16.1 - When the Path Narrows
Based on John 16:1-6
I want to tell you about a night I wasn’t there for, but one I've lived many times in spirit. The scene hadn’t changed since the last words he spoke: “If they hated me, they will hate you.” Same moon, same cool breeze threading through the vines, same anxiety running through each of us. Each step pressed us farther from the city and closer to the truth he was preparing to tell.
Our sandals felt heavier as they brushed loose gravel and scattered leaves. The vines on either side enveloped us, holding us in formation, in the yoke he had called us into. Jesus walked ahead of us with unhurried steadiness, a man who knew exactly where this final stretch of the path would end.
Then he said, “I have said all this to keep you from falling away” (16:1).
The Real Weight Behind “Falling Away”
For three years, we had been in lockstep with him, and now he thinks we might fall away? Still, the phrase carried a sharp clarity in the stillness. Not spoken to frighten, but to prepare. The final shaping words of a mentor whose apprentices were about to be thrust into adulthood.
Then came the deeper warning:
“They will put you out of the synagogues…” (16:2).
To modern ears, that phrase can sound like a mild rejection — a stern usher asking you to leave a sanctuary. Modern ears hear that and say, “I’ll find another church.” But in Jesus’ world, it meant something far heavier, rooted in Ezra’s post-exile reforms.
Excommunication wasn’t random, emotional, or impulsive. It was a structured enforcement system designed to keep the community in line — a system that unfolded in three escalating steps:
Embarrassment.
You were publicly shamed. People avoided you. Your reputation shifted, and the community watched you like a problem waiting to be corrected.
Economic strangling.
Business fell away. Patronage dissolved. Social capital collapsed. Vendors wouldn’t serve you. Employers kept their distance. It was a second, harsher exile — this time from survival itself.
Social erasure.
You were cut off from festivals, gatherings, and legal protections. Your name no longer carried weight. Your existence no longer marked the community’s memory.
You weren’t just unwelcome.
You were undone.
Jesus knew this. The disciples knew it. And anyone who said aloud that Jesus was the Christ would face it — step by step, pressure by pressure, consequence by consequence.
This wasn’t a vague “the world might treat you badly.”
It was a system that could dismantle a life, derail an entire family.
And every generation, systems like this reappear — sometimes bold, sometimes subtle — pressuring people to trade truth for safety, belonging for approval. I hope that when you face those moments, you will remember: Jesus named it clearly, so that we would not be caught unaware.
Why People Really Fall Away
And it reveals something important about “falling away.” Often, it’s not a failure of belief — it’s a collapse under the weight of cultural expectations and societal pressure:
The fear of embarrassment
The fear of exclusion
The fear of disappearance
Jesus wasn’t demanding fearlessness.
He was cultivating rootedness.
Every meaningful commitment in life meets early resistance. Anyone who has tried to build a habit knows this. Anyone who has tried to grow spiritually knows this. Resistance is not the exception — it’s the rule.
That’s why identity must come first.
Before the disciples could withstand cultural pressure, they had to know who they were.
Not outsiders.
Not victims.
Not spiritual orphans.
But witnesses — rooted, chosen, connected.
Just like today, to escape the subtle maze culture lays out for us, we must come to know who we really are. James Clear writes:
“Your identity emerges out of your habits… building habits is the process of becoming yourself.”
And Jesus knew before they ever could: the habits you build now are not small, they’re the roots your children may one day grow from.
From External Support to Internal Strength
Now, with their identity intact, Jesus’ teaching takes a quiet turn. He begins preparing them for the transition from external support to internal strength — one of the most frightening transitions in any human life.
Apprentices start by leaning on the teacher.
Children begin by holding a parent’s hand.
New believers begin with the structure of a community.
New habits begin with external motivation.
But growth demands a shift:
from the hand that steadies you
to the center of gravity that forms within you.
Whitman saw this in nature:
“The herbs of the morning sprout, fresh and sweet… out of the roots of themselves.”
