You Can’t Make Old Friends

Why Broken Friendships Hurt

As I headed off to California for the installation of my old friend Matthew J. Hall as provost of Biola University, I commented to my wife, Maria, “I wonder what the most-repeated sentence I’ve ever said to or heard from Matt Hall would be.” What we landed on was “Well, that was crazy.”

Mark and I have had many opportunities to say that to each other since we first met—back when he was a call screener for a talk-radio show I sometimes guest hosted. He had to filter out the people who wanted to make a relevant comment from those outraged that I had said something positive about, say, Willie Nelson or Harry Potter. (Those were simpler times, reader.) And in the years since, we would often look at each other whenever some explosive debate on the floor of our denomination was gaveled out of order and say, “Well, that was crazy.”

For 20 years, I’ve been able to laugh with Matt about some display of craziness or another—and I can always count on him to know what qualifies as “crazy.” In the two days I visited with him recently, I found myself laughing at stories we would tell and retell, with lots of sentences starting with “Remember when … ?”

In the past I might have considered these moments and memories as “nostalgia,” but now I see them as a grace. And I no longer take them for granted.

New friendships are often made from stories. Whenever you meet someone new, that person may ask you, “So what’s your story?” Even when it’s not directly said, it’s an unspoken question. We tell pieces of our life stories to each other and are often happy to find those stories overlap. As C. S. Lewis put it in one of the most often-quoted passages of The Four Loves, we say, “You too? I thought I was the only one.” Without new friendships like these, life can become stagnant and boring.

Even so, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers were on to something when they sang, “You can’t make old friends.” Old friendships are rooted in shared experiences that accumulate over time.

When you tell something of your story to a new friend, you are saying something akin to “Here’s who I am. What about you?” When we spend time with old friends and tell remembered stories, we’re doing something different. We aren’t communicating information; we’re reliving our experiences. We’re saying things like “Can you believe we got to see that?” or “Can you believe we survived that?” or “Don’t you miss that?” or “Aren’t you glad that’s over?”

It’s just another way of knowing one another—and of being known.

Over the past several years, hundreds of people have spoken to me about the pain of broken friendships in their lives. Sometimes those friendships were split apart by politics—maybe because of different views of Trump, the COVID-19 vaccine, or critical race theory or any other real or imagined divide.

For some, a friendship fractured over some kind of “deconstruction” or church split. For others, friendships blew up in the fury of argument. In some cases, the friendship simply fizzled out. In carefully observing the demilitarized zones of things “safe” to talk about, some friends just couldn’t cobble together enough shared stories anymore.

Whatever the reason, broken friendships hurt. For those of you who ever moved as a child, your mom was right when she said, “You’ll make new friends.” Still, what you knew then—and, deep down, you still know now—is that you can’t replace old friends. Broken friendships hurt because friendship is so important.

People often criticize evangelical gospel songs about friendships with Jesus. “Jesus isn’t your girlfriend,” they may say. “Jesus is your Lord, not your buddy.” Jesus is Lord, but part of how he defines his lordship is by calling us friends. And Jesus grounds that friendship in a shared story. Servants can obey their masters, but they don’t know what’s going on beyond their immediate tasks. But Jesus said to his disciples, “I have called you friends, for everything that I learned from my Father I have made known to you” (John 15:15).

Of course, shortly after making that statement, Jesus experienced the breaking of friendships. When he was arrested and put to death, some of his friends didn’t want to share the story anymore.

One of those broken relationships was irreparable (in the case of Judas), but Jesus sought out the others after his resurrection. He met with Peter—who had denied even knowing Jesus—while Peter was fishing, which is right where Jesus had first called him (John 21:1–19). Perhaps the charcoal fire Jesus prepared—the same sort of charcoal fire where Peter had cursed out his denial—was Jesus’ way of signifying, “I know all about it, and I love you anyway.”

Jesus then repeated the very words he had spoken to Peter when he first found him: “Follow me!” (v. 19). Maybe that was partly Jesus’ attempt to remind Peter that they still shared a story—a way of saying, “Remember when …?” What a friend we have in Jesus.

