The Strength of Love

“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan;
Greatly beloved were you to me;
Your love to me was wonderful,
Surpassing the love of women.”

—2 Samuel 1:26

There may be no more beautiful expression of love between two men in the Bible than David’s lament for Jonathan. Jonathan has died in battle alongside his father, King Saul, and David mourns the loss of the man he loved with words of extraordinary tenderness: “Greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.”

For LGBTQ+ Christians, those words can be particularly moving. We know what it means to love someone of the same sex, whether that love is romantic, familial, spiritual, or the deep affection of friendship. We also know that throughout history people have tried to place boundaries around which kinds of love should be acknowledged, celebrated, or even spoken aloud. Yet the Bible itself contains remarkable examples of profound love between people of the same sex.

Scripture does not always tell us precisely how we should categorize these relationships according to our modern understanding of sexuality. We should therefore be careful about imposing modern labels upon people who lived thousands of years ago. But neither should we be afraid to recognize what the biblical text actually says: these people loved one another, sometimes with extraordinary intensity.

David and Jonathan are perhaps the clearest example.

When they first meet, Scripture tells us, “the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David; Jonathan loved him as his own soul” (1 Samuel 18:1). Jonathan makes a covenant with David “because he loved him as his own soul” (1 Samuel 18:3). Later, when Saul seeks David’s life, Jonathan protects him despite the enormous personal cost. Their farewell is emotional: they kiss one another and weep together (1 Samuel 20:41).

And when Jonathan dies, David openly declares the depth of his grief and love.

People have debated for generations whether David and Jonathan’s relationship contained a romantic or sexual dimension. Scripture does not explicitly answer that question, and we do not need to settle it to appreciate what the story tells us about love. Whatever terminology we use, Jonathan loved David enough to risk his relationship with his father, surrender his own interests, protect David’s life, and remain faithful to him. David remembered Jonathan’s love as something wonderful.

There is tremendous power in such love.

We see something similarly beautiful between two women in the Book of Ruth.

After the deaths of their husbands, Naomi tells her daughters-in-law to return to their own families. Orpah eventually does, but Ruth refuses to leave Naomi. Her response has become one of the Bible’s most beloved declarations of devotion:

“Where you go, I will go;
Where you lodge, I will lodge;
Your people shall be my people,
And your God my God.”

—Ruth 1:16

These words are sometimes read at weddings because they express such complete devotion, although in their biblical setting they are spoken by one woman to another. Ruth chooses Naomi when she has every practical reason to leave. She chooses an uncertain future over abandoning someone she loves.

And this scene has continued to speak to people beyond the pages of Scripture. One of the most powerful moments in the film Fried Green Tomatoes comes when Ruth, seeking rescue from her abusive husband, sends this passage to Idgie. In the film, Ruth’s words are not merely a declaration of loyalty; they become a plea for help, a reaching out toward the person she trusts to save her. The biblical passage becomes a bridge between them—a way for Ruth to say what she needs when saying it directly may be too dangerous or difficult.

There is something deeply moving about that use of Scripture. Ruth’s words in the Bible express a refusal to abandon Naomi. In Fried Green Tomatoes, they become a message from one woman to another: I need you. I trust you. Please come for me. The passage carries both devotion and vulnerability, and Idgie understands what Ruth is asking.

Again, Scripture does not describe Ruth and Naomi as romantic partners. Their relationship is familial. But that does not diminish the love between them. If anything, it reminds us that love cannot be confined to a single category. Ruth’s devotion demonstrates that love can create family where circumstances have torn family apart.

The New Testament gives us other examples.

In the Gospels, we encounter the Roman centurion who comes to Jesus seeking healing for his servant. Matthew tells us that the servant is “dear to him” and suffering terribly (Matthew 8:5–13; compare Luke 7:1–10). Some have suggested that the relationship might have been romantic because of the language used and aspects of Roman culture. Others understand it simply as the relationship between a master and a highly valued servant. The biblical text does not tell us enough to determine the nature of their relationship.

What it does tell us is that the centurion cares deeply enough about another man to seek out Jesus on his behalf.

Jesus does not interrogate him about the nature of that love. Instead, Jesus responds to his faith and heals the man he loves.

Then there is one of the most intriguing relationships in the Gospel of John: Jesus and the man repeatedly identified simply as “the disciple whom Jesus loved.”

