There are friendships that come easily.
They form around shared interests, shared seasons, shared benefits.
They feel natural. They feel mutual. And most of the time, they ask very little of us.
But Scripture shows us another kind of friendship—
one that does not reveal itself when everything is easy,
but only when something is at stake.
Most friendships are easy when nothing is at stake.
Covenant friendships show themselves when loyalty costs you something.
That is the world David and Jonathan lived in.
Jonathan was the crown prince.
David was the anointed threat.
Everything about their relationship should have moved toward rivalry, suspicion, distance.
Instead, Scripture says something quiet and arresting:
“The soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”
The text does not explain that sentence.
It does not defend it.
It does not soften it.
It simply lets it stand.
And then Jonathan does something astonishing.
He removes his robe—the symbol of his status.
He hands over his weapons—the tools of his future.
He releases what he could have kept.
Not because he was weak.
Not because he was confused.
But because he recognized what God was doing.
This is where the difference between two kinds of relationships becomes clear.
Some relationships quietly serve me.
Others serve God’s purposes.
Most relationships orbit the self:
How do I feel?
Am I affirmed?
Am I safe?
Am I fulfilled?
Covenant relationships shift the center.
It’s not only about me.
In a covenant relationship, it’s about thee.
Jonathan does not ask what this friendship gives him.
He asks what faithfulness requires of him.
And faithfulness costs him.
It costs him his father’s approval.
It costs him safety.
It costs him the throne.
At one point, Saul even hurls a spear at his own son.
This is not sentimental friendship.
This is costly loyalty.
And then, in the most fragile moment of the story, Scripture gives us a line that quietly carries the entire weight of the passage:
“Jonathan went to David at Horesh and helped him find strength in God.”
Jonathan does not rescue David.
He does not solve the problem.
He does not replace God.
He points David back to God.
And that may be the truest mark of covenant love.
The best friend you will ever have is not the one who replaces God—
but the one who points you back to Him.
This is where Jonathan begins to look unmistakably Christlike.
He relinquishes a crown.
He protects God’s chosen king.
He absorbs loss so another may live.
He strengthens the one who is suffering.
Jonathan is not Christ.
But he moves in the same direction Christ will later walk fully.
Not grasping.
Not clinging.
Not insisting on what is rightfully his.
That is why David’s lament after Jonathan’s death is so tender—and so often misunderstood:
“Your love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.”
This is not erotic language.
It is covenant language.
David is contrasting political marriages—useful, negotiated, strategic—
with a love that did not manipulate, did not control, did not possess.
This was love without manipulation,
loyalty without control,
devotion without possession.
Scripture is not embarrassed by deep affection that is not sexualized.
It simply presents a love that is holy because it is free.
And then—without resolving the tension, without rewarding the sacrifice—
the story ends in loss.
Jonathan dies.
David survives.
And something essential is gone.
Which brings us to a question many of us carry but rarely say aloud:
What if covenant faithfulness leaves me empty?
The gospel does not deny the emptiness.
It refuses to make emptiness the final word.
Christ Himself emptied Himself—
not into nothing,
but into the hands of the Father.
Covenant love may create space.
But space offered to God is never wasted.
And this is where heaven quietly enters the room.
Not as doctrine.
Not as spectacle.
But as atmosphere.
Love is the aroma, the ambiance, the atmosphere of heaven.
When covenant love appears—even briefly—it feels different.
It smells like home.
Back in the day when I was growing up—
no reliable electricity, no kitchen oven—we found ways to make do.
My mother made an oven out of corrugated roof tin and heated it with a kerosene primus stove.
She baked bread every other day using round tin cans.
When supper was ready, we would come into the kitchen,
and the whole house smelled of fresh baked bread and soup.
To me, that was as close to heaven as I ever got—
this side of the pearly gates.
No explanation was needed.
You just came in.
You breathed.
You knew you belonged.
That is what covenant love feels like.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Not possessive.
Just faithful.
Just present.
Just welcoming.
And when we encounter that kind of love here—
even briefly—
we recognize it.
Because it carries the atmosphere
of where we were always meant to live.