About once a day, I see or hear or think about something that reminds me of a story that would make sense only to one of my old friends—say, an inside joke or news about a mutual acquaintance. I start to call that person but then realize I can’t.

Sometimes it’s because that old friend has passed away. Sometimes it’s because that old friend thinks I’m a “cultural Marxist” now or whatever. And at other times it’s because I’ve just lost touch with that old friend in the whirl of our busy lives and it feels kind of awkward to reach out after so long.

Maybe some of you have never experienced a broken friendship, but I’ll bet most of you have. And I’ll bet it hurts more than you want to admit. In many cases, there’s nothing you can do about that.

But there is one thing you can do: Thank God for new friends and keep making them.

And while you do, hold on with gratitude to those old friendships, to the people with whom you share stories. Consider calling one of them. Perhaps say out loud, “I love you” even when it’s awkward—or maybe especially when it’s awkward.

And take time to retell old stories with those friends who will know exactly what you mean when you say, “Remember when….?” Let it point you to the shortness of life and beyond that—to a day when all that was broken will be mended and when all that we have lost will be found. I suppose we will all be old friends then.

And as we look forward to the ever-expanding glory of eternity, we might catch each other’s eye as we look backward—just for a moment—to say, “Well, that was crazy!”

Don’t Confuse Your Personality for Vice

Last week I wrote here about the temptation of confusing your personality with virtue. I’ve heard from lots of you about that newsletter. Although I alluded to it in that piece, I want to turn my attention here to the opposite problem: Don’t confuse your personality for vice either.

Just as you can confuse a natural passivity with peacefulness or a natural quarrelsomeness with “apologetic zeal,” you can do the same in the other direction.

We all compare ourselves with other people and the models of behavior we’ve seen. Some of these models are authentic—the sort of people of whom the Bible says, “Consider the outcome of their way of life and imitate their faith” (Heb. 13:7).

But sometimes those role models are far less real than they seem. And if they are isolated from the picture of the totality of the body of Christ—and, more specifically, from the picture of Jesus himself—you can easily start to conclude that you are especially sinful and deficient in places where you’re just different.

I know a Christian who believed herself to be selfish because she wasn’t “hospitable.” Anyone who knew her could see that she wasn’t selfish, or at least no more so than anybody else. For her, hospitality was defined by those whose homes were constant blurs of people in and out. Those hosts were probably doing exactly what they were called and equipped to do, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t.

Many of the people I talk to these days who grapple with unmanageable regret and guilt are burdened with things that actually aren’t sinful. They are just points of unique vulnerability or—even more often—of giftedness that just doesn’t look like the person thinks it’s supposed to look.

Evangelism is not the same thing as extroversion. Discipleship is not the same thing as being able to talk in front of crowds of people. Having a more anxious temperament than the “just trust the Lord” person you know does not mean you are faithless.

Not repenting of sin is wrong. Not seeking Christlikeness in our lives is wrong. But there’s more than one way that we can be diverted from these things. We can abandon repentance if we define as a spiritual victory what would be true about us regardless. But we can also abandon repentance by spending time, energy, and motivation carrying regret and guilt for what’s actually not even sin.

Some of the godliest people I know often rob the church and the world of their gifts because they assume they’re ungodly—just because their personalities differ from others who are godly. We’ve all got enough of the world, the flesh, and the devil to fight without boxing shadows too.

We are complicated beings, both created and fallen, justified but not yet glorified. Don’t confuse your personality with virtue, but don’t confuse it with vice either.

More Confusion About the Separation of Church and State

New York City mayor Eric Adams kicked up a controversy a couple of weeks ago at an interfaith prayer breakfast by saying, “Don’t tell me about no separation of church and state. State is the body. Church is the heart. You take the heart out of the body, the body dies.” Many—including some of Adams’s political allies and even some religious leaders present at the breakfast—immediately objected.

On CNN this past Sunday morning, Adams tried to clarify: “What I believe is that you cannot separate your faith. Government should not interfere with religion, and religion should not interfere with government. But I believe my faith pushes me forward on how I govern and the things that I do.”

