To the Youth (And Those Who Love Them)

 TW: Brief mentions of rape, abuse, and abortion.

Dear you,

If you’re reading this, you have someone in your corner. Sometimes, in these tumultuous years of adolescence, that’s a hard thing to remember or internalize. We don’t often feel delighted in or supported as teenagers; insecurity makes sure of that. Your development—body, mind, and soul—will result in something beautiful. But at the moment you are in the crucible of the chrysalis, no longer a caterpillar and not yet a butterfly, every part of you rearranged into what may at times feel like unrecognizable mush. And it might seem very lonely.

Which is why I’m writing you. I might know you quite well, like, since-before-you-were-born well, or perhaps we only met within the last six months. Regardless, I want you to know I’m here if you need it. That can be back pocket knowledge, the kind you pull out in emergencies, or maybe it means bi-weekly ice cream for a while. (Alas, my capacity for weekly events extends only to my innermost circle—so Audge, Ace and Ri, dear siblings of mine, you have free reign. To the rest of you, I offer what I can.) Here is what I mean by that.

If you are gay, or bi, or lesbian, I like you. In fact, I like you lots. And if you want to bring your significant other around, whether they are the same gender or opposite, I want to hang out with them, if you want me to. Because chances are good that I’ll like them, too. If you decide to get married someday, send me an invite to the wedding. If, on the other hand, you choose a life of celibacy, send me an invite to the ceremony when you take your monastic vows. Or your house warming. Whatever works. I’d love to show up to any or all.

If you are trans, I like you. And I can make space for you. Your wrestling, your questions, your joy, and your pain are precious in the sight of God and in my sight, too. I want to know you as you want to be known.

If you find out you’re pregnant, or your girlfriend is, truly, I’d relish throwing a baby shower for you, but I can contain my own enthusiasm while you cry or rage or panic. I will help you seek out resources and next steps. I will listen. And if your journey leads you to an abortion clinic instead, I will sit with you there. I will walk with you on that road. Jesus respects your ability to choose, and so do I.

If you end up drunk or high with no designated driver, you can call me and I’ll come pick you and your friends up. I’ll bring you to your house. I’ll learn concoctions to nurse hangovers just for you, and if you’re starting to wonder if you have a problem, if it’s more than a one-time thing, we can look into rehab together.

If you are raped, I will sit with you in the hospital or the police station or your living room, wherever you need to be. I will help you through those steps. If you are suffering ongoing abuse, I’ll help you call the right people so you can be safe.

If you are anxious or depressed or suicidal, I can come hold your hand. I have lots of practice sitting with others in those emotions—lots of practice sitting with myself. If you are diagnosed with a mental health disorder and you don’t know what to do, I’ve been there, too, and would love to listen to your heart.

If you are filled with questions about faith and spirituality and the meaning of life, I’ll listen. If you are angry at the Church, angry at Jesus, I’ll be there. If you are actually in a really healthy place right now, I’m down for that too.

In all of these things, I cannot promise to agree with your choices. In some situations, I can’t promise not to call a friend to come with me so you’re not alone with one adult, a potentially compromising situation statistically that church policies can help protect you from. I can’t promise not to tell your parents or your youth pastor. I can’t promise not to make calls for your protection. I can’t even promise that I will be at my best for you when you call.

What I can promise is this: I will hold space, however imperfectly, for you to be who you are and where you are, because I believe that Jesus does the same. You may not like him. You may not believe anything people say about him. And that’s okay with me. It’s not okay with me, though, if two, or five, or ten years down the road, I find out you gave up on him because his people weren’t there for you when you needed them most. There is no good reason for the Church to let that narrative be written. Period. And I won’t let it happen on my watch.

Because you, my friend, are worth infinite amounts to Jesus. You are delightful to him. You are supported in him. And I want you to believe that because you saw it with your eyes and felt it in your body, not because someone told you it was true.

Dear you. You have someone in your corner. And I want to introduce you to Him in everything I do.

…

UPDATED LATER: The first version of this post contained my perspective on the youth group meeting in which it originated. If you read that version, I’d like you to know that it was a misrepresentation of that night. The youth that were there that night were met with intelligence, intentionality, and grace by the youth pastor who led them. Many of them shared that they were deeply encouraged by it. I failed to portray this, writing instead about my own emotions of confusion and difficulty during a hard conversation, which missed the excellence with which our pastor facilitated it. I’ve decided to take that part down, because I don’t think it adds to the message I meant to convey in this post. What is left is still my heart for those youth I love, which is continually being refined by Jesus.