There is a moment in nearly every pastoral conversation when the air goes quiet, the coffee goes cold, and someone looks at me with the hopeful expression normally reserved for doctors, mechanics, and Google. It is the look that says, “Surely you have the answer.”
And sometimes — brace yourself — I don’t.
This is mildly shocking to everyone involved, including me. After all, clergy are issued stoles, degrees, and an unspoken expectation that somewhere between seminary and ordination we were handed The Book of Explanations. (If you missed yours, check behind the photocopier. That’s where all important things eventually end up.)
Yet there it is: grief that makes no sense, prayer that seems unanswered, a diagnosis that rearranges life overnight, a future that refuses to come into focus. And in those moments, the most truthful — and often the most pastoral — thing I can say is:
“I don’t know either.”
We are trained, of course, to help. We love Scripture, tradition, wise sayings from saints and grandmothers alike. We have pockets full of hope and a theological Swiss Army knife. But there are times when explanations feel less like balm and more like bandages slapped on too quickly. They cover the wound without acknowledging the pain.
Saying “I don’t know” is not a failure of faith. It is often an act of faith. It refuses to rush God. It makes room for mystery. It stands barefoot on holy ground and admits that the ground is uneven.
Jesus himself seems remarkably comfortable here. He weeps at Lazarus’ tomb rather than delivering a tidy lecture on resurrection. He asks questions. He stays. He does not always explain — He accompanies. And that, it turns out, is often what people need most.
There is something deeply human — and deeply Christian — about sitting beside someone in their not-knowing. No fixing. No platitudes. Just presence. Just truth. Just the quiet assurance that they are not alone in the wondering.
Ironically, this kind of honesty often opens the door to grace. When we stop pretending to have answers, we create space for God to be God. And for us to be what we actually are: companions on the road, not tour guides with laminated maps.
So if you find yourself at a loss for words, unsure what to say, or tempted to fill the silence with something that sounds vaguely theological but feels suspiciously hollow — take heart.
Sometimes the most faithful words are simply:
“I don’t know either. But I’m here.”
And that, more often than not, is enough.
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A Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
You are not frightened by our questions
nor disappointed by our uncertainty.
When we stand before You without answers,
teach us to trust Your presence more than our explanations.
Give us the courage to be honest,
the humility to sit with mystery,
and the grace to accompany one another
when the way forward is unclear.
In the silence of not knowing,
meet us with Your peace,
and remind us that we are never alone.
Amen.