By: Rhett Seitz
This upcoming Sabbath is Valentine’s Day. (Fun Fact: If you can’t remember the last time Valentine’s Day fell on a Sabbath, it’s because this last happened in 2015—11 years ago!).
For many students, the holiday will mean flowers, chocolate and carefully planned gestures for a significant other. It will be visible in subtle ways: couples walking a little closer, gift bags peeking out of backpacks and LOTS of social media posts appreciating your significant other.
Valentine’s Day, after all, is about love—or at least one particular version of it.
The type of love most often celebrated on this day is what the Greeks called eros: romantic love, attraction, chemistry, the kind of affection that draws two people toward each other in a deeply personal way. There is nothing wrong with that. Romantic love is beautiful. It is meaningful. God created this kind of love in the beginning with Adam and Eve. It is, in many ways, life-giving.
But what if that isn’t the most intimate kind of love on campus?
We often talk about intimacy as if it is reserved for romance, as if being deeply known, seen and supported happens only between people who are dating. Friendship, community and emotional honesty get treated like lesser versions of connection, as though they are placeholders until romance arrives. In doing so, we quietly narrow the definition of love, and the cost of that narrowing shows up all around us.
A few years ago, I took a class at Southern and sat near someone who caught my attention. It was not a romantic interest (though I would not have complained if it was).
On the first day of class, I usually try to meet the people sitting near me, not just because it helps academically but because classes become a lot easier when you know at least one person in the room (Pro tip: This is a life, academic and professional hack).
Something about him stood out to me. He looked different from most of the students around him, and for reasons I could not fully explain, I felt drawn to reach out. He seemed like someone who, like me, just needed a connection in a room full of strangers. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that demanded attention. Just in the quiet, human way that many people do.
I started talking to him, and he seemed normal: easy to talk to, thoughtful, not awkward or withdrawn. Yet the sense remained that he was carrying more than what was visible. I did not know his story. I never asked. I did not need to. The pull I felt was not about curiosity. It was about presence.
This is not about making assumptions about people or acting as if we can read their lives at a glance. It is about paying attention to those small, internal nudges that tell us someone might need to be seen and choosing to respond with kindness rather than indifference. Sometimes love looks like a dramatic rescue. More often, it looks like showing up consistently when there is no spotlight and no reward.
I wasn’t looking for romance, and I don’t think he was either. We were looking for acknowledgment. And in many ways, that kind of connection required more courage than a lot of romantic relationships demand. Romance is socially validated and encouraged, especially at Southern. Friendship, particularly between men, often is not. There are no holidays for choosing to sit next to someone new, no cards for staying present when it would be easier to stay silent. No one asks, “Are you two official?” about a friendship. No one congratulates you on your one-year anniversary of sitting next to the same person in biology.
Yet, Scripture points us toward this quieter, deeper love. “A friend loves at all times,” Proverbs 17:17 says. This is not eros. It is closer to philia, the love of friendship, and agape, the self-giving love that seeks another person’s good without demanding anything in return.
This Valentine’s Day, it is worth asking what kinds of love we are practicing and which ones we are overlooking. There are students on this campus who will not receive flowers, but they may desperately need to be known. There are people sitting in classrooms, standing in cafeteria lines and walking across campus who are not searching for romance but for belonging.
The most intimate relationships on campus may not be romantic at all. They might be friendships where someone finally feels safe enough to be honest. They may begin in the quiet decisions to reach across difference, discomfort or unfamiliarity and choose connection anyway. They may grow in small communities where people are loved without needing to perform.
Romantic love is celebrated because it is visible. Friendship is intimate because it is costly. It asks us to give time, attention and care without the promise of romance or recognition. And in a culture that often equates love with attraction, choosing to practice a broader, deeper version of love may be the most countercultural act of all.
This Valentine’s Day, the most meaningful act of love on campus might not be a grand gesture. It might be sitting next to someone who looks alone. It might be remembering a name. It might be choosing presence over convenience. You don’t even need to be in a romantic relationship to show this kind of intimate love for others.
The most intimate relationship on campus is not always romantic—and we are poorer when we pretend that it is.
