Merciful and Strong Connection
It starts in the heart...a climb we aren't meant to do alone.
The question hit the room like a body shot to the ribs from a left hook. “Why is it difficult for men to connect with other men?” It covered us all, heavy and honest, like the wing of an angel. I was sitting in a men’s ministry gathering at the church where I had recently been baptized. I had never thought about the question before. I always assumed I had strong relationships with other men. But as I sat with it, letting it reach my heart roots, I realized most of those relationships ran only to the surface. Good camaraderie. Good banter. But not a true connection, except for a couple of men. Who were no longer around. Six feet into the ground.
What bothered me wasn’t the lack of connection with others. It was the lack of connection within myself that I had turned off due to loss and grief. A wall built inside me long before I can remember.
I asked myself the next morning, deep into a meditation, “If a man can’t connect with his own heart, how can he connect with someone else’s? and “How can he name what he needs if he’s never faced it internally?”
A whisper came from the distance of my mind and heart. “God didn’t design us to walk alone. This life is meant to be lived through connection, first with Him, then with others.” And of course, I rebutted, “But connection with others becomes impossible when we refuse to face ourselves.”
I let it simmer as the hang drums beat softly in the background, keeping my mind dancing. “Before we can reach outward, we must reach upward. And before we reach upward, we must be honest inward.” These thoughts punched me in the gut with an uppercut.
I asked myself another question, after I caught my breath: “God wired us for intimacy that is rooted in grace, mercy, and truth. The kind made possible through Christ.” Everything went quiet except for the music in my ears and my heart beating softly, sending vibrations through my body that made me feel as if I were floating.
I think back to Afghanistan. Dirt, dust, heat, fear, and the bond of survival. I fought not only for myself but for the brothers on my left and right. And they fought for me. “I’ll take a bullet for you” wasn’t a metaphor there; it was the daily reality.”
But even in that level of closeness, none of us talked about God. Not once. Maybe some of them prayed silently, but I never saw it. I know I prayed every time we stepped out on patrol, asking for protection for all of us; strength, endurance, and courage to fight evil not just with our own power but with God’s.
What I didn’t understand then - but see clearly now - is that our bond didn’t come from us. It came from something mightier, more powerful, and forged through perseverance. From a God none of us acknowledge in the moment out loud.
Deep down, we all knew we were fighting evil. And that same evil eventually followed us home, the kind that kills from the inside out. The kind that cornered my brothers long after the war ended. The kind that convinced them they were alone. That isolation became the ambush the devil set. Many walked straight into it, alone. With no one to the left and right like we once had in the physical war we fought together. But left alone to fight the spiritual war none of us ever spoke about.
It’s ironic how we, as men, avoid God. We avoid admitting weakness. We avoid speaking about the things that gnaw at our souls. We avoid reaching for help until the weight crushes us.
A few months ago, God put it on my heart to start a men’s group called Reforged, built for military men chasing after God’s heart. But even there, even among men who asked to join, I see the same barrier. When questions about God come up, only a small percentage engage. When we host a monthly meet-up—a safe space, no pressure, no judgment—there’s still resistance.
Even in a circle designed for connection, men hesitate to be known.
What I’ve learned is simple:
If I want a deeper connection, I have to go first.
I must be the one who cuts open my chest, bares the shadows of my heart, and shows what honesty looks like. If the other man doesn’t meet me there, it’s no failure; it just means he’s not ready. My responsibility is to offer the same grace God extended to me. The same mercy Christ showed His followers. The same patience the Spirit uses to shape us slowly over time.
Jesus modeled a real relationship. He lived by three Cs: clarity, conviction, and compassion. He invited people to walk with Him, but He also set standards:
Carry your cross. Believe His words. Practice self-control under temptation. Depend fully on God. Love Him with heart, mind, soul, and strength.
And to carry a healthy fear of God. Not fear in the modern sense of terror, but reverence. A fear rooted in love. When you love something deeply, you fear losing it. You fear drifting from it. You fear wounding it through neglect. This kind of fear doesn’t push you away; it keeps you close. It sharpens the relationship. It strengthens obedience. It sustains intimacy.
My thoughts may seem scattered, but they revolve around one truth:
If men want a deeper connection with one another, we must first build a deeper connection with our own hearts and with God.
Surface relationships won’t sustain us. Surface relationships won’t protect us from the devil’s traps. Surface relationships won’t carry us when life breaks open.
Real brotherhood requires vulnerability, the willingness to bleed in front of another man without fear of shame. It requires pouring out grace, mercy, and love the same way God pours them out on us through His Spirit.
In the end, healthy male relationships mirror what God desired from the beginning:
A community where we feed one another, strengthen one another, and sharpen one another. A brotherhood rooted not in survival or shared trauma, but in the shared pursuit of becoming what God called us to be: His image-bearers, refined and reforged.