Jesus was preparing his followers for the same organic transformation — a life that would sprout not from proximity to his physical presence, but from the inner life of the Spirit. A life that would “continually sprout out of itself,” because the roots were alive within them.
That’s why he said,
“I did not tell you these things from the beginning, because I was with you” (16:4).
When you’re learning to walk, you don’t need a lecture on balance.
You need the steadying hand.
But once the inner strength forms, the hand releases — not to abandon, but to complete the apprenticeship.
That was the process then; it remains the same today.
I’m reminded of the time my insurance mentor, Clint Day, sent me on a road trip to visit a prospect who had already told us no. Anxiously, I traveled for two hours to confront the prospect — alone.
When the prospect changed his “no” to “YES,” I drove home with more than a client. I left with a new understanding of what I was capable of. This would never have happened if he had gone with me. My insurance roots had grown a little deeper. I had transitioned from external support to internal strength.
When Grief Narrows the World
Then came the words that reached into the disciples’ hearts:
“None of you asks me, ‘Where are you going?’ But sorrow has filled your hearts.” (16:5–6)
They weren’t thinking of his pain, his cost, his path.
They were thinking of their loss.
Fear does that.
Grief does that.
Perspective collapses into a single point: me.
Yet Jesus wasn’t rebuking that sorrow.
He was naming it — gently inviting them into a wider consciousness, a Spirit-centered awareness that could see beyond their own fear.
The Silence That Forms Roots
All of this, spoken on a quiet path under a moonlit sky, carried the undertone of divine silence — the same silence found in the psalms of David, the lamentations of Job, and the long nights of watching and waiting.
It’s the silence many of us know intimately —
the deafening silence beside Millie’s bed,
the silence when prayers go unanswered,
the silence that feels like abandonment
but is often the soil of deeper roots.
And now, after all these years, that night still lives in my imagination.
When I close my eyes now, I can still feel that path beneath my feet — the cold air, the soft rustle of vines, the weight of his final lesson settling into the dark. I understand now what I couldn’t then: he was preparing us to grow from the inside out, to draw strength from the roots he planted, to stand when the world pressed hard on our identity, our courage, and our belonging.
He knew the system would come for them.
He knew the silence would come for us.
But he also knew that life rooted in love cannot be erased — not by culture, not by fear, not by loss.
To My Grandchildren and Their Children
And so, I write this, not just as a memory, or a meditation — but as a letter. To you, my grandchildren, and your children, who will walk paths I will never see, under moons I will never know. But the same Spirit will walk with you.
Your generation may not face the same silence mine did, but you'll know your own kind of waiting, wondering, and wrestling. Just like us, you'll ask: “Where is he?” And just like us, you'll learn that the silence isn’t absence — it's an invitation.
There will be seasons in your life when the world tries to shape you through peer pressure. “Everybody’s doing it,” they’ll say. Sometimes softly, sometimes forcefully.
You may feel embarrassed or left out.
To say no may feel scary.
You may feel unsure of who you are becoming.
The safest route may appear to be adopting the group’s identity — even at the risk of losing your own.
When that pressure comes — and it will — remember this:
Your strength does not come from approval.
It comes from the roots inside you.
You carry courage planted by those of us who walked before you.
You carry resilience born from our love and loss and faithfulness.
You carry more strength than you realize.
Expect challenges.
Prepare for them.
And when they come, don’t shrink back into a smaller version of yourself or a carbon copy of someone else.
Grow forward into the person you were made to be.
You come from deep roots.
And nothing this world throws at you can erase that.
This is the glimpse I’ve been given, through John’s words and my own walk through loss and light.
Key Takeaways
Expect resistance when you commit to growth. Challenges aren’t signs of failure — they’re invitations to deeper roots.
Identity comes before action. Knowing who you are gives strength to withstand cultural pressure.
God’s silence isn’t absence. It often becomes the soil of inner resilience.
External support must eventually become internal strength. Apprenticeship always moves toward independence.
Love and belonging grow from the inside out. What is rooted within you cannot be erased by external forces.
