I need to start today by saying something I don’t say often enough.
This is a good church.
Not flashy.
Not perfect.
Not loud.
But good in ways that don’t show up on a website.
(pause)
And the reason I say that is simple.
You stay.
You stay when nothing dramatic is happening.
You stay when the music doesn’t carry you.
You stay when the sermon doesn’t solve anything.
You stay when faith feels less like inspiration and more like endurance.
Some of you come tired.
Some of you come worried.
Some of you come carrying private griefs no one else sees.
And yet—you keep showing up.
That tells me something about you.
It tells me you’re not here because church is easy.
You’re here because somewhere along the way you decided faithfulness mattered more than novelty.
(pause)
But here’s the part that gives me pause.
Even in good churches—especially in good churches—encouragement can quietly disappear.
Not because people don’t care.
Not because hearts are hard.
But because people are tired.
When people are tired, they don’t stop believing.
They stop investing.
They stop saying the thing that might cost something.
They stop standing beside the person everyone else is unsure about.
They stop risking hope on someone who might disappoint them again.
Encouragement doesn’t usually vanish in rebellion.
It fades in exhaustion.
And that matters, because encouragement is not a luxury in the Christian life.
It’s oxygen.
Without it, faith doesn’t explode or collapse—it suffocates quietly.
We still gather.
We still sing.
We still serve.
But something essential grows thin.
We live in a world overflowing with opinions and starving for encouragement.
There is no shortage of commentary.
No shortage of critique.
No shortage of people willing to tell you what’s wrong—with the culture, with leadership, with the church, with you.
But encouragement—real encouragement—is rare.
Not compliments.
Not flattery.
Not quick reassurances meant to move things along.
Encouragement costs something.
It requires presence.
It requires attention.
It requires the courage to hope for someone who might fail again.
And in a tired world, that kind of courage is hard to find.
(pause)
Here’s something I’ve learned over the years.
Most people aren’t quitting faith because they’ve rejected God.
They’re stepping back because they’re discouraged.
They’ve tried.
They’ve stayed.
They’ve carried responsibility longer than anyone knows.
Somewhere along the way, they stopped hearing words that gave them strength.
Encouragement is not about making people feel better.
It’s about making it possible for them to keep going.
That’s why Scripture treats encouragement as a spiritual act, not a personality trait.
Some people think encouragers are just naturally upbeat.
Positive.
Optimistic.
But the Bible doesn’t present encouragement that way.
Biblical encouragement is not cheerfulness.
It’s courage-sharing.
It’s standing beside someone when the road gets long and saying, “You’re not walking this alone.”
(pause)
And that brings us to a man who appears quietly in the early church.
He doesn’t enter the story with a sermon.
He doesn’t arrive with authority or charisma.
He shows up with presence.
His given name is Joseph.
But that name doesn’t last.
Because the people around him begin calling him something else.
They call him Barnabas.
Which means “son of encouragement.”
That tells us something important right away.
Encouragement wasn’t something he did from time to time.
It was something he became.
It marked him so deeply that it replaced his name.
That alone should make us pause.
Because names in Scripture reflect identity.
Barnabas wasn’t remembered primarily for what he accomplished.
He was remembered for what he gave to others—the courage to keep going.
What’s striking is this:
Barnabas was not the most gifted speaker.
He was not the boldest leader.
He was not the central figure in most stories.
Wherever he went, people survived failure, fear, and fatigue.
Not because he fixed everything.
But because he stayed.
That raises the question we need to sit with today—not answer quickly, not turn into a slogan.
In a world where everyone is tired, guarded, and cautious…
What would it look like for the church to recover the courage to encourage again?
--- I
The book of Acts introduces Barnabas without spectacle.
No miracle. No sermon. No dramatic conversion story.
Just a quiet moment of faithfulness.
The early church is under pressure. Needs are everywhere. Resources are limited. The future feels uncertain.
This is not the triumphant church of stained glass and stability. This is a fragile, vulnerable community trying to figure out how to survive faithfully.
Barnabas notices.
He owns land. He sells it. He brings the money. He lays it at the apostles’ feet.
