Of course, it’s hard to describe everything that academic chaplains do. Last September, during orientation week, I made up a poster for an information table with my contact information and the question, “What does a chaplain provide?” Underneath I listed things like “spiritual and emotional support,” “a listening ear,” “religious services (in the Anglican Christian tradition),” “connection to other resources on campus,” and “simple answers to complex questions – yeah, no, but I’m happy to explore those questions with you.” That last one opened up some interesting conversations, but mostly I wanted students to file it away for later.

Sometimes, I describe university chaplaincy in two categories: the things chaplains do on their own, for individual students or specific groups, and the things we do together. Individually, we support students in crisis (and refer to mental health specialists when the issue is beyond our scope of practice), and provide space for those dealing with personal grief, academic stress and international tragedies, like the Russian invasion of Ukraine or the recent earthquakes in Türkiye and Syria. Sometimes people ask whether end-of-term is a particularly busy and stressful time for chaplains, and I have to admit that it isn’t, usually – most students throw themselves into the writing and exam preparations their courses require, and the consequences are felt later. That’s when the conversations about handling pressure, accepting failure, trying again or changing direction tend to happen, and many of those conversations are impromptu exchanges rather than planned appointments. Of course, I offer liturgies (in Trinity College’s lovely neo-Gothic chapel) and other chaplains do the same, often in the beautiful shared space of the Multifaith Centre.

All of that fits with traditional expectations of chaplaincy, but what the chaplains do together might be less familiar. We gather leaders of student faith groups for conversation over shared meals, sponsor Indigenous solidarity events like the KAIROS blanket exercise, and support and participate in countless student-organized conversations on topics like “Distinctive religious garb – what does it mean in your tradition?” or “How does your tradition respond to interfaith relationships?” One of our most important ongoing projects is the “Dying and Death” seminar, an inter-disciplinary event for students in the health sciences professions, which now happens several times a year. Students from medicine, nursing, social work, pharmacy and other therapeutic fields have the opportunity to listen to specialist speakers from the palliative care and spiritual care professions, and then participate in small discussion groups facilitated jointly by a chaplain and a health-care professional. These have been among my most satisfying experiences as a university chaplain, knowing that we are helping students to think in new ways about spiritual and emotional questions that are rarely addressed in their training, but which will be enormously important in their healing vocations.

Sometimes chaplains have to advocate, not just for individual students in crisis but also when institutional policies (or lack of policy) foster discrimination against groups within the university community. We respond to instances of racism and sexual violence in our own community and in the wider world, and many of us are engaged in environmental and social justice activism of various kinds. We support and mentor student outreach projects. All in all, we try to bring a spiritual perspective into students’ experience of university life, offering insight and solidarity, combining the wisdom and grounding of tradition with an openness to exploration and questioning. We try to exemplify unity in diversity, and to be faithful to our own traditions while welcoming to all. And the conversation about what to call ourselves continues…

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It wouldn’t surprise me if a great many of the students I meet share these suspicions. Of course, there are those for whom the church of their youth was a happy and supportive experience, who want to be involved in services and develop a continuity of faith practice in their new environment. Others were dragged to church by their families and have no desire to revisit that experience (or anything that reminds them of it). Many grew up in traditions other than Christianity, and a significant number come from a background in which religion played no part at all, except in media representations ranging from the ridiculous to the downright horrifying. Some students are in search of community, trying to disentangle the myriad opportunities that campus life appears to offer. Still others have set their sights on making a difference in the world through research or art or service or advocacy, and don’t really see a connection between their dreams and faith. A chaplain is there to serve them all.

A lot has been written about the mental health challenges that face students who have spent much of the past two years under pandemic restrictions – isolation, disengagement, anxiety – and all of these are significant. Perhaps more importantly, however, almost anyone entering college or university now has grown up with an endemic anxiety about climate change and the possibility that humans will consume themselves out of existence within a foreseeable future; this underlying dread is efficiently amplified by the dystopian scenarios of popular culture. Wars continue around the world, and the threat of nuclear and environmental catastrophe is never far away. The sense of equity and justice that families and schools seek to nurture in young people is challenged every day by the evidence of poverty, racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia and naked corporate greed. To be of service to students, chaplains have to be acutely aware of these dynamics, address the realities that face us and still find a way to talk about hope.

Talking about hope is a complicated business. Simplistic cheerfulness doesn’t cut it, nor does a flat rejection of the world and its brokenness in favour of a blissful eternity for the fortunate few. In the past, I’ve boiled down my response to the “Why are you (still) a Christian?” question to this: Christians believe in a God who is not only an all-powerful Creator, but who knows what it is to suffer for love. From this starting point, we can acknowledge the world’s brokenness and the danger in which humanity has put itself, and still talk about God’s loving solidarity with us and all Creation. We can think about the kingdom of God as “already and not yet,” as a future of justice and peace and sufficiency, but also as a radical force in the present, an underground rhizome system of love that can surround and subvert structures of power and cupidity. If we trust in God’s loving solidarity and seek to live as part of the kingdom of resistance, we can still make a difference.

This hope has to be the bedrock of my “loitering with intent,” and I think it’s crucial, not just for chaplains who work with young people but for the Church as an organism, to engage actively and visibly with the issues that challenge us all, to be known by the justice we stand for, the caring we embody and the transformation we seek.

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This differential means that some of our international students come from affluent backgrounds in their own countries, and can live comfortably, even luxuriously, but others have come to Canada on government scholarships and programs, with the expectation that they will return home after earning their degrees, bringing the benefits of their training with them. There are also refugee students, sponsored by organizations like the World University Service of Canada; technically, they are Canadian Permanent Residents when they arrive, rather than international students, but they face many of the same challenges, while trying to build a new life in a strange country.

