There’s something about David and Jonathan.

The son of Jesse and son of Saul professed a deep love for one another multiple times, describing their bond as souls knit together. After making a covenant together, Jonathan bestowed his own clothing, armor, and weapons to David, apparently more than was customary. They passionately kissed and cried in each other’s arms in secret, and translations smooth over an odd word choice at the end of 1 Sam. 20:41 that could suggest David was aroused by the intimacy. Yes, the two of them eventually marry and have children, as was custom and expected in their time to secure their progeny, but it’s not like the weight of culture has no sway over how much one expresses their true sexuality, since LGBT Christians still feel pressured and obligated to enter heterosexual marriages. And upon hearing of Jonathan’s premature death in battle, David proclaims that his love was “wonderful, surpassing the love of women.” 

That’s not something a straight person says, even if he wound up with multiple wives.

Theologians often go the route of historians, concluding “... and they were really good friends!” However, the emotional fervor and physical intimacy of David and Jonathan—even with cultural and historical differences considered—are unusual to find in the Hebrew Bible, as some progressive scholars have posited. Traditional scholars (both Rabbinic and Christian) also caution that bias (however well intentioned) can impose modern notions of sexual and romantic expression onto their relationship, which could very well serve as an example for men to more bravely plumb the emotional depths of platonic friendship.

But what if both perspectives meet somewhere in the middle? What if they weren’t straight, and what if they weren’t gay? What if their behavior toward each other was homoromantic, even asexual?

As a lifelong Christian, David and Jonathan became role models in my late teens—a few years before I could put my asexuality into words. I was really adamant about emotionally intimate but strictly platonic friendships as a counterweight to progressive spaces so quick to label any hint of closeness between men as sexually motivated. I was (and still am) angry about toxic masculinity’s and homophobia’s roles in suppressing men’s ability to emotionally connect out of irrational and problematic fears of being perceived as weak or gay. To hug, hold hands, cuddle—I believe these can be perfectly platonic expressions of love with the right friends, as is evident more often in friendships between women. At most, we see this level of physical intimacy in healthy relationships between fathers and sons, but outside the family? Once puberty hits? Men, straight and queer, have been conditioned to keep vulnerability and emotions under lock and key. But my asexuality inadvertently led me toward normalizing this behavior for myself. I actively sought to let down my guard around male companions, where I could let them into my personal, private world and say things like, “I love you,” as I would without reservation to a family member. I needed that, and it sustained me … but it never felt like enough.

I didn’t allow myself to consider that my emotional yearnings coursed deeper than friendship because being gay and Christian was not an option in my evangelical upbringing. I figured that everyone needs connection, so family and friendship should certainly do for me. After all, I wasn’t sexually attracted to men or women, but over time, possessive patterns and obsessive behavior emerged toward some of my closest friends. It was disruptive at best, and destructive at worst, because I held onto these men too tightly. I expected too much of them in how often we should speak, and how we spoke of and to each other. When this wasn’t reciprocated, I privately blamed them for not having a higher view of friendship. They were hitting that societal glass ceiling that put artificial constraints to the intensity and closeness that could, and should, characterize male friendship! Didn’t they see friendship could be more? I still believe it can be … but was what I wanted actually more than friendship?

Allosexuals rarely struggle with this because romance is synonymous with sexual attraction. Asexuality can make the distinction between close friend and romantic interest a perennial conundrum. Every time I hit that ceiling with a close friend, I would sob for reasons I didn’t understand. But that heartbreak tugged at a facade that had been draped over my heart. Once it fell away, I discovered I had a heart for romance, and that I’d solely tried to satisfy it through friendship—and had been left wanting. I knew I was asexual then, but when I truly understood and embraced my homoromanticism, that brought me even more healing. In the past, I would’ve thought it was an improper misnomer for any kind of deeply close yet platonic friendship, but I could experience both, and both were valid. Homoromanticism not only gave me discernment to know when I felt romance and when I did not, but also how I could wisely and individually navigate either situation with proper expectations and boundaries. I had been told romance was about sexual attraction, but separating the two opened me to a whole new reality that I’d been living into wrongly all along.

My experience with romance has identified the feeling as a scintillating yet unpredictable spark. Even when a man’s personality, interests, and orientation uncannily align with my own, the spark might not be there. I recognize it as a welling of the heart with particular physical side effects. Butterflies in the stomach, a palpitating heart, nervous energy. I’ll blush when a man I like compliments me, and I get an equal thrill out of returning the favor, waiting with bated breath to see how he’ll respond. His opinions and perspective mean the world to me, but I must be clear that it doesn’t happen with just any man. I don’t experience sexual attraction, but I do experience aesthetic attraction for particular faces, body types, voices, and whatnot. I consider traits like these to be icing on the cake that can draw my initial attention, but what makes the cake is a man’s mind and heart. I’m deeply drawn to men who not only share my own interests, but also treasure the same virtues and ideas as I do. If we can comfortably chat with mutual interest and excitement for countless hours, that’s a really good sign. And sheer masculinity can only take a man so far, but when that is wielded by a kind, considerate soul? A confident and robust, yet sweet and gentle, strength? A physical and metaphysical masculinity such as this, with all the above in consideration, erupts into flames of romantic attraction when the spark is there. It’s my life goal to embody this masculinity for myself, help others with it, and celebrate it in another … and especially share in it with a partner.

I’d be remiss in not admitting that I’m turned on by romance, but herein lies the problem with terminology. Just because I think romance is “sexy” doesn’t mean I want to have sex. Just because I’m aroused by emotional intimacy and physical affection doesn’t mean I’m trying to get at more. My sexual response is true to the intensity of my feelings yet belies how I wish to express them. Romance in itself sends jolts of excitement throughout my entire body, prompting an erection in spite of myself, implying what I don’t want to do even though I want to feel the associated arousal. So, what do I really want to do? Where do the thrills ultimately lead?

I imagine sharing a bed, waking up feeling home in a partner’s arms as I turn to gaze on his face, slowly running my fingers through his morning hair. I imagine having coffee and conversation together out on a porch during a cool, misty morning as we keep warm under the same blanket with my head on his shoulder. I imagine a hot shower where we wash away the distractions and troubles of the day to bare our bodies and hearts unto one another, so as to heal with the joys of naked, intimate vulnerability, grooming each other tenderly as the world stands still.

It’s a special kind of sensual attraction—the desire to touch and be touched of a wholesome yet simultaneously erotic quality. To caress, cuddle, and kiss in romantic love is where the sensuality of my homoromantic asexuality is made fully manifest. Most of the aforementioned scenarios would typically be preludes or epilogues to sex for allosexuals, but this is what I wish to share most with a man: to give of my heart and body in abounding emotional and physical intimacy, and he in turn, without an expectation of sex. To share a love that surpasses the love of family and friends. To find a true soulmate, a kindred spirit—a soul knit to my own. To praise God for tears of joy spilling over from a full heart in the embrace of a man who loves me as myself. Nothing more than that is everything to me in a romantic relationship. And now, every time I read those passages in 1 and 2 Samuel, my eyes well with tears because I see that love in their own.

There’s something about David and Jonathan.