15.2 - Living from the Inside Out
Based on John 15:5-17
Learning the Flow
The night smelled of grapes and dust. We’d left the city’s noise behind, walking beneath a full moon. The air was cool, yet heavy with the day’s heat giving up its hold. Sandals rustled over pruned branches and dried leaves. Somewhere a dog barked. Jesus had just said, “Remain in me, and I in you” (15:4).
I looked at John; he looked at me. Both nodded. Jesus wasn’t talking about religion anymore. This was rhythm—how a life holds together from the inside out. We could grasp that.
He stopped beside a row of vines and touched a cluster of fruit. The leaves shimmered in the moonlight, thin green coins turning silver at the edges. When he was sure all eyes were on him, he spoke again.
“I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who remain in me and I in them bear much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing” (15:5).
“Faith is about alignment more than achievement.”
Hearing it now in its original tone, it isn’t a warning. It’s anatomy. A branch detached from its source doesn’t die because the vine is angry—it dies because the connection’s gone. We saw it, we smiled and nodded.
Faith, then, is about alignment more than achievement. The flow is already there; we learn not to cut ourselves off from it.
“The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”
— Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow
That’s “flow” in psychological terms. Jesus called it abiding. Both describe the same current of presence that turns effort into ease.
I’ve known that rhythm in smaller ways—tending a garden, pruning tomato vines until I lose track of time. For a while there’s no division between doing and being. The hands work, the mind quiets, and something wordless moves through both. That’s flow, too—grace in dirty jeans.
We spend much of life trying to force results, yet the vine image tells a different truth: connection produces fruit naturally. The branch doesn’t strain to make grapes; it simply stays attached. What’s alive in the vine will find its way through us if we stay open.
When Grace Joins the Effort
Then, he continued the impromptu lesson, “If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you” (15:7).
We all live with someone’s words abiding in us. Sometimes it’s the voice of a parent, a teacher, a friend—or the hum of social media telling us what matters and how to measure ourselves. Even when we think we’re independent, we’re still echoing someone’s language.
I think about how I hear Bill Thomas’s voice saying, “It doesn’t get any better than this,” and it instantly brings me back to the joy of that moment.
So when Jesus says, “Let my word abide in you,” he’s not introducing a rare theological concept. He’s describing a common reality. Every heart carries a storyline. His invitation is to trade the anxious, self-protective scripts that dominate our days for one rooted in love.
The question isn’t Will a word live in me? but whose word will it be?
The sentence that tends to be misunderstood is the second half—“Ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” It’s often taken as a blank check, a promise that faith secures whatever outcome we want. But Jesus wasn’t speaking about control or comfort. To ask in his name means to want what love wants.
Grace enters there—not as reward, but as cooperation.
“Grace is not opposed to effort; it is opposed to earning. Earning is an attitude. Effort is an action.”
— Dallas Willard
I’ve felt it on quiet mornings, writing through foggy doubt—then suddenly the next sentence arrives clear, as if it had been waiting. It’s not magical, but it is preternatural—a new word for me meaning “beyond what’s merely natural.” Grace is that extra measure that joins your motion when you act in faith.
Grace joins motion—the unseen current of presence.
I’ve felt it, too, in conversation—listening instead of trying to fix someone, and finding that the right words rise on their own. Grace doesn’t cancel effort; it multiplies it. It’s the tailwind that meets a runner mid-stride, or the stillness that steadies a shaking hand.
“Grace joins the motion of those already moving.”
Joy That Holds
Jesus said he told us these things “so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete” (15:11).
His joy isn’t a mood. It’s alignment—what happens when purpose and practice move in sync, when you’re living by the current instead of fighting it.
Joy becomes the proof of connection. Not giddiness, but steadiness—the calm energy that rises when you’re doing what you were made to do.
Happiness tends to depend on weather—external and emotional. Joy holds its ground even in rain. It’s what stays when laughter fades, what hums beneath grief. I’ve seen it in people who’ve suffered honestly: their light isn’t loud, but it’s unquenchable. They carry a quiet brightness, like coals that never quite cool. That’s what Jesus meant by complete—not constant cheer, but an inner current that keeps flowing when other lights go out.
And maybe that’s why he called it his joy—something larger than mood, a kind of divine equilibrium that can be shared but not manufactured.
“Joy holds its ground even in rain.”
Friends, Not Servants
Then came the shift: “I no longer call you servants… but friends” (15:15).
Friendship here isn’t sentiment. It’s shared intent—two lives pulling toward the same good. Servants obey; friends participate.
Servants live by commands. Friends live by conversation. Friendship assumes trust, even equality of purpose. That’s what maturity in faith looks like—not blind obedience, but honest conversation. To be called a friend of God is to be invited into collaboration, to share the work rather than merely carry it out.
And that changes everything. We stop asking, What does God want from me? and start asking, What might God want with me?
To My Grandchildren, and Their Children: By the time you read this, I may be a story more than a voice. But if these words reach you, remember this: balance and grace still run through the same vine.
When life feels too heavy, don’t freeze waiting for certainty. Take one faithful step toward what love would do. Grace has a way of joining people already in motion. You’ll feel it—a quiet strength that carries you farther than your effort should. That’s God’s rhythm under your own.
Karen and I learned this the slow way. After losing Millie, motion felt impossible. The ache was constant, the future dim. But small acts—watering the garden, playing with Jack and Parker, writing a single sentence—became steps toward life again. Grace didn’t erase the pain, but it carried us through it.
You’ll have your own versions of those days. When they come, don’t measure progress by how much you achieve. Measure it by how open your heart stays. Stay connected to what keeps you honest and kind. Keep your heart teachable, your focus forward, and the laughter of the unseen Coach will follow close behind.
Joy and friendship, grace and flow—they’re all part of the same current. The vine hasn’t stopped growing. Its roots run through time, and you are grafted in whether you realize it or not.
Wherever life plants you—city apartment, college dorm, or garden soil—remember this: connection matters more than control. When you can’t see the next step, water what’s near you. That small faithfulness is how love keeps its roots alive.
Practice for the Week: Staying Connected
Pause daily for one breath of awareness. Before the rush of tasks, take a moment to notice your inner state—tight or open, hurried or calm.
Name your current vine. What truly feeds you right now—faith, friendship, creation, service? Write it down.
Act in alignment. Choose one small act that expresses that connection—a call, a kindness, a moment outdoors.
Reflect each evening. Ask, Did I move with the current or against it today?
Rest in gratitude. Whisper thanks for the unseen flow that keeps you alive.
That’s how fruit forms—slowly, quietly, from the inside out.
This is the glimpse I’ve been given, through John’s words and my own walk through loss and light.
🜂 Key Takeaways
Connection creates fruit; striving does not.
Grace amplifies honest effort.
Joy is a steady undercurrent, not a passing feeling.
Friendship with God means conversation, not command.
The life that flows through you will outlast you.