Regardless of their financial circumstances, students from other countries face issues of loneliness and isolation. Even those with ample means may discover that their social status at home doesn’t translate to privilege in Canada, while others struggle to make ends meet. Skyrocketing rents push students into cramped shared living arrangements, and in ordinary times, many are to be found more-or-less living in campus libraries – an option unavailable during the pandemic. Canadian winters often come as a shock, and familiar foods can be difficult to obtain, even in a city like Toronto. For students from more conservative societies, the comparatively relaxed mores of Canada can be profoundly destabilizing, and raise all sorts of questions about gender, sexuality, and other aspects of identity. And universities and colleges are not impervious to the pernicious currents of racism and xenophobia that have emerged in the wider society, often expressed via social media.

Many international students live with extraordinary levels of anxiety. There is often enormous pressure on them to succeed academically. While overseas communication seems easier now than ever before, worries about family at home can still be crippling, whether because of illness, poverty, famine, or ongoing military conflict. The strain Ukrainian students are currently facing as they see their homeland being invaded in real time on all available media, for example, is something that cannot be fully comprehended by anyone who has never been in the same situation.

Of course, institutions are aware of the strain under which their international students live, and many have developed safety nets: social gatherings with opportunities to meet others and form relationships (drastically reduced during COVID-19), counselling and mental health supports, financial aid, even on-campus food banks. These programs are, without question, crucial. Alongside the official, institutional supports, however, many students depend on more informal networks of relationship to survive and thrive. Student clubs can fulfill this role for some, although this option, too, has been less available during the past two years.

Campus chaplains find themselves occupying a liminal sort of role on campus, acknowledged, at least to some extent, by the institutions within which they work, but rarely integrated fully into the official structures. We tend to operate in the more informal zone of students’ lives, striving to offer relationship, connection, and, in some cases, ongoing engagement with a faith tradition. Some of my chaplaincy colleagues at the University of Toronto actually specialize in working with international students, but all of us come into contact with this group, and their needs are a frequent topic of discussion when we gather. For some students, the religious character of chaplaincy is a powerful connection to home and family, but others are skeptical ± understanding that chaplains represent diverse traditions, but all seek to work together for the good of students, can be a challenge for those whose home societies are marked by sectarian strife. We also strive to offer international students connections outside the academic institution, whether introducing them to faith communities, or simply helping them to integrate in more practical ways.

This is where anyone can help. International students may not show up in your church on a Sunday morning, but they may well turn up at your food bank or your meal program. Your university-aged members may have classmates who struggle with life in Canada. Church communities might be able to offer practical support, but it’s often more important just to make space to listen, without judgement, without trying to sign them up to anything, genuinely trying to hear who they are, what concerns them, and what they need – recognizing them as whole human beings, the face of Christ in the face of a young and anxious stranger (whether Christian or not). And if the student’s institution has chaplains, don’t hesitate to reach out to us for help and advice!

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After a few weeks of mixed remote and in-person teaching early in the fall term, however, all instruction (except for labs) moved fully online, so that even the greatly reduced number of students living in residences found themselves in front of computers much of the time. Institutions continue to offer recreational and extra-curricular activities, and counselling and support services, all in online formats. In some ways, this makes more of the benefits of academic life accessible to students living off-campus, or with their families in other cities, provinces, and even other countries, but the combined weight of Zoom fatigue and isolation with the usual exhaustion of student existence has serious emotional and spiritual consequences for many. And for students in health care, the performing arts, or in high-performance athletics, many aspects of their programs have been suspended altogether, so anxiety about completing degrees and diplomas on schedule, and launching careers, is particularly acute.

Some students, of course, are making the most of living at home, but it can be difficult to live in their childhood homes without reverting to childhood patterns. For any whose families fail to support them in their sexual orientation, gender identity and expression, or their career choices, or for those in abusive family situations, lockdown can be a traumatic experience, and opportunities to earn money to move out and live on their own are drastically curtailed. Many graduate students support themselves as sessional instructors and are having to deal with all the issues and expectations surrounding online learning. A great many foreign students live with heightened worry about the pandemic situations in their home countries, and sometimes with concerns about their family’s health or even with circumstances of grief and loss.

In this context, campus chaplains work hard to maintain contacts and opportunities for group interaction in a variety of formats – online liturgies, Bible studies, discussion groups, meditation sessions, and purely social gatherings – without adding to students’ overall fatigue, and to be available for one-on-one conversations in whatever way is most helpful to students. We monitor carefully whether students might be in need of more formal clinical counselling, or whether they might benefit from being connected with congregations in the wider community.

What can congregations offer students in the current situation? If the student has been part of that congregation because of a previous family connection, it may be as simple as maintaining contact, and reaching out periodically to ask, “How are you doing?” “Is there any kind of support you would like us to offer you?” At the same time, it’s important to remember that the process of individuation, of distinguishing themselves from their parents, may also involve a separation from aspects of family life like church attendance. And of course, it’s crucial to be aware that students may have more problematic or conflictual relationships with their parents than other members of the congregation necessarily realize, so that our commitment to making churches safe and loving environments may be best expressed by offering young people the space and distance they require to develop in healthy ways.

Congregations that have recently welcomed students to their online gatherings must be sensitive to the variety of needs these students bring – they may be seeking to explore spiritual questions, or simply find a supportive community, but they may also be hoping for one-to-one connection or practical assistance. The importance of this last element cannot be overestimated: for all the spiritual, emotional, and psychological stresses of the pandemic, financial hardship remains for many students the most difficult and intractable thing about this crisis. Anything which church communities can do to alleviate this practical need, whether in the form of parish bursaries, care packages, or referrals to services, can be a genuine witness to God’s love, helping students find the security to live fully, discern their vocations, and accomplish the work they have to do.

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