We live in a strange moment. Never before have we had so many ways to connect—and yet so many people feel profoundly alone. We can message instantly, share our lives publicly, and remain in loose contact with hundreds of people at once.
And yet, when illness comes, or loss, or we feel overwhelmed by conflict or quiet despair, many discover that there is no one who truly knows them—and no one who will seek them out.
Perhaps part of the reason lies closer to home than we realise. The simple, ordinary habits that once formed us in relationship are quietly disappearing. Fewer families sit down to eat together. Time is fragmented. Lives run in parallel rather than shared. And without those small, repeated spaces of presence, we are not well prepared for the deeper work of friendship.
At the same time, we are living through deeply unsettled days. Many carry a quiet weight of anxiety about the world—its conflicts, its divisions, its unpredictability. In such a time, the question of friendship is not a luxury. It is something we need in order to remain human, to rebuild hope, and to stay anchored.
Which raises a deeper question: have we confused connection with friendship?
The fragility of modern friendship
In much of Western culture, friendships are often built around shared activities. We meet through work, church, hobbies, or common interests. These things bring us together—and they are good. But often they remain the only thing holding us together.
And so, when the activity changes—when we leave the job, move church, or simply stop attending—the relationship quietly dissolves, not because anyone has consciously rejected us, but because the friendship was never rooted deeply enough to survive the change. Many people know this experience: “When I couldn’t show up anymore, no one came looking.”
That is a painful realisation. And yet it reveals something important: friendship requires more than proximity—it requires intention.
I was reminded of this very vividly watching the recent film I Swear, based on the true story of John Davidson, who lived with severe Tourette’s Syndrome. What struck me was not only his struggle, but the role of two ordinary people in his life.
One, a nurse facing her own terminal diagnosis, chose to use the time she had left to care for him—inviting him into her home, and offering a level of presence and commitment that went far beyond obligation. The other, a caretaker who gave him a job, offered him dignity and steady belief when most others would have turned him away.
Neither of these relationships was based on convenience or shared activity. They were acts of intention—of choosing to stand alongside someone, to see beyond outward difficulty, and to remain. And in doing so, they became profoundly life-changing.
It is a reminder that friendship, at its deepest, is not about ease, but about presence—the quiet decision to keep showing up. It is the kind of love that does not turn away, but draws near—and, in doing so, quietly changes everything.
Perhaps this is why those who live with visible or invisible struggles often recognise most clearly the difference between casual connection and true friendship.
The myth of effortless friendship
We often carry an unspoken assumption that friendship should be natural, easy, and self-sustaining.
But the truth is: good friendships are built, not found.
They require attention, effort, and patience—and above all, a certain quality of heart.
Without these, even the most promising friendships remain shallow or short-lived.
Why men often struggle
It seems to me—speaking broadly—that many men are particularly poor at forming deep friendships. Not because they do not need them, but because they have often been shaped to avoid the very things friendship requires—emotional openness, vulnerability, and a sustained attentiveness to others.
Men can be very good at doing things together—sport, work, shared projects—but less practised at simply being with one another in a way that allows deeper knowing.
There is often a quiet lack of confidence here. Not resistance—but unfamiliarity. And in lives already full of responsibility—work, family, endless demands—anything that feels like “one more commitment” can be quietly pushed aside.
There is also, perhaps, something about the way many men have been shaped to value efficiency—to make the most of every moment, to keep moving. But friendship rarely grows under pressure. It requires a different pace: time that is not driven by purpose, but open to presence.
And that kind of time can feel unfamiliar—almost wasteful—until we discover its value.
Friendship is not another activity
In our church, we have been trying to encourage men to build stronger friendships. But we quickly run into a familiar reality: lives are already full. The idea of adding something new—a group, a meeting, another commitment—can feel overwhelming. And perhaps that points to something important.
Friendship does not grow easily as an addition to life. It grows in the overlap of living. Not as another meeting, but as a different way of living—something that emerges as life is shared. It may begin very simply: a coffee that becomes regular, a walk that becomes shared, a conversation that continues.
The need is not to organise friendship, but to make space for it.
Because even in the busiest lives, the need remains: not to do life alone.
A quiet realisation
As I look back over the years, and over much of what I once thought important, I find myself coming to a simple conclusion: that for all we strive to achieve, build, or accomplish, very little of it endures.
What does seem to last, however, is something else entirely—the quality of our relationships, and the ways in which we have loved, or failed to love.