No explanation. No conditions. No request for recognition.
Just a simple act that says, “You’re not alone in this.”
Encouragement often begins right there.
Not with words. Not with insight. But with awareness.
Barnabas sees what others are carrying—and he lightens the load.
That’s important, because encouragement in Scripture is never abstract. It’s tangible. It shows up in real ways, at real cost.
When Christ had Barnabas’s heart, He also had his hands. And when He had his hands, He had his resources. And when He had his resources, He had his availability.
Encouragement is rarely convenient. It asks something of us. It costs time, attention, energy, and sometimes security.
That’s why it becomes scarce when people are tired.
(pause)
But Barnabas doesn’t just meet needs. He sees futures.
Not long after, a man arrives in Jerusalem who makes everyone nervous.
A former persecutor. A former threat. A man whose name carries fear.
He claims he’s changed. He claims he’s met Jesus. He wants to belong.
And the church freezes.
You can understand that hesitation.
Faith does not erase memory overnight. Trust is earned slowly. Caution feels wise.
Barnabas does something no one else is willing to do.
He steps forward. He takes the man by the hand. He brings him to the apostles. He tells his story as if it’s already true.
He risks being wrong.
Encouragement always does.
He doesn’t argue theology. He doesn’t demand proof. He stands beside.
That man’s name is Saul—who will become Paul.
Here’s the uncomfortable thought.
Without Barnabas, Paul may never have been received. Without Barnabas, the church may have protected itself right out of its future.
Sometimes encouragement is the difference between caution and calling.
Barnabas understood something the church still struggles to remember.
The church doesn’t exist merely to guard itself. It exists to make room for transformation.
And that requires courage.
It’s safer to step back. It’s safer to wait and see. It’s safer to let people prove themselves from a distance.
Barnabas doesn’t wait.
He invests.
(pause)
And that investment continues.
In Antioch, the church begins to grow rapidly. New believers are everywhere. They’re hungry, sincere, and unformed. They don’t need hype—they need grounding.
Barnabas could have stayed center stage. He could have been the primary voice. He could have carried the name and the influence.
Instead, he goes looking for Paul.
He brings him back. He shares the work. He builds a team.
Over time, something subtle but profound happens.
It stops being “Barnabas and Paul.” It becomes “Paul and Barnabas.”
And Barnabas lets it.
No protest. No resentment. No footnote of complaint.
Encouragement sometimes means knowing when to lead—and when to step aside.
It’s the discipline of second-chair faithfulness.
And that’s not easy.
We live in a culture that rewards visibility. That celebrates prominence. That equates influence with importance.
The kingdom of God runs on a different economy.
Some are called to speak. Others are called to strengthen. Some are called to lead from the front. Others are called to hold the rope.
Barnabas understood that the kingdom isn’t built by being first.
It’s built by being faithful.
And faithfulness doesn’t always look like recognition. Sometimes it looks like making someone else possible.
(pause)
But encouragement doesn’t mean agreement in everything.
Later, there’s a conflict. Sharp. Personal. Painful.
A young man named John Mark has failed. He quit when things got hard. He stepped away when the pressure rose.
Paul remembers. Paul hesitates. Paul says no.
Barnabas sees something else.
He sees a young man who isn’t finished yet.
Paul sees risk. Barnabas sees potential.
This time, encouragement costs Barnabas relationship.
They part ways.
No villain named. No winner declared.
Just two faithful men choosing different paths.
Barnabas takes Mark. Paul takes Silas.
Barnabas does what encouragers do.
He stays with the one everyone else has written off.
(pause)
Years later, Paul—older, wiser, humbled by time—writes from prison.
And he says, “Bring Mark with you. He is useful to me.”
That sentence exists because Barnabas refused to make failure final.
Encouragement doesn’t deny failure. It refuses to define a person by it.
And that’s where the courage of encouragement really lives.
--- Ii
There’s something important we need to notice about Barnabas before we move any further.
He is not portrayed as extraordinary.
Scripture never tells us he was a gifted speaker. It never highlights his brilliance. It never places him at the center of theological controversy.
