The Rescue Mission responded in 1996 by creating long-term residential programs emphasizing rehabilitation and education. Under Brunk, the mission beefed up its board and hired people with college degrees and clinical experience. By serving breakfast instead of dinner, the men's shelter reduced loitering, lines, and litter.

With or without the ballpark, development would eventually precipitate an urban migration of charities, said Bill Radatz, chairperson of the Metropolitan Area Providers of Social Services. "The mood is: We're going to regentrify downtown. We're going to reclaim downtown. The cost of real estate will go up. It will force social service agencies to leave the neighborhood," Radatz said. "My fear is the city will ignore the problem, and the homeless won't get any attention."

Leslie Wade, executive director of the East Village Association, a group of residents and business owners, said the 26-square-block neighborhood has become San Diego's "warehouse district of the less fortunate." During the 1970s and '80s, the Centre City Development Corp. banished the Salvation Army, St. Vincent de Paul, and other charities to the East Village to upgrade the Gaslamp Quarter. (Moose McGillycuddy's now occupies the former Rescue Mission on Fifth Avenue.) The consequent high concentration of agencies -- at least 14 -- in the East Village has hindered development there, in Wade's opinion. Every night emergency and transitional shelters house about 1750 people who would otherwise be homeless, according to the EIR. Counseling, medical care, free meals, and other services attract hundreds more to East Village.

The association advocates disbursing social service agencies into smaller facilities throughout San Diego. By hastening the exodus of nonprofits, Wade said, the stadium might force the city to improve how the needy are served without burdening any one neighborhood. "NIMBYism is the number-one hurdle," Wade said, referring to the "Not in my backyard!" syndrome.

Sensitive to the notion charities act as magnets to hordes of homeless, Jackson is eager to explain the mission's work. This month he's scheduled to give Padres officials a tour of the facilities along with his pitch.

"We're not here to create controversy. We're here to solve problems," Jackson said, noting the mission isn't merely about providing free meals. Its year-long residential program helps hundreds of men and women overcome chemical addictions and learn new work skills. "We're returning to society people who are clean and sober, people who will contribute, hold down jobs, pay taxes, and vote. If we weren't here doing this kind of work, there would be an enormous cost to the public."

As he meets neighbors, community leaders, business owners, and bureaucrats, Jackson educates them about the changing face of homelessness. "Our client is no longer the old, white, alcoholic male who's drunk on skid row." In San Diego County alone, 26 percent of the homeless are women and children, 25 percent are labeled "severely mentally challenged," and another 32 percent are chemically dependent. Nationwide, 18 percent of the homeless have jobs.

What distinguishes the Rescue Mission from most other nonprofits is its religious message, specifically, eternal salvation through Jesus Christ. "We're not coercive about our religion," Jackson said, "but it permeates everything we do." Passages from the New Testament and Hebrew Bible adorn walls of the men's and women's shelters. Residents attend Bible study classes.

No one is turned away based on religious background or lack of it, Jackson said. "Hedonism may be the most popular religious belief here. There are folks who go through our program and aren't affected by our religious teachings at all. What they do see is that there's a value, a structure and power in religious commitment that can change a person from the inside out."

Shunning government grants and tax dollars to spread its word, the San Diego Rescue Mission relies on private donations totaling about $2.5 million a year. It also receives goods and services valued at about $1.1 million. Sales from two thrift shops cover administrative expenses, so donors' contributions go directly to people in need.

Clients are in various stages of recovery, and not everyone completes the program. Sherrie Clowers, 35, a resident in the women's shelter, said she craved spiritual guidance after having been imprisoned for drug possession. With the mission's help, she plans to attend nursing school and return to her family.

Joe Pecoraro, 44, said he left the men's shelter several months ago to resume collecting welfare. He is also panhandling again and uses the proceeds to buy beer. (Maintaining sobriety and giving up government assistance are requirements of residency.) Pecoraro says he remains fond of the mission and eats breakfast there every day.

In contrast, Bart Henry's experience was nothing short of awful. Henry, 34, had run out of money shortly after moving to San Diego from New York early this year. "I went to the mission to find a place to stay. The reaction was, 'What do you think this is, a hotel?' I asked for a blanket, and they pointed to the sign: No blankets here. I sat on the steps under the awning, and it started to rain. They said, 'Get off the curb.'" Like other nonprofits downtown, the mission is hamstrung by the city's rules, which limit emergency services. Ironically, some charities are in the awkward position of seeming uncharitable just to keep their conditional-use permits and reduce neighbors' complaints.

Jackson, who commutes by bicycle from Point Loma, said his new job pushes him to the limits of his abilities each day. He recently was called away from a meeting to help calm a resident who became suicidal. Jackson said he is awed by the mission's clients, who have the courage to confront their addictions, and by its 40 employees, who seek to express their religious faith by serving others.

As a minister's son raised in Pasadena, Jackson embraced Christianity early in life, but he credits the civil rights movement and Vietnam War for helping mold his beliefs. His fascination with the industrial age, cities, and the writings of early sociologists such as Max Weber led Jackson to specialize in urban migration while earning a doctorate in 19th-century German history at the University of Minnesota. His 1997 book, Migration and Urbanization in the Ruhr Valley, 1821 to 1914, is an expanded version of his thesis. By studying population growth of Duisburg, Germany, Jackson tested various sociological theories.

"I explored the idea that the city was soulless. In a city, you're alone, detached, and rootless. But there are also subcultures, where people of like mind gather together. You find them here in San Diego."