The Facebook founders were brilliant in their choice of vocabulary. When they labeled our online connections "friends," they tapped into something deeply human—our desire to belong, to be known, to matter to someone beyond ourselves. But somewhere between that first friend request and the thousands that followed, the word lost its weight. We now call people friends who we've never met, never spoken to, whose voices we wouldn't recognize if we heard them. The term has been watered down to something closer to "aware of your existence," and yet we keep using it, keep clicking that button, keep collecting these connections like shells on an endless digital beach.
So I find myself asking: In this increasingly digitally connected world, what exactly are these relationships? Or are they relationships at all?
There's something real happening in these spaces, even if it's hard to name. When I share something online and someone responds with genuine thoughtfulness, when a conversation unfolds in comment threads that reveals something true about both of us—that's not nothing. It's a connection of sorts, a thread pulled between two lives that might never have intersected otherwise. But is connection enough to call it friendship? Is it too intimate a word for what we're actually doing?
I think the answer lies not in the medium but in the effort. Not without the work involved to be truly active in each other's lives can any connection—online or in person—become something worthy of the name relationship. Being truly active in each other's lives can be accomplished online, but it takes intentional effort. And that's the catch, isn't it? Intention is essential in any relationship, but online connection makes it simultaneously more difficult and strangely easier.
More difficult because there's no accidental proximity. You can't bump into someone at the coffee shop or catch up while waiting in line. Every interaction requires a deliberate choice to reach out, to type the message, to schedule the call. The digital world doesn't create natural rhythms of encounter—it demands that we manufacture them.
But easier too, in unexpected ways. I think about the couples who've gotten to know each other better through long-distance, online relationships than they might have sitting side by side in a darkened movie theater. Is it better to go on a movie date and sit without talking, or to have an online video call where you're forced to actually talk to one another? Where screens become windows rather than walls, and the absence of physical distraction creates space for real conversation?
I've seen this myself—friendships that began with a shared comment or interest, evolved into thoughtful exchanges, and eventually became genuine relationships. People that rarely meet in person who know each other's struggles and celebrate victories. People whose prayers carry each other through hard seasons. People who see each other's true self despite the miles and pixels between them.
As someone following Christ, I've come to believe that relationship isn't about the medium—it's about the showing up. It's about whether we're willing to invest the effort to know and be known, whether through a screen or across a table. The early church maintained deep spiritual relationships through letters carried by travelers over dusty roads. Were those connections less real because they weren't face-to-face? Were Paul's friendships diminished because they existed largely through parchment and ink?
Online relationships can and do occur—but they have to be intentionally developed, just as in-person connections do. The question isn't whether digital friendship is real. The question is whether we're willing to do the work that any genuine relationship requires: the showing up, the listening, the vulnerable sharing, the consistent presence even when it's inconvenient.
Maybe the Facebook founders gave us more than they knew. Not just a platform for connection, but a mirror reflecting back this truth: that relationship has always been about choice and effort, not proximity. That friendship worthy of the name has always required intention.
The medium changes. The requirement doesn't.