And perhaps, in the end, that is what matters most: that we have learned to love.
What makes a friendship last?
As I reflect on my own life, I realise I have been unusually blessed with a number of deep and lasting friendships—some spanning over fifty years.
That has led me to ask: what makes such friendships possible? A few things come to mind.
1. Common ground matters—but it is only the beginning
Shared interests or contexts bring people together.
But something deeper must grow if the friendship is to last.
2. Shared values give a friendship roots
When people care about similar things—truth, kindness, faith, honesty—their connection can deepen beyond circumstance.
3. Friendliness is a choice
Friendliness is not just temperament—it is a posture toward others. A willingness to be open, welcoming, and unguarded. There is an old proverb that captures this simply: “A man who has friends must himself be friendly…” (Proverbs 18:24, traditional rendering)
In other words, friendship does not begin with finding the right people, but with becoming the kind of person who makes friendship possible.
4. We are drawn to what we recognise as good
Often there is something quietly attractive about a person—their warmth, humour, attentiveness, or simply their presence. Friendship grows where appreciation is allowed.
More often than not, what stays with us is not so much what a person said, but how we felt in their presence.
5. “I don’t do offended”
This has become something of a personal motto for me. So many friendships fracture over misunderstanding, careless words, or assumed motives. To choose not to take offence lightly is to create space for friendship to survive human imperfection.
I have come to see that if we want to make and keep friends, we must be careful not to place stumbling blocks in their way. People need to know that if they open up honestly, they will be received with warmth rather than judgement.
That kind of welcome is never accidental—it is chosen. And where such safety exists, honest conversation becomes possible—and with it, the kind of learning and understanding that rarely comes in any other way.
Sometimes the longing for friendship is real, but the way it is expressed makes it difficult for others to respond. When hurt or frustration spills over into criticism or defensiveness, others may step back—not out of rejection, but uncertainty.
Here, too, friendship asks something of us: a willingness to attend to our own inner struggles, rather than expecting others to carry them for us.
6. Generosity of spirit
Friendship is not sustained merely by not reacting badly but by choosing to receive one another well: the willingness to interpret one another kindly. To forgive. To give the benefit of the doubt.
Sometimes people become trapped by their own fears or failures, unable to see a way back. In such moments, generosity of spirit means gently making that way possible.
Without this, no deep friendship can endure.
7. Allowing one another to grow
Perhaps this is the most important of all.
People rarely give one another the space to grow.
We see a weakness, a failing, an immaturity—and quietly fix that person in our mind.
But friendship, at its best, says: “I see your immaturity—but I will not define you by it.”
And in that space, something in us begins to change.
The deeper shape of friendship
As I reflect further, it seems that friendship is not only something we have—or do not have—it is something that quietly forms us. It shapes who we become. And perhaps we do not always recognise how profound that influence can be.
Jesus hints at this in a striking way when he says to his disciples, “I no longer call you servants… but friends” (John 15:15). In those words, the relationship is transformed—from one of duty and distance to one of shared purpose, trust, and love. It suggests that true friendship is not merely companionship, but participation: being drawn into a deeper way of seeing, living, and loving.
Friendship as transformation
At its best, friendship changes us. We do not simply remain as we are—we grow. In the presence of a true friend, something in us begins to open: we become more honest, because we are not afraid of making mistakes; more courageous, because we know we are not acting alone; and more ourselves, because we have encountered a kind of acceptance that allows us to be.
Not because we are pressured to change, but because we are known without being rejected.
I can see this in my own life. As a young man, I was deeply influenced by a number of wise older women and men—including my father—whose lives quietly shaped mine. They did not lecture or control. But through their example, they taught me to value integrity and truthfulness, honesty in business, fairness towards others, a refusal to judge those who seemed different, and a generosity towards all, without prejudice.
Looking back, I can see how profoundly those friendships formed me.
Friendship as chosen kinship
Unlike family, friendship is not given—it is chosen. And yet, over time, it can become something just as strong.
The story of Ruth and Naomi comes to mind. What begins as family obligation becomes something deeper—a bond of loyalty and love freely embraced: “Where you go, I will go, and where you stay I will stay…” (Ruth 1:16)
Friendship, at its best, carries something of that same quality: a commitment not required, but given.
Friendship as covenant
At its deepest, friendship becomes something like a promise. Not necessarily spoken—but lived.
The friendship of David and Jonathan expresses this powerfully. In the midst of political danger and personal cost, their bond holds firm—not out of convenience, but out of faithfulness. This kind of friendship says: “I will stand with you, even when it is difficult.”
