The early church faced a defining moment in Antioch—a moment that would forever change how the world understood what it meant to follow Jesus. It wasn't a carefully orchestrated campaign or a strategic initiative from church headquarters. Instead, it emerged from persecution, hardship, and the radical obedience of ordinary believers who refused to keep the gospel confined within comfortable boundaries.

After Stephen's martyrdom, persecution scattered believers like seeds blown across the ancient world. These weren't trained theologians or professional missionaries. They were everyday followers of Jesus who found themselves refugees in foreign lands. Most continued sharing their faith only with fellow Jews—staying within familiar cultural lines.
But something remarkable happened in Antioch.
Some unnamed believers from Cyprus and Cyrene did something unprecedented: they began speaking about Jesus to Hellenists—Greek-speaking non-Jews. For the first time in church history, the gospel deliberately crossed cultural and ethnic boundaries. This wasn't accidental evangelism. This wasn't hoping someone would wander into their gathering and ask questions. These believers intentionally stepped toward people who looked different, spoke different languages, and came from completely different backgrounds.

The result? Acts 11:21 tells us "the hand of the Lord was with them, and a great number who believed turned to the Lord."

Here's the uncomfortable truth for many of us today: we've become passive about evangelism. We like the idea of sharing our faith, but we're waiting for it to be convenient. We hope gospel conversations "just happen." We hope our church is friendly enough that visitors will notice. But hoping isn't the same as obeying. Waiting isn't the same as witnessing.

The believers in Antioch didn't wait for permission or perfect circumstances. They opened their mouths on purpose. They crossed the street intentionally. They initiated conversations that others avoided.

What if we stopped praying "Lord, send someone to me" and started praying "Lord, send me to someone"? What if we stopped waiting for people to ask about our faith and started lovingly, naturally initiating those conversations in our neighborhoods, workplaces, and everyday interactions?

The gospel doesn't spread by accident. It spreads when ordinary believers take extraordinary obedience seriously.

When news of this multicultural movement reached Jerusalem, the church sent Barnabas—whose name literally means "son of encouragement"—to investigate. When Barnabas arrived and saw the grace of God at work, he recognized something important: this growing church needed strong teaching and leadership.

So Barnabas traveled to Tarsus to find Saul.

This detail is easy to miss, but it's profoundly significant. Years earlier, after his dramatic conversion, Saul had come to Jerusalem full of zeal and passion. But his enthusiasm outpaced his maturity. He caused tension and confusion. Eventually, the apostles sent him home to Tarsus—not to sideline him forever, but to give him time to grow.
For several years, Saul lived in relative obscurity. No crowds. No spotlight. No headlines. Just faithfulness in the dark. God was shaping him quietly, preparing him for something greater.

When Barnabas went looking for Saul, everyone else probably only remembered his troubled past. But Barnabas remembered God's calling on his life. He believed in people others had walked away from. He saw what God was doing beneath the surface.

his partnership in Antioch became the launching point for Saul's—later known as Paul's—global missionary calling. But it never would have happened without the quiet years of preparation and without someone who believed in restoration over reputation.

Who in your life needs a Barnabas? Who needs someone to believe in them, walk with them, and help them step into what God is preparing them for? Our job isn't to predict what someone will become—it's to faithfully walk with them while God does His work.

For a full year, Barnabas and Saul taught the believers in Antioch. Week after week, meal after meal, prayer after prayer, they opened Scripture and shaped this community with gospel truth. It looked slow. It looked ordinary. But something beautiful was happening.

In every other part of ancient society, people were defined by their labels: Jew or Gentile, Greek or Roman, slave or free, rich or poor. Social boundaries were rigid and unbreakable.

But in Antioch, those labels stopped making sense.

Jews and Greeks worshiped together. People from different cultures ate together, learned together, served together. The normal divisions that defined the ancient world began to fade. Outsiders watching this community couldn't describe them by ethnicity, culture, or social class anymore.

So they came up with a new term: "Christians."

The name means "little Christ" or "Christ-followers." The disciples didn't give themselves this name—the watching world did. They looked at this diverse, unified community and said, "Those people belong to Jesus, and it shows."

Their identity wasn't based on where they were born, what language they spoke, or what customs they practiced. Their identity was built entirely on Christ.

Here's the challenging question: When people observe your life, what do they call you? Do they identify you by your political affiliation, your demographic category, your consumer preferences? Or do they recognize you as someone who unmistakably belongs to Jesus?

Being called "Christian" isn't about claiming a religious label. It's about living in such a way that people can't help but associate you with Christ.

The year of teaching in Antioch bore visible fruit. When the prophet Agabus stood up and predicted a coming famine, the church's response revealed their transformation. They didn't hesitate. They didn't calculate how giving might affect their savings. They didn't think, "Well, those believers in Jerusalem are different from us."

Their first instinct was to give.

Notice the beautiful irony: a young, mostly Gentile church ended up supporting the older, mostly Jewish church. The gospel had torn down walls and created family where there used to be distance. It made strangers into brothers and sisters.

But this generosity didn't appear overnight. It was the fruit of faithful, consistent teaching. It was the result of being shaped by Christ through slow, steady discipleship.

We often want the harvest without the planting. We want revival without discipleship. We want growth without faithfulness. But God still works through ordinary obedience—through meals shared, prayers prayed, conversations had, Scripture opened, and people encouraged.

The church in Antioch became the launching point for the gospel to reach the nations. But Barnabas and Saul didn't know that when they committed to a year of teaching. They were simply faithful today, and God used it for a harvest tomorrow.

Our faithfulness today is preparing a harvest we may not see until later. So the question isn't whether God can do something extraordinary. The question is whether we'll be faithful in what looks ordinary—teaching the gospel, encouraging younger believers, showing up consistently, giving generously, and living like Christ.

That's what it really means to be called "Christian."