At the Last Supper, this disciple reclines beside Jesus (John 13:23). At the crucifixion, when many others have fled, he remains near the cross, and Jesus entrusts his mother to his care (John 19:26–27). When Mary Magdalene discovers the empty tomb, she runs to Peter and “the other disciple, whom Jesus loved” (John 20:2).

Again, we should not force a romantic interpretation onto a text that does not give us one. But we should not overlook its tenderness either. The Gospel is remarkably comfortable telling us that Jesus loved another man. There is no embarrassment in that language and no qualification attached to it.

That matters.

Jesus himself demonstrated that tenderness between men is not weakness. He loved openly. He wept. He embraced. He formed intimate friendships. He allowed another man to recline close beside him. He created relationships founded upon trust, loyalty, vulnerability, and love.

We see another form of same-sex love in Paul’s relationship with Timothy. Paul refers to Timothy as his “beloved and faithful child in the Lord” (1 Corinthians 4:17), and his letters reveal a relationship characterized by affection, mentorship, trust, and shared faith. Near the end of his life, Paul writes personally to Timothy, remembering his tears and longing to see him (2 Timothy 1:4). This is spiritual love—the love through which one generation nurtures another and faith becomes something shared rather than merely taught.

Taken together, these relationships remind us of something Christianity sometimes makes unnecessarily complicated:

Love is powerful because love comes from God.

Jonathan’s love protects.
David’s love remembers.
Ruth’s love remains.
Naomi’s love becomes family.
The centurion’s love seeks healing.
The beloved disciple’s love stays near the cross.
Jesus’s love entrusts and embraces.
Paul’s love teaches.
Timothy’s love carries the faith forward.

None of these relationships is identical to another. Some are friendships. Some are familial. Some are spiritual. Some resist easy categorization. But all demonstrate the extraordinary capacity human beings have to love another person of the same sex deeply, faithfully, and sacrificially.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, perhaps there is comfort in recognizing that we are not strangers to the biblical story. We know the power of these kinds of relationships because they are part of our lives too.

We know friendships that became family when biological families rejected us. We know older LGBTQ+ people who guided younger generations through difficult journeys. We know friends who sat beside hospital beds, stood beside us during grief, celebrated with us when life finally became joyful again, or simply refused to leave when everyone else seemed to disappear.

We know what it means to reach out to someone we trust when we are afraid. We know what it means to recognize a message hidden inside familiar words. We know that sometimes a passage of Scripture, a song, a letter, or a simple gesture can say what we cannot safely say aloud.

And yes, many of us know what it means to fall deeply and completely in love with someone of the same sex.

We should not need to turn David and Jonathan, Ruth and Naomi, or Jesus and the beloved disciple into modern same-sex couples to find ourselves within Scripture. Their stories already tell us something important: profound love between two men or between two women is not foreign to the Bible. Scripture preserves such love, celebrates its loyalty, records its tenderness, and allows its grief to be expressed openly.

David did not hide how much Jonathan meant to him. He proclaimed it:

“Greatly beloved were you to me;
Your love to me was wonderful.”

Perhaps those are words worth remembering.

The strength of love is not measured by whether everyone understands it. It is measured by its faithfulness, compassion, sacrifice, tenderness, and ability to transform lives.

Jesus tells us, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12). He does not command us merely to tolerate one another. He commands us to love.

And 1 John tells us why: “Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God” (1 John 4:7).

Love is of God.

The love between friends. The love within families. The love between people who become family. The love of mentors and those they guide. The love that remains beside us when everyone else leaves. The love that risks something for another person. The love that reaches out for help. The love that grieves when someone is gone. And the love between two people who choose to share their lives with one another.

When that love is patient, faithful, compassionate, selfless, and life-giving, we should recognize its strength rather than fear it.

Jonathan loved David as his own soul. Ruth refused to abandon Naomi. A centurion sought healing for someone dear to him. Jesus loved the beloved disciple. Paul loved Timothy as a child.

Again and again, Scripture and the stories shaped by it remind us that some of the most powerful bonds in human life exist between people of the same sex.

For LGBTQ+ Christians who have sometimes been told that whom we love separates us from God, these stories offer another message. Love need not drive us away from God. Love can teach us something about God.

Because when we love another person faithfully, sacrificially, tenderly, and without shame, we catch a glimpse of the One from whom all genuine love ultimately comes.