The mayor’s statements are confusing. The idea that government and religion shouldn’t “interfere” with each other does indeed place a separation between the two, which the mayor elsewhere seems to deny. Part of the ambiguity is inherent in the way people very differently hear or use the language of “separation of church and state.”

Some people use this phrase the way others use the Bible passage “Judge not, that you be not judged.” If you were dropping your child off at school but found the teacher drunk, any principal who responded with “Well, judge not, that you be not judged” would not mean what Jesus meant. The principal would just be saying, “Anything goes.”

Sometimes when people say “separation of church and state,” they mean a division between the public sphere and religious people. This seems to be the definition of “separation of church and state” Adams is using, at least in his clarification. Maybe he means that the community needs houses of worship working alongside them to combat crime and violence. Or maybe he means that his faith motivates him to care strongly about protecting innocent people harmed by that bloodshed.

Suppose the moderator at a retirement party honoring your state’s chief tax officer after 30 years of exemplary service comments, “Judge, it would have been easy for you to pocket some of the money, take a bribe, or funnel some of it to your cronies. The system is so complicated, you probably could have gotten away with it. What motivated you to keep it by the books?” The official responds, “Growing up in a Jewish family, I was taught ‘You shall not steal,’ and my synagogue reinforced for me every week that a life of integrity is what we owe to God and to our neighbor.” That is not a violation of the separation of church and state.

If a fire breaks out during a Wednesday night Bible study at the Methodist church and the pastor calls 911, that is also not a violation of the separation of church and state. The state is charged with the authority to maintain order, including the life and safety of all its citizens, and it carries out that authority equally.

But if the fire chief said he disagreed with Wesleyanism and concluded, “You’re going to burn now or later; why not now?” that would be a violation of the separation of church and state. The same would be true if the fire department wouldn’t respond to a similar call from a mosque or a community center.

Separation of church and state, when rightly defined, is an important truth—for the functioning of a democratic republic and, even more importantly (for me), for the integrity of the church. When the meaning is as confused as it is right now, it’s a sad but true reality that we will have to define what we do, and don’t, mean.

Every other week, I share a playlist of songs one of you says you’d want to have on hand if you were stranded on a desert island. This week’s submission comes from reader Kim Moore (no relation that I’m aware of) from Wilmington, North Carolina.

Kim writes that these would be her picks:

“Carolina in my Mind” by James Taylor—Because it would be, I’m sure.

Almost anything by The Avett Brothers, but for this list, “No Hard Feelings,” “The Fire,” and “The Once and Future Carpenter”—The first two always make me cry, but there are some happier ones on the list.

“My Girl” by the Temptations—It always makes me think of summer vacation.

“Fishin’ in the Dark” by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band—Another good mood song.

“Cleopatra Queen of Denial” by Pam Tillis—For some comic relief.

“All Along the Watch Tower” by Jimi Hendrix—Because sometimes you just need to rock out.

Thank you, Kim!

Readers, what do you think? If you were stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life and could have only one playlist or one bookshelf with you, what songs or books would you choose?

For a Desert Island Playlist, send me a list of 5–12 songs, excluding hymns and worship songs. (We’ll cover those later.)

For a Desert Island Bookshelf, send me a list of 5–12 books. If possible, include one photo of all the books together.

Send your list (or both lists!) to questions@russellmoore.com, and include as much or as little explanation of your choices as you would like. And please include where you’re from!

Quote of the Moment

The authentic human being is one of us who instinctively knows what he should not do, and, in addition, he will balk at doing it. He will refuse to do it, even if this brings down dread consequences to him and to those whom he loves. This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance. Their deeds may be small, and almost always unnoticed, unmarked by history. Their names are not remembered, nor did these authentic humans expect their names to be remembered. I see their authenticity in an odd way: not in their willingness to perform great heroic deeds but in their quiet refusals. In essence, they cannot be compelled to be what they are not.

—Philip K. Dick, “How to Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later,” (1978)

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Onward,
Russell Moore