Kneeling to Lead: Lessons from the Vine and the Soil

If leadership had a personality, it would probably be that friend who insists on “just one cup of tea,” but three hours later you’re still deep in conversation about life, purpose, and why mangoes taste better under the African sun. That’s what reading about true, Spirit-led leadership feels like: ordinary people sitting around ordinary tables, doing extraordinary things because they chose obedience over comfort.

I’ve come to believe that the most powerful movements never start with noise. They start quietly, in kitchens, in prayer circles, in half-finished sentences that somehow carry heaven’s weight. That’s how the gospel entered Ephesus in Acts 19: not with a parade but with a whisper that grew into a wave. A few people prayed, a few obeyed, and the whole city’s heartbeat changed. It’s wild to think that the same God who stirred Paul to preach in the Hall of Tyrannus is still in the business of reordering lives today. But He is, and He does it through ordinary folks who simply say, “Yes, Lord.”

Steve Addison, author of Movements That Change the World, calls it white-hot faith, that fiery conviction that melts timidity and makes room for transformation. It’s the kind of faith that doesn’t wait for perfect conditions or full budgets. It just goes. And if you’ve ever tried to live by faith, you know it’s not glamorous. Half the time, it feels like you’re walking blindfolded with your shoelaces tied together. Yet that’s where God does His best work, between the steps we take in trust and the miracles He plants under our feet.

What struck me most in Addison’s reflections is how movements thrive not through systems, but through relationships. Faith multiplies through stories whispered across fences, through shared meals, through the ordinary warmth of friendship. You don’t need a podium to spark change; you need a conversation and a heart set on fire. It’s people, not programs, that keep the gospel alive. As Paul shifted from synagogue to lecture hall, from structure to spirit-led spaces, he showed us what adaptability looks like: holding form loosely but truth tightly.

And then there’s this other side of leadership we don’t like to talk about much: pruning. Jesus, in John 15, says, “I am the vine; you are the branches.” The gardener cuts not to harm, but to make room for fruit. Oof. No one enjoys being pruned. It feels like loss, like God’s trimming away your favourite leaves. But sometimes, those cuts are mercy in disguise. They keep us from chasing shallow success, the kind that looks shiny on Instagram but hollow in eternity. Real growth often hides behind what looks like failure.

Humility sits at the root of it all. We are not the vine; we’re branches. That truth disarms the ego faster than a power cut mid-Zoom call. It frees us from the illusion that we’re in control, reminding us that fruitfulness flows not from performance, but presence. We lead best when we remain connected, when our roots drink deeply from the source.

Character, too, matters more than charisma. A crooked soul can discredit even the brightest vision. The world applauds talent, but heaven honours integrity. Leadership without holiness is like tea without sugar, it looks fine until you taste it. The call is not to impress, but to embody: to let faith show up in speech, conduct, love, faith, and purity. It’s about turning your workplace into a quiet pulpit, where excellence becomes worship. Every spreadsheet, every lesson, every kind word whispered in a corridor can become an act of praise.

And we can’t forget culture, the beautiful, unpredictable dance between timeless truth and timely expression. The gospel doesn’t need a passport; it wears every language comfortably. Whether sung in Swahili or whispered in French, its power doesn’t fade. Context isn’t compromise; it’s compassion dressed in local fabric. The key is to keep Jesus at the centre while letting the rhythms of our world carry the melody.

Still, all this talk of faith and obedience would feel incomplete without addressing the biggest test of all, timing. God rarely consults our calendars. When Jesus said, “Follow Me,” He didn’t ask His disciples if they’d cleared their schedules. They dropped their nets mid-shift. Obedience rarely comes with a convenience clause. Sometimes God’s call interrupts career plans or comfort zones, but trust doesn’t wait for certainty. It just moves.

I’ve seen that obedience ripple beyond one life. When families choose to serve together, when children see faith not as Sunday theatre but as a daily rhythm, something shifts. “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” isn’t just a wall verse, it’s a declaration of alignment. It says our purpose isn’t pieced between work and worship; it’s one seamless life of surrender.

And maybe that’s what balance really is, not a perfect 50–50 split, but a centred heart. When God is the axis, everything else, career, rest, calling, relationships, starts to turn in rhythm. You stop chasing equilibrium and start living in flow.

All of this, humility, courage, community, pruning, conviction, adaptability, points back to one simple truth: leadership that lasts begins on its knees. It’s not glamorous, but it’s glorious. God doesn’t need our polish; He wants our posture. When ordinary obedience meets divine power, revival ripples quietly through streets and souls alike.

So here’s the gentle dare: live like a movement, not a monument. Don’t wait for titles, applause, or perfect timing. Let faith move through you, conversation to conversation, home to home, heart to heart. Choose humility over image, courage over comfort, community over isolation. When the pruning comes, welcome it as preparation, not punishment.

Because maybe, just maybe, the world doesn’t change when we build bigger platforms. It changes when we choose to stay connected to the Vine, when we love deeply, live honestly, and obey quickly.

And the best part? You don’t need a stage to lead. You just need to show up, faithful, teachable, and rooted. The same Spirit that shook Ephesus still whispers today, inviting us to live as branches that bear fruit and hearts that stay aflame.

So go on, abide, be pruned, bear fruit. Laugh at your own clumsy obedience, celebrate small beginnings, and trust that somewhere in the chaos of your “yes,” God is already growing a forest.