“Good relationships keep us happier and healthier.
Period.”
Those words from Harvard professor of psychiatry
Robert Waldinger summarize eighty years of research
and the most extensive longitudinal survey of human
flourishing ever conducted. The Grant Study has
followed hundreds of Harvard graduates and innercity Boston youth since the late 1930s, keeping tabs
on everything from their career trajectories to their
physical health to their family structures. And of the
dozens of factors that they have studied, the one that
most clearly correlates with happiness and health is,
yes, good relationships. Friendship is at the core of
human flourishing. Nothing measured matters more.
Now, likely this will not come as a surprise to you,
but as with most virtues, knowing its importance
does not guarantee the regular practice of friendship
among us. On the contrary. Statistics bear this out as
well: we are in the midst of what some sociologists
call an epidemic of loneliness. Fully half of Americans
report that they do not have meaningful social
interactions on a daily basis. One half. And the
numbers are highest among the young and the old,
who are most likely to report suffering the harmful
effects of social isolation. This reality has contributed
to alarming increases in what are described as
diseases and deaths of despair. Drug overdose,
alcoholism, and suicide. My own experience as a
pastor confirms in practice this data through painful
personal stories.
The opposite of isolation is connection. The cure
to an epidemic of loneliness is the creation of
communities of belonging. And here’s the good news
in the Church: that is precisely what we are called to
do and be together. Earlier in John’s Gospel, Jesus
declares his God-given purpose this way: “I have
come that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
People of faith are called to receive, embrace,
and extend the gift of abundant life beyond mere
existence, breathing in and breathing out. We are
called to lives of meaning and purpose, of joy and
gratitude. We simply cannot do this in isolation.
Aristotle, in his work on ethics, dwells at length
on friendship, describing it as “the virtue most
necessary for life.” Why, then, is it so difficult for us
to practice?
As with any widespread social ill, the causes of
our isolation are legion. I’ve lamented before the
lack of embodied encounters and the inaccuracy
of referring to our social media contacts as our
“friends.” I think we can add to that the forces of
polarization and ideological sorting that mistake
friendship with lockstep agreement on contentious
issues. It is not the same thing. And of course, there
is the unceasing pace of life in our time, the drive
toward ever-greater productivity and material gain
that can make cultivating relationships feel like a
waste of precious time.
The witness of our scripture consistently challenges
these misplaced priorities. From Genesis and the
story of creation itself, we learn that God does not
intend for the human creature to live in isolation.
Through both testaments of our scriptures, the
locus of the Spirit of God is in the midst of human
community. God’s presence travels with Israelites
wandering through the wilderness, dwells among
the people in the Promised Land, calls groups of
disciples and congregations of believers. Not in
isolation, but together. And the end of our scripture
is like the beginning. In the Book of Revelation, the
voice of the Spirit declares, “See the home of God is
among mortals.” For Christians, even the identity of
God exhibits the gifts of community. One God in three
persons. It is not good to live in isolation.
Jesus knew this. His life and his ministry testify
to it. If you turn back in John’s Gospel, you will
find that before the first chapter ends, he has
gathered strangers to join him on the journey with a
captivating invitation. Jesus turns to these strangers,
and he says, “Come and see.” Come and see. Over
the course of time, this community grows in breadth
and in depth so that in this morning’s encounter, as
he prepares his disciples for his departure, Jesus
speaks to them with tenderness. He speaks to them
with love. He gives them a new name. Friend. I call
you friend.
I love this beautiful definition of friendship: It is “the
discovery that I don’t want to tell my story—that I
can’t tell my story—without your story.” i
So, imagine this. Imagine that Jesus does not want to
tell his story without our stories, and we cannot tell
ours without his. Because of this, his story and our
stories are woven together in ways that bring life in
abundance. You did not choose me, but I chose you.
This is my commandment, that you love one another.
A few weeks ago, I had a night out with our nineyear-old son Samuel. It was one of those rare
occasions where it was just the two of us for the
whole evening. Sam is a sensitive kid, often wiser
than his years, and I think he sensed that evening
that there was something that I wanted to talk about.
