If you've never walked through a vineyard at night, it’s hard to imagine the quiet—the way each footstep snaps over pruned branches. Jesus let us walk in silence so that his words could sink deep: “If the world hates you, remember that it hated me first.” He wasn’t warning out of fear but preparing us for the resistance that comes when truth meets misunderstanding.

In John 15:18–27, Jesus does what every wise leader and loving teacher does: he names the storm before it arrives. He doesn’t promise comfort; he promises presence—the Spirit of Truth, rising within, guiding those willing to listen.

This post explores how grace rewrites our prayers, how division still tempts us to be “right louder than love,” and how the Spirit continues to shape us through resistance. Because the hatred isn’t proof you’ve failed—it’s the wind pressing against a ship still moving forward.

In the moonlit quiet of John 15, Jesus redefines religion as rhythm: “I am the vine, you are the branches.” The life he describes isn’t about striving but staying connected—faith as alignment, not achievement. Grace becomes the current that joins our motion, turning effort into ease. Joy, in this rhythm, is not a fleeting emotion but the steady pulse of belonging.

In this reflection, I trace how psychology’s idea of flow meets the gospel’s vision of abiding—and how both point to a life that holds together from the inside out. What I would like my grandchildren and their children to know is connection will always matter more than control. When you can’t see the next step, water what’s near you. That’s how love keeps its roots alive.

In the quiet hours after supper, Jesus led his friends into the night and stopped among the vines. What followed wasn’t a lecture—it was a living metaphor. “I am the true vine,” he said, holding both a branch and a cluster of grapes. Connection, not control, was the lesson.

This reflection explores how faith grows through rhythm and relationship, not rule-keeping. From a father’s steadying hand to the quiet art of pruning, we learn that grace joins motion and trust finds its balance when the hand lets go.

Faith that fears correction becomes brittle. Faith that welcomes it stays alive.

In the upper room, Jesus promised more than comfort—he promised partnership. “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he said, linking affection to action. The Spirit he describes is not a servant who works for us, but a helper who works with us. He strengthens our hands, steadies our hearts, and brings truth to remembrance when we’ve done the work of remembering. This is the rhythm of cooperation: God acting through us, not around us.

Peace, then, is not a gift dropped from heaven but a state discovered when our lives move in sync with reality—like breath and heartbeat finally finding the same tempo. In that alignment, we glimpse what Jesus meant when he said, “I do as the Father commanded me.” Love becomes rhythm. Obedience becomes resonance. And truth, once heard, begins to live within us.

The night before his death, Jesus told his disciples, “Let not your hearts be troubled.” They had every reason to fear. Yet he spoke of peace—not denial, but training of the heart.

In John 14, Jesus points to the slow work of trust, the faith that grows like a seed. Neuroscience calls it habit formation; scripture calls it transformation. Both describe the same process—living from a deeper stillness.

God, Jesus says, is not “up there” but “in us and through us,” waiting to be experienced. This reflection blends theology, psychology, and the rhythm of daily life, reminding us that peace is formed in the small choices that shape our character—and that the divine pulse has always been near.

In John 13, Judas and Jesus step onto two very different roads—one of survival, one of surrender. Judas followed instinct: rational, even noble-sounding at first glance. Jesus chose differently, not because he was immune to fear, but because he had practiced surrender in small ways for years. That training made obedience possible when everything was at stake.

Glory, Jesus says, comes when the hidden life within us breaks into the open—like a seed sprouting from the soil. Every choice we make plants something: seeds that grow into habits, habits that become character, character that decides which road we’ll walk when the hardest choices arrive.

Jesus gave his friends a compass: “Love one another.” Not a sentiment, but a strategy. Love is the road map for those who follow the way of surrender. The journey has no ETA, no finish line—only presence. Two roads still diverge before us. And the way we walk them becomes our life.

In John 13, Jesus begins with clarity: “His hour had come.” He did not turn away. Courage is born not in denial, but in facing reality. When our family faced Millie’s terminal diagnosis, clarity—though devastating—brought courage. The mission was simple: make her smile.

What follows in John’s Gospel is a basin and towel. Jesus strips away garments, kneels, and washes feet. No words. Only clarity expressed as service. This was not performance humility—it was obedience to his inner compass. Strength first, then service.

Jesus dismantled rank without despising role. Master and servant, messenger and sender—all are equal. Our culture overwrites this code, but it can be reinstalled with daily training: silence, noticing, applying truth instead of norm.

Too often, we put Jesus on a pedestal to admire, not follow. But discipleship is not unreachable perfection. It is training—daily, incremental improvement in clarity, courage, and love.

Belief is good, but belief alone isn’t enough. John 12:37–50 reminds us that silence may keep us safe, but it always costs something. Some believed and stayed quiet, afraid of rejection — a choice that feels as real today as it did then.

To my grandchildren and their children: you’ll face moments like this. You’ll know something in your bones, and still the temptation will be to stay quiet. But if you do, you’ll miss the richer life waiting to unfold.

Living awake means listening to the code within — your conscience, your spiritual DNA. It means realizing that consequences are already woven into your choices. It means understanding that one act of kindness or courage multiplies like candlelight passed from flame to flame.

