At a camp in rural Minnesota, high schoolers against abortion learn to talk to the other side

PAYNESVILLE, MINN. — Wet flip-flops squeaked as teens filed back into the lakeside lodge, hair still damp from a post-lunch dip in Lake Koronis. It was time to talk more about abortion.

Lizz, the 23-year-old resource and events coordinator for Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life, the state's oldest and largest organization opposed to abortion, sat in back. Her husband, Caleb, took his place up front. He wore a T-shirt protesting Minnesota's Equal Rights Amendment, a proposed constitutional amendment that among other things could enshrine the right to abortion in the state constitution, and which promises to be the focus of the state's next big fight on reproductive rights.

The couple codirects this four-day summer camp for a dozen high school students, teaching teens to talk in a sensitive, curious way about this emotional, divisive issue. For Lizz, intimate trainings like this are central to the meaning of her life.

Training the next generation of leaders is of vital importance for the abortion opposition movement as the national dialogue on the issue has shifted. Even as they won their decadeslong battle when the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022, public support for legal abortion remains high. A Pew Research Center study of national polling shows nearly two in three Americans believe abortion should be legal in all or most cases, support that's steadily been inching upward for nearly a decade.

After the 2022 decision, nearly two dozen Republican-led states banned abortion or restricted it to earlier in the pregnancy than Roe's standard. But since then, Americans have indicated support for abortion rights rather than abortion restrictions in statewide elections, with conservative states such as Kansas, Kentucky and Ohio explicitly voting for abortion rights. Reflecting a new paradigm where Democrats see abortion as a winning issue, the GOP adopted a platform this summer that abandoned its longstanding support of national restrictions on abortion in favor of leaving the issue to the states.

But Lizz and others at this rural Stearns County camp weren't focused on how abortion will play in the upcoming presidential election. Instead, they focused on one-on-one conversations, believing individual cultural battles are more important than any legislation or court case.

"The responsibility to protect life is a lot closer to home now," Lizz said. "We don't want to just make it illegal. We want to make it unthinkable. We want to make a world where, if somebody is in a crisis pregnancy, we want them to know pro-lifers will do just about anything to help."

The Star Tribune agreed to use only first names for Lizz and Caleb, who said they worried public association with the movement could affect their future employment. They also had concerns about their safety, citing previous incidents of vandalism at their organization and others.

Behind Caleb flashed slides on "pro-life persuasion." These weren't a collection of Bible verses; MCCL is not a religious organization, and the organization also advocates against what it sees as related issues such as assisted suicide and embryo research. One slide, titled "Science," said an unborn baby is a distinct living human organism with its own DNA. Another slide, "Human Rights," asserted that since an unborn baby is human, it deserves the same human rights as anyone.

Alongside a volunteer who lobbies at the Capitol, Caleb role-played an empathetic conversation between two people on opposite sides of the debate. He stressed that his side does not want to deny a woman essential care when her life is in danger.

"These types of helpful, fruitful and compassionate conversations — they are possible," Caleb told the students. "And we're going to teach you how."

Abortion foes in Minnesota, energized by the Dobbs decision but disappointed by Minnesota's direction on abortion since then, say their focus must be as much on the deeper personal questions as on anything going on in legislatures or courts.

"It took 50 years to overturn Roe v. Wade, and it could take another 50 years to ensure every child is welcomed in life and respected by law," said Maggee Hangge, a lobbyist for the Minnesota Catholic Conference, not affiliated with this MCCL camp. "We're focused on changing hearts and minds, which takes a lot of effort. We have to listen, hear them, have patience."

Adult volunteers fanned across the room. Each played the role of a different archetype of abortion-rights supporter. The students circled the group, five-minute conversations feeling like a politically heated game of speed dating. They kept empathy top of mind: To encourage conversation over argument, to radiate positive attitudes while asking probing but compassionate questions, to "be a crowbar, not a sledgehammer."

Christina Roers, an 18-year-old senior at Kalon Prep Academy in Alexandria, Minn., strode up to Cathy Blaeser, co-executive director of MCCL. Blaeser role-played a stressed-out single mom whose own experience made her believe women deserve the right to choose.

Roers brought up her own story here. Her birth mom was about to walk into an abortion clinic when someone stopped her and prayed the Rosary. Roers' mother changed her mind and later placed Roers for adoption. "That was 18 years ago, and now I'm here," Roers said.

"Hello!" Roers said to Blaeser, who cradled a pretend infant. "What a sweet baby!"

"I can't imagine another one," Blaeser replied. "My life is so busy."

Roers spoke about support systems available for prospective mothers: Government assistance, pregnancy resource centers.

The timer went off. Students shifted to the next scene: A churchgoer who supports abortion rights, a "bro-choicer," a Minnesota politician who passed the PRO Act guaranteeing the right to make reproductive health decisions. Some students seemed nervous as they gently tested new arguments.

Roers seemed flummoxed with the churchgoer who said they were personally against abortion but didn't want to push their beliefs on someone else. Roers told her DNA is present at conception, therefore it was a baby. The woman called it a gray area.

After nearly an hour, the high-schoolers circled up. One high-school girl, a 16-year-old from Holy Spirit Academy in Monticello, Minn., talked about her insecurities about being brainwashed — people in her life had said that to her — and said these challenging conversations made her more confident.

Roers told of a previous abortion conversation with classmates that did not go well. She pledged to be supportive to help any friends carry an unplanned pregnancy to term. Her opposition to abortion is one of the most important things in her life, she said. This camp gave her a different tactic; it's disarming when someone expecting a fight is confronted with someone who listens, who turns down the temperature.

"This," she said, "will help me become a better person, help me be softly argumentative — help me stand my ground."