You Belong with Me
My daughter goes to youth group at a large Methodist church near our house on Wednesday nights. On Sundays, she’s with the rest of us in Pleasanton and Prescott, but those churches don’t have youth group. This one does, and she’s found a place that feels like hers.
This past Wednesday, I got an email asking for last-minute volunteers. I checked my calendar and realized both of my evening meetings had been canceled, so I signed up. That night, I was paired with another lovely volunteer to mentor a group of sixth-grade girls.
Before youth group began, all the volunteers met for a short huddle. The youth leader walked us through the schedule, curriculum, and group lists. The scripture for the evening came from Mark 1, where Jesus drives out a demon in the synagogue. The demon recognizes Jesus as “the Holy One from God,” and Jesus silences him before sending him away. There are so many ways you could teach that passage, and I was curious to see how the lesson would unfold.
As we were going over the plan, one volunteer raised her hand. She was frustrated about students using their phones during youth group and wanted to know if she could confiscate them or talk to their parents.
The youth leader paused before she answered. She reminded us of the church’s mission, which is written right on the wall: to lead non- and nominally-religious people to become deeply committed Christians. Then she said, “For some of these kids, this is their first time ever being in church. They don’t know what’s expected here. So instead of setting rules right away, we want to practice radical hospitality. Let’s help them have so much fun, be so engaged, and feel so loved that they don’t want to be on their phones.”
I loved that answer. The volunteer who asked still looked unconvinced, but we moved on to meet our groups.
When I joined the sixth-grade girls, they welcomed me and my co-leader right in. We worshiped together, listened to the message, and then gathered for our small group discussion. The girls dove into the story, talking about how Jesus healed and included people. They reflected on what it means to be restored to full belonging in your community.
A new Taylor Swift album had come out earlier that week, and I sprinkled in a few lyric quotes during our conversation. They loved it. They were kind, thoughtful, and wide open. One girl shared about her struggles with mental health, and another stopped the discussion just to offer her support. It was one of those quiet, holy moments where you know you’re standing on sacred ground.
We ended with an activity: drawing or writing a self-portrait from Jesus’ perspective. What would Jesus say about you? What would Jesus see? Their answers were full of life and grace for one another: “beloved,” “strong,” “worthy,” “enough.”
I left that night grateful. Those girls didn’t treat me like an outsider. They simply assumed I belonged. They modeled the kind of community Jesus built, where healing and inclusion happen through welcome, not through enforcement.
Later, I thought about how different their approach was from the earlier conversation about phones. The girls didn’t need a list of behavioral expectations. They just practiced connection. They were too busy creating belonging to worry about who was following the rules.
Do I think kids should be on their phones during worship? Probably not. But I also don’t know if that kid is texting a parent about a dying grandparent or checking in on a friend in crisis. And honestly, that’s not my business.
The next day, I was at a clergy gathering. One pastor mentioned listening to the new Taylor Swift album on her drive, and another quickly replied, “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s awful for you.” It completely shut down the conversation. I had been about to ask what she thought of the album, but instead I found myself explaining that sharing Taylor Swift lyrics with middle schoolers had led to deep reflection about Christ’s love. One of the girls even told me she felt “so far ahead of the curve that the curve became a wheel.”
That moment reminded me how easy it is to dismiss what we don’t understand. I doubt that pastor cared much about the music itself, but in trying to distance himself from something “lesser,” he missed a chance to connect.
I’m not immune to that either. I bring my own expectations into conversations all the time. But again and again, I’m learning the value of meeting people where they are. Without pretense. Without superiority. Without demanding that they measure up before we offer grace.
Jesus didn’t wait until people behaved correctly to love them. He loved them into belonging. Those girls understood that instinctively. They didn’t need to say it out loud, but everything about their welcome whispered the same truth that echoes through the gospel and, sometimes, even through a pop song: you belong with me.
Reflection
What expectations do you bring into conversations without realizing it?
Where might you be holding others—or yourself—to standards Jesus never set?
How might your next interaction change if you practiced hospitality first and expectations second?
This post was edited with the assistance of AI. All meaningful content, personal experiences, and engagement with scripture are my own.
