I was talking to a youth ministry friend of mine last week, and he told me about an SOS text he got from a volunteer. The volunteer was leading the 11th and 12th grade boys small group at the large, mainline church where my friend works. 

My friend popped into the room, and immediately saw why the volunteer was nervous – the boys wanted to talk about Iran. For many of us in mainline American churches, politics has become such a third rail, that it made sense that the volunteer immediately called in a professional. That very friend had lost a job over advocating LGBT+ inclusion in a congregation that wasn’t ready to hear it. He knew the potential cost of the conversation, but also knew that faithful discipleship of these teenage boys, boys who are looking up draft eligibility on their phones as they talk, didn’t leave them alone in their questions, in their confusion, in their fear. 

He talked to them about uncertainty, about how answers aren’t nearly as simple as social media soundbites can make them to be. He sat and held space for their anger, their fear, balancing the I-told-you-so’s with the newly emerging realization that what happens over there could matter a whole lot to what happens to them here. He talked to them about peace, about prayer, about hope in the face an ever-shrinking imagination for how things could get better. 

He and I debriefed the conversation, and I found myself feeling grateful for his ministry in that moment. It wasn’t that he said certain things or had a certain perspective, but that he took a swing at it, that when the moment presented itself to have a conversation that matters, he didn’t let the ball go over the plate. 

Recently, I partnered with the Episcopal Diocese of Indianapolis on their Christian Parenting initiative, and had the privilege of listening in on the research that they had conducted on how parents were passing faith on to children in their context. The research, built on 144 in-depth interviews with parents of teenagers, was revealing in a lot of ways, but one finding has been sticking with me: even when teenagers initiate conversations about faith, theodicy, current events, or other theological questions with their parents, parents often decline the opportunity to respond, and instead direct teenagers towards religious authorities (“You should ask Father Allen about that”).

Teenagers come to their parents looking for faith formation, for someone to guide them through scary and uncertain questions, and parents turn them away. I don’t judge parents for this, I am a parent, and if it has taught me anything it is that parenting is hard, and that we should assume parents are doing their best. I am sure they decline the question because they feel ill-equipped to answer it, they don’t know the answer. 

But it’s not like we, as the religious authorities, know the answer either. The skill we can offer, if we’re brave enough, is the skill of listening to each other and to the Holy Spirit, and discerning what we’re called to do next. What we can offer is a framework for what is good and what is holy, the example of the life of Christ, and legacy of faithful people before us. When the emotions are high, and there’s no doctrine or statement to fall back on, and there’s a constant risk of offending or misspeaking, that’s when we can be the person willing to listen, to have curiosity, to dance with the Holy Spirit as it invites all into the rough edges of the human experience where the real learning happens. That’s where we can step up to the plate. 

This is a challenging time to be the last line of defense for people’s deepest fears, hopes, and questions, but that doesn’t mean we should shirk the responsibility. Things are unlikely to get simpler any time soon. What does it look like for us to hone those skills of faithful, compassionate discernment with those in our community, especially as the stakes of public engagement, or lack thereof, keep getting higher? 

What does it look like for us to model it? In our communities, our families, among those we serve with? How can we demonstrate the humble, thoughtful engagement with the way that the Holy Spirit is moving in the world around us, and how it might be calling us to respond. 

What does it look like for us to come out of our dugouts, plant our feet in the dirt, and get ready to meet the pitch as it comes? Not as a thing to be avoided, not a thing to be afraid of, but as part of our calling. 

Swing, batter batter, swing!