“God is love.”—1 John 4:8

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Moment of Zen: The Beach 🏖️

For me, the beach will always mean sugar-white sand and emerald-green or crystal-blue waters along the Gulf of Mexico. Growing up, the beach always meant Florida—Pensacola, Navarre, Fort Walton Beach, Destin, and Panama City Beach. There’s just something about the Gulf Coast that will always feel like the beach to me.

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Not Quite the Weekend

It’s Friday, but unfortunately, it’s not quite the end of my work week. I have to work at the museum tomorrow. Thankfully, we’re no longer regularly open on Saturdays, so I usually only have to work one or two Saturdays a year for special events. Tomorrow just happens to be one of them.

There really isn’t much more to say today. I had a migraine last night and ended up going to bed early. I’m still feeling some mild effects from it this morning, but thankfully, I’m feeling far better than I was last night. Hopefully, those lingering effects will fade as the day goes on.

I did have a really lovely dream last night, though. I woke up in the middle of it and really wished it had continued when I fell back asleep. Maybe it did, but if so, I don’t remember it. I do remember enough to know that it was a very nice dream—and that the man in it was pretty wonderful. Too bad he wasn’t real.

So, this is going to be a short post because I really can’t think of anything else to write. Sometimes, there just isn’t much to say—and that’s okay.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

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Topsy-Turvy Week

I’ve felt a bit topsy-turvy this week. I was off on Tuesday because I’m working on Saturday, so that threw things off right from the start. Yesterday, I went in late because I had an event that kept me at work later than usual. Today should be a relatively normal day, except for a few meetings. Thankfully, there’s nothing on my schedule for tomorrow, and Saturday should be an easy day.

I’ll be at the museum by myself on Saturday, so I should be able to get a lot of work done without too many interruptions. We aren’t normally open on Saturdays anymore. We used to be open every Saturday when students were on campus, but with a smaller staff now, we generally only open on Saturdays for special events.

Needless to say, my internal calendar has been completely off this week. All day yesterday, I had trouble remembering that it was Wednesday. It felt like Tuesday, and whenever I thought about things I needed to do on Thursday, it never quite registered that Thursday was the next day. Now it’s Thursday, and today doesn’t feel like Thursday either.

Do you ever have one of those weeks when everything just feels completely off? You know what day it is, but somehow it never quite feels like that day.

At least tomorrow is Friday—or so the calendar tells me. Maybe by next week, my brain and the calendar will be back on speaking terms.

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I Should Have Written It Down

Last night, I thought of something to write about today. At the time, I thought, That would make a good blog post. This morning, however, I have absolutely no idea what it was.

I should have written it down.

Back when I was working on my dissertation, I kept a pad of paper and a pen next to my bed. It always took me forever to fall asleep, and while I was lying there waiting for sleep to come, my mind would wander through all sorts of things. Quite often, those thoughts turned to my dissertation. I learned pretty quickly that if inspiration struck and I didn’t write it down, there was a very good chance it would be gone by morning.

You’d think I would have learned my lesson.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that writing things down is about the only reliable way to make sure I remember them. If there’s something I need to do but can’t do at that moment, I write it down. If there’s something I need to tell someone the next time I talk to them, I should write it down. If I have questions for my doctor and an appointment coming up, I make a list because otherwise I’ll inevitably walk out of the appointment and suddenly remember the question I meant to ask.

I learned a long time ago that when inspiration strikes, write it down. Apparently, I just occasionally forget to follow my own advice.

Whatever brilliant—or perhaps completely mundane—idea I had last night is gone this morning. Maybe it will come back to me later today. Maybe it won’t.

Either way, I should have written it down.

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The Human Seasons

The Human Seasons 

By John Keats

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

About the Poem 

Today is the first full day of autumn, and there is something appropriate about marking the change of seasons with John Keats’s “The Human Seasons.” Keats begins with the familiar cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but quickly turns from the natural world to ourselves: “There are four seasons in the mind of man.”

Spring belongs to youth, discovery, and possibility. Keats calls it our “lusty Spring,” when the world seems filled with beauty and we eagerly take it all in. Everything is new, or at least has the possibility of being new. There are people to meet, places to go, things to learn, and experiences still waiting for us.

Summer brings a different kind of pleasure. We begin to savor what spring gave us. Keats describes someone lingering over the “honied cud of youthful thought,” ruminating on dreams, memories, hopes, and experiences. If spring is about discovering beauty, summer is about appreciating it. There is still ambition and desire, but there is also the pleasure of knowing enough about life to recognize just how precious some of its moments are.

Then comes autumn.

