Between the devil and the deep blue sea.

"So," says the managing editor, "it's your turn for the editor's note this month. You can write either about changing pastors or talking to your kids about sex." Hey, says I, no sweat! How about we conduct a reader poll on which one of these two experiences is more excruciating? Which is better at causing night sweats, cold terror, stress-induced hair loss?

A pastor is picketed by his new parishioners because they hear he's "a Communist." He was labeled such by the Central American dictator who shipped him home, after years of missionary work, for preaching the gospel too well. A parish welcomes a new pastor, who then dismantles all the structures for lay input and collaboration. A new pastor watches folks head for the hills because he welcomes Spanish-speaking Catholics hitherto ignored by the old regime.

On the other hand: A young priest, enthusiastic but a babe in the woods as far as pastoring goes, soaks up good advice by listening to his new parishioners, who are actually honest with him. When a priest goes to jail for pocketing thousands from the Sunday collection, the parish gets a new pastor with deep integrity, who will help them heal. To read advice from both sides of the altar about pastor transition, see "Under new management" (pages 18-23) by Patrick Reardon and Father Darren M. Henson.

So, comparatively speaking, talking to teens about sex must be a cinch--until you actually have to do it. Lacking much good modeling from our parents, most of us struggle to impart nuances: that sex is an embodiment of commitment, not a recreational activity; that sexual attraction is a wonderful gift from God, despite its appalling misuse in our culture. Far from "guilting" kids, many parents remain mum, and from that we learn that even a so-so conversation about sex is better than no conversation. Liz DeCarlo shares some parents' stories in "Intimate conversations," pages 12-17.

At least with teenagers, parents have known them since they were babies (which is when we should start discussing you-know-what, long before they are awash in hormones). A pastor, on the other hand, just drives up with his suitcases, a complete stranger expected to lead us in the delicate business of dancing with God. We may have asked for a collaborator and gotten a philosopher king instead. We may not be exactly his cup of tea either. Sometimes the match doesn't work out, but often enough it does. We start by bumping up against each other with all our prejudices and old habits, but after a while we find that the dance smoothes us down, like fine sandpaper.

After a few years we may find we can grow in compassion for the human frailty of both our pastor and our teenager. And just about then, of course, it'll be time for both of them to move on.