Though None Go With Me

When following Christ costs the companionship of the people you thought would understand

I expected to lose the world.

When I began to understand that following Christ meant far more than adding church attendance and Christian language to the life I had already chosen, I fully anticipated that obedience might cost me the approval of people who had applauded my pursuit of goals that ultimately served no one but myself. I was college educated, intelligent, ambitious. But when Jesus asked what path I would ultimately shape my life towards— His glory or my own— I understood, at least in theory, that I could no longer continue swimming comfortably in the cultural current that denied any higher purpose for this life while simultaneously claiming allegiance to a Savior who had purchased every part of mine. That kind of shift was bound to cost me acquaintances who had known me as a young woman on track to Do Big Thing With Her Life.

I knew, too, that some people would think I had become too serious, too narrow, too willing to surrender opportunities and aspirations that the world had taught me to protect at any cost. On the outside, I was surrendering all that I had worked so hard to achieve. Plenty of people would call that a step backward… and mock it.

I anticipated all that and yes, it happened. What I didn’t expect was that, as I continued walking more deeply into my calling as a Christian, I would sometimes look beside me and no longer see people I loved.

As my faith journey continued, there were friends who couldn’t accept the changes that following Christ brought, especially when those changes began to reshape more than Sunday mornings. There were family members whose loyalty to a denomination seemed stronger than their willingness to consider that faithful obedience might require more than walking a party line. There were loved ones who believed the kind of radical surrender we were describing was excessive, unnecessary, or perhaps even irresponsible.

They didn’t usually reject Christ outright. Sometimes they simply rejected what following Him appeared to be doing to us.

And it hurt.

It hurt because these weren’t nameless people shouting insults from the other side of some obvious cultural divide. They were people whose understanding mattered to us, people we had imagined standing nearby when the road became difficult, people we had assumed would recognize faithfulness when they saw it because they knew us.

Some days it hurt even more because, from the outside, we knew they were right about at least one thing:

We did look a little crazy.

There was the homeschooling, which required us to reorder family life around convictions that were not always convenient or easily explained. There was the large family in a culture that frequently spoke of children as though they were liabilities to be managed rather than souls entrusted to our care. There was the commitment to corporate worship even when something bigger, more entertaining, or more socially appealing competed for a Sunday morning.

There were opportunities we let pass because accepting them would have required more from our family than we believed we were free to give. There were years of living on one income when another paycheck could have relieved pressure and provided comforts we genuinely wanted. Eventually, there was the decision to move to another nation to bring the Gospel to people who had little access to it—a choice that made sense only if Christ was truly worth rearranging an entire life around.

From the world’s perspective, and sometimes even from the perspective of Christians whose lives had been shaped by different convictions, some of those choices looked foolish.

Many times, I sang the familiar words, “Though none go with me, still I will follow,” through tears. I sang them with a heart that wanted very much to be understood, and perhaps even more than that, wanted someone else to step forward and say, “I see where God is leading you. I’ll go, too.”

Costly obedience that sounds almost heroic when we tell the story after the fact. We love the stories of missionaries who overcame odds, the believers who fought to be faithful even when those around them said they should take the easier path. We imagine the brave believer standing alone, face set resolutely toward the horizon, untouched by the opinions of others and entirely satisfied with the approval of God.

But real obedience is often far less… cinematic.

Sometimes we obey while grieving. Sometimes we take the next step while still hoping that a person we love will reconsider and join us. Sometimes we follow Christ faithfully and still feel the ache of every empty space beside us.

The pain doesn’t necessarily mean we are doubting God. It usually simply means that we loved the people who could not come with us, and grieve that we are going where they cannot follow.

If we examine Scripture, we see that Jesus didn’t concealed the cost of discipleship. He didn’t deceive people into following Him by promising that obedience would preserve every comfort they had grown to expect, protect every relationship they cherished, or guarantee that those closest to them would understand and cheer them on. Instead, He said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23).

Friends, a cross is not a decorative addition to an otherwise self-directed life. It is an instrument of death.

To follow Christ is to accept that certain ambitions, identities, comforts, and claims upon our own lives must die. It is also to acknowledge that we may not get to choose which direction our feet travel. We may be prepared to lose the applause of strangers while remaining completely unprepared to lose the easy companionship of family. We may expect resistance from the world and feel bewildered when the deepest discouragement comes from someone who has sat in a church pew behind us for years.

Christ didn’t command us to stop loving these people, and He didn’t teach us to become defensive, self-righteous, or suspicious of everyone who questions our choices. In fact, we should remain humble enough to listen when others express concern, because being misunderstood isn’t proof that we are obedient, and opposition does not automatically transform every personal preference into a holy conviction.

Yes, sometimes we are criticized because we are faithful.

But also, sometimes we are criticized because we are foolish.

Wisdom requires enough humility to ask which is true and to act accordingly.

After we have searched Scripture, prayed honestly, invited wise counsel, and examined whether our decisions are being driven by pride or by obedience, there may still come a moment when we must proceed without the affirmation we hoped to receive. There are places God calls His people where no familiar companion is willing to follow, and there are decisions that will never appear reasonable to someone who does not share the conviction beneath them.

That is when the question becomes painfully clear: Whose approval are we ultimately seeking?

Paul asks, “For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God?” before explaining that a life governed by pleasing people cannot also be wholly governed by service to Christ (Galatians 1:10).

Most of us would like to answer that question quickly. Of course we seek the approval of God. Of course we would choose Christ. But the answer becomes more costly when “man” has a name we love.

It becomes costly when the approval we must surrender belongs to a parent, a sibling, an old friend, or a person whose respect once helped us feel secure. It becomes costly when obedience is interpreted as rejection, when conviction is called extremism, or when someone who once celebrated us begins to treat our faithfulness as an indictment of the choices they have made.

Jesus spoke directly to this conflict when He said, “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me” (Matthew 10:37). Be careful here; those words are not permission to neglect, dishonor, or discard our families. They simply establish the order of our love. Christ must be first—not because family is unimportant, but because even the people most precious to us cannot bear the weight of being our Savior. We cannot allow their comfort to determine the boundaries of our obedience, nor can we make their continued approval the price God must pay before receiving our yes.

This doesn’t mean we walk away carelessly. Whenever possible, we explain our convictions graciously. We leave the door open. We resist the temptation to turn obedience into superiority, remembering that anything good in us has been produced by the grace of God rather than our own exceptional courage.

We continue to love, pray, and hope. But we also continue to follow.

There may come a day when you realize that the people beside you are no longer willing to travel where obedience is leading. They may believe you are sacrificing too much, taking Scripture too seriously, or building your life around convictions they don’t understand. They may accuse you of wasting opportunities or making choices that will cost your children, your reputation, your security, or your future.

Their objections may cause you to examine your path, as they should.

But they cannot be permitted to become your compass.

Be ready, friend. It may not have happened yet, but somewhere along the road of discipleship, you will probably be asked to choose between comfortable conformity and costly faithfulness. You will have to decide whether Christ is still worthy when obedience makes you look foolish, when the road grows lonely, and when the person who cannot understand is someone you believed always would.

You may sing through tears. You may long for footsteps beside your own. You may grieve what obedience has changed without regretting the One you chose.

And then the question will come:

Though none go with you, will you still follow?

Even when the road is lonely?

Even when they misunderstand?

Even when it is family?

May your answer be yes—not because you no longer love the people who remain behind, but because you love Christ more, and because you have learned that the loneliest road traveled with Him is still safer than the most crowded road traveled without Him.

In Christ,

Heather