Keats’s autumn is quieter. The wings that once carried us eagerly toward everything the world offered are folded close. There is a growing contentment simply to observe. We no longer have to chase every beautiful thing that passes before us. Some things can simply be allowed to pass “unheeded as a threshold brook.”

I think there is something wonderfully peaceful about that image.

We often talk about aging as if it were primarily a process of losing things: youth, beauty, strength, opportunities, time. Keats suggests another possibility. Perhaps we also gain something—the ability to be still. We become more selective about what deserves our attention and energy. We learn that not every opportunity must be pursued, not every argument must be won, and not every beautiful thing must be possessed to be appreciated.

And eventually there is winter. Keats does not romanticize it. He calls it a season of “pale misfeature.” Yet he also recognizes that winter belongs to us just as surely as spring does. Without it, we would “forego” our mortal nature.

That final thought gives the poem much of its power. We cannot choose only the seasons we like. A life made entirely of spring would hardly be a human life at all. We experience beginnings and endings, desire and contentment, joy and sorrow, growth and decline. Each belongs to the same cycle.

Perhaps we do not move through these seasons only once, either. Even later in life, there can be unexpected springs—a new friendship, a new love, a new interest, a new adventure. There can be summers when we savor happiness, autumns when we turn inward, and winters when life seems cold and barren. Sometimes all four seem to exist within us at once.

The seasons remind us that nothing remains exactly as it is. That can be frightening when things are good, but comforting when they are not. Winter does not erase the spring that came before it, and autumn does not make summer meaningless. Each season becomes part of the whole.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of autumn. As the days shorten and the leaves begin to change, the world reminds us that change can possess its own kind of beauty. We do not always have to mourn what has passed or fear what comes next. Sometimes we can simply fold our wings close, watch the mist drift by, and appreciate the season we are in.

“The Human Seasons” is a sonnet written by John Keats in 1818. Rather than describing the literal progression of the seasons, Keats uses spring, summer, autumn, and winter as metaphors for changing states of the human mind and stages of human existence.

Spring represents youthful vitality, imagination, desire, and openness to beauty. Summer is a time of contemplation, when the mind savors and reflects upon the experiences and dreams of youth. Autumn brings quietness and contentment, a willingness to withdraw somewhat from the constant pursuit of experience. Winter represents decline and mortality, the unavoidable final season that makes the cycle distinctly human.

Keats compresses an entire lifetime into fourteen lines. Yet the poem is not simply about growing old. Its opening speaks of “seasons in the mind of man,” suggesting psychological and emotional cycles as much as chronological stages. Human beings continually experience periods of awakening, fulfillment, contemplation, and loss.

The poem also reflects Keats’s enduring fascination with beauty, transience, and mortality—the knowledge that beauty is precious partly because neither beauty nor those who perceive it can last forever.

About the Poet

John Keats was born in London on October 31, 1795, and became one of the major poets of the second generation of English Romanticism. Although he originally trained in medicine, Keats abandoned a medical career to devote himself to poetry.

His poetic career was remarkably brief. Much of the work for which he is remembered was written during only a few extraordinarily productive years. His best-known poems include “Ode to a Nightingale,” “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” “To Autumn,” “La Belle Dame sans Merci,” and the sonnet “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art.”

Beauty, imagination, nature, love, transience, and mortality recur throughout Keats’s poetry. Those subjects became particularly poignant in light of his own short life. After developing tuberculosis, Keats traveled to Italy in hopes that the warmer climate would improve his health. He died in Rome on February 23, 1821, at only twenty-five years old.

Keats never reached the autumn or winter of life that he imagined in “The Human Seasons.” Yet perhaps that makes the poem even more affecting. A young poet, still very much within his own spring, could already imagine the entire cycle of human existence and recognize that mortality is not separate from life but an essential part of what gives life—and each of its seasons—meaning.

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Monday Again

It’s Monday again, and I feel like I’m not firing on all cylinders this morning. I have absolutely no inspiration and, quite frankly, I’d just like to go back to sleep. If I didn’t have a class and a meeting today, I’d seriously consider calling in sick and crawling back into bed.

Maybe I’ll feel more human after I take a shower, get dressed, and have some coffee. Sometimes just going through the morning routine is enough to wake up the body and convince the brain to follow along. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for today.

For now, though, Monday has definitely arrived before I was ready for it. Here’s hoping the day improves once I get moving. Have a great Monday, everyone!