15.1 - The Rhythm of Connection
Based on John 15:1-4
“Connection is the way truth travels”
I picture myself back in the room with Jesus and the remaining 11. The lamp burned low, the air thick with a long night’s talk. Feet still damp from the washing, hearts still uneasy from the news of betrayal, we sat blinking, some nodding, in half-light when Jesus said, “Arise, let us go” (14:31).
No one asked where. He was already at the door. Maybe he knew that bodies learn truth best in motion. So we followed him into the cool Jerusalem night, our sandals whispering on stone. The city’s noise fell behind us. Crickets sang; somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
Soon we were among vines - rows of branches tangled and trimmed, the smell of earth rising from the fresh pruning. Jesus stopped, bent, and lifted a vine with its cluster of grapes in one hand and picked up a severed branch in the other. His voice softened. “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener” (15:1).
Truth wasn’t hovering above us anymore. It lived under our feet—alive and green. We could see the grapes, the vines, and imagine the gardener. He spoke not of rules but of relationship—of staying connected so that life could keep flowing through us. Connection is the way truth travels.
The Bike and the Branch
I begin to see another lesson—a lesson in balance—the day a father takes off the training wheels.
The moment trust turns into freedom.
Dad kneels beside the bike, tools clinking against the driveway. The wheels roll away, small metal witnesses to the end of childhood certainty. I climbed on, hands trembling, heart hammering.
Dad’s grip on the seat was steady. “Start pedaling,” he said, jogging alongside. The tires wobbled; I nearly toppled. I turned to make sure Dad was still there.
“Don’t look this way,” he called out. “Keep your eyes to the front.”
I did—and something shifted. Balance found me. The wind lifted my hair. Dad’s laughter came from behind, more distant now but full of pride. I was riding on my own!
That’s what abiding feels like. The branch doesn’t bear fruit by straining; it bears fruit by remaining. The child learns freedom not when the father keeps holding on, but when the father has taught enough trust to let go.
“The child learns freedom not when the father keeps holding on, but when the father has taught enough trust to let go.”
Connection Over Control
Growth often begins with an uncomfortable cut.
Back in the vineyard, Jesus wasn’t threatening us with removal; he was inviting us into rhythm. “Every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more” (15:2). Pruning sounds harsh until you remember the gardener’s motive. Every tomato grower knows that trimming back what doesn’t bear creates room for more fruit. The goal isn’t punishment—it’s growth. Every correction clears space for more life.
We forget this. When the shears come close, we call it loss. Yet the gardener sees potential we can’t. He trims because he cares too much to let us grow wild and brittle.
Pruning is the refining process that makes any learning last. The language is different, but the principle is the same. Growth often begins with an uncomfortable cut—letting go of beliefs that no longer bear fruit.
Staying in the Flow
“Remain in me,” Jesus said, “as I remain in you” (15:4).
Life still moves through the wound.
The word "remain" doesn’t mean to cling; it means to stay open to the flow. Life moves through connection, the way sap moves through wood and causes grapes to appear on the vine. We, too, are wired for connection, for relationships. Even modern research says what the vine already knows—disconnection drains life; relationship restores it.
Faith, then, isn’t blind obedience. It’s relational attunement—learning the give-and-take of trust, choosing love and forgiveness over what’s merely convenient. It means valuing relationship more than rule—people over performance. The more we stay aligned, the more freely energy, or grace, moves through us.
I sometimes wonder if this is what Jesus meant by being “cleansed” (15:3)—not ritually pure, but pruned and reset, ready for new growth. His teaching had already done that work for the disciples: clearing away what was dead, “you have heard it said,” so that something living could grow, “but I say to you.”
The Hand We Can’t See
The unseen hand still steadies us.
Most days, I forget the unseen hand that steadies me. I push forward, convinced I’m on my own, until something—a conversation, a sunrise, a small mercy—reminds me of balance I didn’t create.
Maybe that’s what Jesus wanted us to grasp in the vineyard. God doesn’t hover above the course, clipboard in hand. He runs alongside, steadying, coaching, laughing when we finally catch our own momentum.
And even when the laughter fades in the distance behind us, it isn’t absence. It’s confidence. It’s love saying, You’ve got this. Keep riding.
To My Grandchildren, and Theirs
If you ever find yourself unsure of where you stand—on faith, on purpose, on what’s real—picture that moment: a father’s hand letting go, not in abandonment but in trust.
The world will tell you strength means independence. Jesus, and life itself, will teach you otherwise. Real strength is staying connected—to people, to truth, to that quiet pulse of love that runs through all things.
You were never meant to live in detachment. Keep your eyes forward, stay receptive with your heart, and remember: true balance originates from connection, not trying to control everything. The vine continues to grow beneath your feet.
Rooted, Not Rigid
Faith that fears correction becomes brittle. Faith that welcomes it stays alive. When the gardener trims, he’s not taking away our worth; he’s revealing it.
I think that’s why Jesus began this teaching on the move. Sitting still, we tend to clutch our certainties, to fixate on our facts. Walking, we remember that everything living has motion built in.
To remain in the vine is not to stay frozen in place—it’s to keep moving in rhythm with the source that feeds you. Rooted, not rigid. Connected, not clinging. Sit in silence long enough for truth to surface—then practice it in the life that’s yours to live.
That’s where the peace begins to hum beneath the noise.
“Faith that fears correction becomes brittle. Faith that welcomes it stays alive.”
Growth leaves a record. Connection endures.
Living the Metaphor
Every age finds its own language for this mystery. Theology names it grace. Psychology calls it attachment. Neuroscience traces it as pathways of trust and calm.
Jesus invited us to see it, not just study it—to read his words, notice his actions, and then test them in the middle of our own messy, beautiful lives.
Different vocabularies, same pattern. Each describes the rhythm of connection that makes a person whole. Jesus just spoke it early, in the language of vines and branches, of things that grow only by staying connected.
Truth doesn’t take root by being admired; it grows through small practice. Start by picking one word or act of Jesus that feels alive to you—maybe forgiveness, gentleness, or truth-telling—and let it accompany you for a week. Notice where it resists you, where it steadies you. Keep it close until it begins to shape your responses without forcing them. That’s how a word abides: not as doctrine on a shelf, but as a daily rhythm of listening and adjusting.
Practice for the Week:
Picture the hand that steadied you—God’s, a parent’s, a friend’s. When you start to wobble this week, breathe once and imagine that same hand nearby. Stay connected long enough to find your balance again.
Key Takeaways
Connection, not control, is the core of faith. Truth flows like sap through the vine — it travels through relationship.
Grace meets motion. Acting in faith invites the unseen hand of God to join your movement.
Pruning is not punishment but preparation. The cuts that hurt often make space for new growth.
Freedom grows from trust. Like a child on a bike, real independence comes through relationship, not isolation.
Practice makes truth real. A single word or teaching of Jesus, lived out daily, becomes the channel through which grace flows.
This is the glimpse I’ve been given, through John’s words and my own walk through loss and light.