And so, in the car on the way to dinner, he seized the
moment before I had a chance to speak: “Dad, I don’t
want to move again.” I was taken aback. Making this
move five years ago was a challenge for a kid who
loved life in Atlanta and a kid who values security and
consistency. Curious, I asked him if he could explain
why. “That’s easy, Dad. All my friends are here.”
Children know this, that abundant life is life lived in
community. That like anything worth doing, like any
virtue worth cultivating, the gift of friendship requires
time and effort, dedication and commitment. For we
find ourselves deeply, and permanently, changed by
the company we choose to keep. So, we ought to
take the choice of that company seriously.
Aristotle describes friendship as a training in
the virtues. (I love that.) That we hold a light for
one another. That we become over time what we
practice in community. Stanley Hauerwas writes:
“Friendship is not just a relationship; it is a moral
enterprise. People spend their lives together doing
good because that is what they see their lives to
be.” Reflected in the friendships that shape their
understanding of themselves. Abundant life. Life with
purpose and meaning. Life lived in community.
Of course, this does not mean that friendship leads
to lives of uninterrupted joy or unlimited pleasure.
Genuine friendship means pushing and being
pushed. It means holding accountable and being held
accountable. Sometimes, friendship means the hard
work of staying present in the midst of pain.
Last month, the New York Times columnist David
Brooks published an essay that took my breath
away. The title is a question that prepares readers
for what was to come, “How Do You Serve a Friend
in Despair?” Brooks described his friendship with
Peter Marks, a friendship that began at age eleven
in summer camp and lasted for five decades. Their
relationship reminded me of the one described in
First Samuel between David and Jonathan. It was
a soul-level friendship, an unlikely combination
that just by God’s grace worked. Brooks narrates
how, over time, a deep depression overwhelmed
his friend. How at first, he tried to cheer Peter up,
offering advice and what psychologists call “positive
reframing.” In time, David learned, in his words, “that
a friend’s job is not to cheer the person up. It is to
acknowledge the reality of the situation; to hear,
respect, and love the person; it is to show that you
haven’t given up on him or her; it is to show that you
haven’t walked away.”
That is friendship. Sadly, Peter’s illness was too
great, and ultimately, he took his own life. A death
of despair. Brooks writes powerfully, testifying to
the depth of friendship and the reality of grief. He
writes, “Pete’s death has been a cause of great
disorientation. He’d been a presence for practically
my whole life, and now that steady friendship I took
for granted is gone. It is as if I went to Montana and
suddenly the mountains had disappeared.”
The cost of love is grief. But the grief we experience
is yet another way of bearing witness to abundant
life. The promise of faith is that relationships last.
That connection matters. And here is how I know that
is true: because my vocation involves walking with
families through the process of planning memorial
services to celebrate lives and comfort the grieving.
And without exception, there is something holy that
happens when the stories shared and the memories
preserved are about human connection and
relationship—about friendship.
We do not dwell on professional accolades, or
possessions acquired, or success achieved. We do
not emphasize positions or perspectives held. What
we do is tell stories about time shared with those
we love. We bear witness to the gift of community.
It comes down to friendship. Always friendship.
Abundant life. Life that lasts. Life worth living.
So, this week, make a phone call. Call a friend you’ve
been missing. Do not let the distance of time or space
hold you back. Do not let the sting of unresolved
disagreement or past disappointment hold you back.
Do not wait to pursue the life of abundance, the
virtue of friendship.
In the middle of Lent every year, I remember as a kid
sitting in the sanctuary of Unity Presbyterian Church
and singing these words that always felt haunting
to me: “Jesus walked this lonesome valley. He had
to walk it by himself. Nobody else could walk it for
him. He had to walk it by himself.” The Gospel bears
witness that the life of Jesus ends in the despair of
isolation and the pain of abandonment. He suffers the
depth of human grief and loss. All by himself.
And yet, as he approaches that end, Jesus gathers
his disciples. He speaks tenderly. He calls them
friend. He promises to return to them. His story
will not be complete without them. Ours will not
be complete without him. And, because of this, we
belong to each other. It is the path of friendship. It is
the way to life abundant. Amen.