When people hear the word evangelization, they may think it means having the right answers. Or explaining Church teaching like Catholic social media influencers. Or knowing how to respond to every difficult question. I used to think that way. But by God’s grace, people have come into my life who have given me a different perspective on evangelization. Not books or podcasts on apologetics. Not lectures by theologians. People. God’s grace working through people.
One of the people who taught me the most about evangelization was not someone I met in a parish or seminary setting. He was a coworker in a secular work environment.
Like most workplace relationships, ours developed through ordinary conversations. We talked about projects, deadlines, and whatever else came up during the day. Over time, he learned that I was Catholic, active in my parish, and in formation for the permanent diaconate. I never presented those things as an argument or an invitation. They were simply part of my life, and occasionally they entered the conversation.
He had been raised Catholic, but at some point had drifted away. He was not hostile toward the Church, but he was no longer sure what he believed. I did not press him for an explanation. I did not ask why he had stopped practicing or try to persuade him to return. We continued working together, and our conversations remained mostly ordinary.
Then, gradually, the questions began.
At first, they were passing comments about the Church, things he had heard, remembered, or perhaps misunderstood. Sometimes he expressed a criticism. Sometimes he questioned a teaching or practice. The conversations were not formal, and they did not happen on a schedule. They arose in hallways, between tasks, or at the end of another conversation.
Eventually, the questions became more personal. He began speaking not only about the Church, but about God. One day, he asked a version of the question that believers and nonbelievers have wrestled with for centuries: If God is good, why does he allow suffering and evil?
I remember feeling that I should be able to give a good answer. After all, I was studying theology. I had read about the “problem of evil” and the “mystery of suffering.” I could have offered distinctions, arguments, and quotations. Some of those things might have been useful.
But as I listened, I began to realize that he was not asking for a lecture. He was not testing me. He was not looking for a debate. His question carried something more personal. It seemed that he needed to know it could be spoken aloud and taken seriously.
So I tried to listen.
I answered when I thought I had something useful to offer. At other times, I simply admitted that I did not know. There were moments when the most honest response was simply to acknowledge the weight of the question and leave it open.
Those conversations taught me that people do not always need a polished catechetical response. Often, they first need to feel heard. They need to know that their doubts will not be dismissed, that their questions will not make us uncomfortable, and that they will not be treated as a problem to solve. Sometimes, they simply want someone to walk beside them.
Over time, I realized something that changed the way I understood the encounter. He was not coming to me because I was a theological expert or because I had found the perfect way to explain the faith. Something had already stirred within him. I came to recognize that restlessness as grace.
The curiosity was already there. The restlessness was already there. The desire to make sense of faith, suffering, and God was already there. Long before he spoke to me, grace was moving in ways I could not see.
Looking back, the first step was not saying something. It was staying available long enough for him to say something.
That realization was freeing. I did not have to carry responsibility for producing an outcome. I did not have to resolve every doubt or guide the conversation toward a predetermined conclusion. I could answer honestly when I had something useful to offer, remain silent when silence was more appropriate, and trust that God was doing work far beyond anything I could accomplish.
In those moments, accompaniment did not sound like a polished response. It sounded like careful attention.
Eventually, our work took us in different directions, and I no longer know where he is in his relationship with God or the Church. Perhaps those conversations became part of a return to faith. Perhaps they were only one small step in a much longer journey. I may never know.
But the ending was never mine to write.
God loved him before I noticed his questions. God was present in his searching before I recognized it. The Lord was already walking with him, and for a time I was given the grace to walk beside him.
That experience has shaped the way I understand “Walk with One.” The person God places before us is not a project, an argument to win, or a problem to solve. It is a person already known and loved by God.
Sometimes accompaniment begins in a parish. Sometimes it begins over coffee. And sometimes it begins in a hallway, when an ordinary conversation suddenly becomes something more, and we recognize that God was already there.
Rob Suárez is a patent attorney, adjunct law professor, and candidate for the permanent diaconate in the Archdiocese of Miami. At St. John Neumann Catholic Parish, he serves as a sacristan and leads the Vocations Ministry. He and his wife live in Miami and are the parents of three sons.
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