The invitation of this passage is not to wait for life to happen but to participate in it. Let your choices ripple forward. Let your light spark light in others. This is how legacy is made.

In John 12:27–36, Jesus whispers, “Now my soul is troubled.” That single line has stayed with me. If even he could admit trouble, then I can too. Life rarely hands us the whole picture — just puzzle pieces scattered across the table. We ache for the box top, but most of the time we only hold the next piece in our hand.

Sometimes what others call thunder feels like a voice to us. Sometimes a song on the radio feels like reassurance. What matters most is not convincing others of what we’ve heard, but noticing what awakens inside us.

Trouble is not weakness. It is the threshold where light begins. Borrowed light fades when its source is gone. But we are invited to walk in our own light — children of light, carrying forward the pieces we are given.

Life often feels like putting together a puzzle without the picture on the box. We see fragments and scattered pieces, but rarely the whole. In John 12:20–26, Jesus meets the request of some Greeks who longed to see him, and he responds with a surprising image: a grain of wheat falling into the soil, dying in order to bear fruit.

At a time when Rome glorified Caesar through violence and propaganda, Jesus redefined glory as humility, justice, and service. His words invite us to imagine a different kind of peace — not enforced by domination, but grown through justice and love.

This reflection explores how Jesus’ teaching connects to our deepest human desires: the longing for connection, the need for acceptance, and the search for purpose. Like a seed planted in the ground, our lives bear fruit when we release self-interest and open our hands to love.

Every act of justice, kindness, and service becomes another piece of the puzzle. One day, when the picture is complete, we will see that our lives have planted seeds of legacy that live on.

An ordinary dinner in Bethany becomes a turning point—on love, gratitude, timing, and the quiet fragrance we leave behind.

Stillness is a spiritual technology. Silence and solitude are essential tools for tuning into our inner calling and unique path. 

A Young Man’s Question: “Is Retirement All They Say It Is?”

I was standing in my soon-to-be son-in-law's father's kitchen when a young man asked me an intriguing question: "So, how is retirement? Is it all that they say it is?” I paused for a moment before answering. 

“No," I responded. "It's different. Not better, not worse, just different.” His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

What does this mean for you and me? What should our children, grandchildren, and their children take away from this? Let's not just believe what Jesus believed about himself but also follow his example of how to have faith in ourselves. We should embody what is true about us, and our actions should spring from our unique identities. Easier said than done, right? 

I'm seeking insights to share with others: my children, grandchildren, and their children. Instead of contradictions, I want to provide them with truths that could enhance their lives and spark their curiosity about eternal concepts. 

For now, my only insight is the often unrecognized truth of uncertainty. We know, but don't like to acknowledge, that we live in an uncertain universe, each with an uncertain number of days. Yet here we are, with a brain that wants answers and a psyche that craves what it cannot have: certainty.

In that “lonely place," Jesus finds the courage to say, "Let's go!” As he passes by, I imagine him slowing down, looking my way, and asking, "Where is your lonely place?” Then it strikes me: withdrawal must be a conscious act, especially these days when our lives resemble an arcade’s constant noise and flashing lights more than a space of solitude. Like Jesus, I must withdraw and retreat to my own "lonely place” to hone the skill of hearing the voice within and the courage to say, “Let’s go!”

Those who have accomplished great things know how to use the most difficult two-letter word in English - no. Steve Jobs of Apple once said he was as proud of the things Apple hasn’t done as the things they have. "Innovation," he says, "is saying no to 1000 things.” Mahatma Gandhi said, “A ‘no’ uttered from the deepest conviction is better than a ‘yes’ uttered merely to please – or worse, to avoid trouble.”  

In December 1955, a seamstress boarded a bus and took her seat. As the bus filled up, the driver ordered her to give up her seat. Even though there were laws about this, she quietly but firmly said, “No." Was she too tired? She later explained, “The only tired I was, was tired of giving in.”

So, what's in it for Jesus? Jesus has spent time trying to open the imagination of his Jewish brothers so that they see God not as a distant, heavenly ruler but as a closely connected father and the messiah, not as an emerging, earthly ruler but an ordinary man with God within him. His teaching emphasized a profound connection with God (“The Father and I are one”) and with others (“My sheep hear my voice”), a connection that would lead to a fulfilling life. He modeled this life of connection and contribution, approaching each encounter, whether Nicodemus, the woman at the well, the hungry 5000, or the man born blind, with the question, “How can I enhance the life of the person in front of me?” So, what was the payoff for Jesus?

"Connection" was central to Jesus' life and teaching. His oft-repeated words "the father and I are one" and "my sheep hear my voice and follow me” show the significance of connection - upward to his father and outward to people. His most crucial commandment echoed, "Love the Lord, your God, and love your neighbor as yourself.” He could have said, “Connect with the Father and connect with your neighbor.” Connect with your wife. Connect with your children. Connect with your boss and coworkers. The magic is not “in me” or “in them” but in the “connection.” 

"Is this the right baby," I thought as we walked into the hospital room in 2017 and got our first glimpse of Millie. I was expecting another "Murray Girl" with blonde if any, hair, Blue eyes, and fair complexion. The expectation was well founded. Karen and I had three daughters who fit that description, and I just thought our granddaughter would, too.