It cannot be manufactured. But when it exists, it carries extraordinary weight.
Friendship as moral formation
Friendship does not only comfort us—it shapes our character. Through friendship we learn steadfastness—the endurance that sustains a relationship; courage—the strength to remain in difficulty; truth-telling—the integrity to speak honestly; and sacrifice—the willingness to love at cost.
A good friend does not simply affirm us. They help us to become better than we are—sometimes through encouragement, sometimes through challenge, often simply through the quiet example of how they live.
Friendship across difference
Many of the most meaningful friendships are not between people who are alike. They cross differences of age, background, personality, and experience.
Sometimes they are even asymmetrical—one giving more at one time, the other at another. And yet, in those differences, something unexpected emerges: a widening of our world, and a deepening of our understanding.
Friendship as embodied presence
Real friendship is rarely abstract. It is lived out in small, concrete acts—showing up, staying present, helping in practical ways, and remaining when things are difficult.
Often it is these simple acts that carry the greatest meaning. Not grand gestures—but faithful presence.
Friendship as sacrificial love
Jesus speaks of friendship in its deepest form:
“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)
These are not simply words to admire—but a life about to be lived out at great cost.
They describe something we glimpse, in smaller ways, whenever someone chooses to give their time, energy, or comfort for the sake of another. True friendship always carries, at least in part, the willingness to give oneself.
Friendship as a countercultural act
In a world shaped by individuality, efficiency, and transaction, friendship quietly resists all three. It says:
you are not alone
you are not a means to an end
you are worth my time
In that sense, friendship is not just personal—it is quietly subversive. It creates small spaces where a different way of being human becomes possible.
Where the Church struggles
The Church speaks often about relationship with God—and yet can be surprisingly weak at sustaining relationships with one another, especially through difficulty. Too often, relationships remain activity-based, role-based, or belief-based, rather than rooted in an enduring commitment to one another as people.
And so, even in communities shaped by grace, friendships can prove to be “fair-weather.”
Unless there is intentional vision and leadership, a deeper culture of friendship rarely forms on its own.
Friendship and community
I have seen something of this more clearly in one particular context.
In an earlier Substack article, When Truth Emerges in Community, I reflected on the life of the Courage community—a group of people who gathered over many years to share meals, conversation, prayer, and the honest realities of their lives. What became clear over time was that it was not argument or ideology that changed people most deeply.
It was friendship.
People who had lived for years in isolation began to discover what it meant to be known, accepted, and accompanied. And in that environment, something began to shift—not quickly, not dramatically, but steadily.
Truth began to emerge as something recognised within a shared life, not as something imposed from outside.
The quiet centrality of friendship
Looking back, I am increasingly convinced that this is how much of God’s work takes place.
Not through abstract ideas alone, but through relationships in which people feel safe enough to be honest—and are loved enough to change. Perhaps that is what friendship, at its best, makes possible.
It is also important to recognise that for many people—especially those who are single, widowed, divorced, or living alone—friendship is not simply an addition to life. It is often the primary place where love, belonging, and support are found.
And yet, in many communities, including the Church, these forms of relationship can be quietly overlooked. The natural rhythms of family life, good in themselves, can unintentionally leave others on the margins.
This is not usually a matter of neglect, but of awareness. And it offers a profound opportunity: to become communities in which friendship is honoured not as secondary, but as essential.
Why this matters now
We are living through uncertain and, in many ways, turbulent times. It is not unrealistic to imagine that many of the securities we rely on—financial, social, political—may prove fragile. If that happens, what will remain?
Perhaps, in the end, it will be this: the quality of our relationships.
Good friendships may become not just a comfort, but a form of resilience—even the seedbed of communities capable of rebuilding something better.
A final thought
Friendship is not accidental. It is formed through countless small choices:
to reach out
to stay present
to forgive
to remain
to care, even when it would be easier not to
In that sense, friendship is not just a social reality. It is a deeply spiritual one.
For in learning to love one another well, we begin to glimpse something of what Jesus meant when he spoke of calling us friends.
At its heart lies something profoundly simple: the decision to love another person—and to keep loving them over time.
As the closing line of Les Misérables puts it: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”
* * *
(For a related reflection on how friendship shapes community, see my earlier article: “When Truth Emerges in Community.”)
Jeremy Marks 7th April 2026
I love this piece Jeremy. So much truth spoken.