What it shows us—again and again—is that Barnabas had an unusual capacity to stay present when things became complicated.
Encouragement is rarely dramatic. It is relational. It unfolds over time. And it often goes unnoticed.
Barnabas understood that people do not grow in isolation. They grow when someone remains close enough to see both their weakness and their potential.
That kind of closeness is risky.
It exposes you. It ties your reputation to someone else’s behavior. It opens you to disappointment.
That’s why encouragement often disappears when fear increases.
When communities become cautious, they become quiet. When people feel stretched thin, they retreat inward. When trust feels fragile, distance feels safer than engagement.
Barnabas resists that instinct.
(pause)
But Scripture is honest enough to show us something else.
Barnabas was not immune to pressure.
In a moment recorded later, we discover that even Barnabas—the son of encouragement—stumbles.
He withdraws. He hesitates. He compromises when social pressure rises.
The man who once stood beside Gentile believers pulls back when others are watching. Fear wins for a moment.
And Scripture does not hide that.
That detail matters.
It reminds us that encouragement is not the fruit of perfection. It is the fruit of grace at work in imperfect people.
Barnabas is not sustained by his consistency. He is sustained by God’s mercy.
Which means this message does not belong only to the strong.
It belongs to the weary.
It belongs to those who have failed.
It belongs to people who know what it means to want to do the right thing—and hesitate anyway.
Encouragers are not people who never fall. They are people who get back up and keep standing beside others.
(pause)
That distinction matters because many of us disqualify ourselves far too quickly.
We remember moments when we stayed silent. Moments when we stepped back. Moments when fear shaped our choices.
We assume that means we no longer have anything to give.
But Scripture refuses that conclusion.
Grace does not cancel calling.
Failure does not erase usefulness.
Weariness does not nullify purpose.
Barnabas’s story tells us that God does not withdraw His Spirit when we stumble. He restores us and sends us back into the work of encouragement.
That’s crucial in a church culture where exhaustion has become normal.
We are living in a season when people are emotionally depleted. Relationally cautious. Spiritually stretched.
In that environment, encouragement becomes more necessary—and more rare.
People don’t need louder sermons. They need steadier companions.
They don’t need pressure to perform. They need permission to grow.
Encouragement creates space for that growth.
(pause)
It’s worth asking why encouragement feels so difficult now.
Part of it is pace. Life moves faster than our capacity to process it. There’s little margin for patience. Little room for slow formation.
Part of it is fear. We’ve seen leaders fail. We’ve watched relationships fracture. We’ve learned to guard ourselves.
And part of it is distraction. We are constantly pulled toward reaction rather than reflection. Toward commentary rather than care.
In that environment, encouragement requires intentional resistance.
It means choosing to slow down.
Choosing to listen.
Choosing to remain present when it would be easier to disengage.
Barnabas models that resistance.
He does not rush people. He does not abandon them. He does not confuse failure with finality.
Instead, he invests time.
Time is one of the most costly forms of encouragement.
You can give money and move on. You can offer advice and keep distance. But time binds you to another person’s process.
Barnabas gives time.
Time to Paul as he finds his footing.
Time to Mark as he regains confidence.
Time to communities learning how to live the gospel together.
Encouragement is not efficient. It is faithful.
(pause)
This is where the story presses on us.
Because encouragement asks us to do something uncomfortable.
It asks us to see people not only as they are—but as God might yet shape them.
That requires hope. And hope is vulnerable.
Hope can be disappointed. Hope can be embarrassed. Hope can be misunderstood.
Which is why many people choose caution instead.
But Barnabas chooses hope.
Not blindly. Not naively. But deliberately.
And in doing so, he becomes a quiet architect of the church’s future.
Paul’s ministry expands. Mark’s story continues. Communities mature.
Not because Barnabas controlled outcomes—but because he stayed present.
Encouragement does not guarantee results. It makes growth possible.
(pause)
And that brings us to a question that doesn’t ask for immediate answers—but honest reflection.
Who around you is still becoming?
Who is not finished—but needs time, space, and belief?
Encouragement is often less about what we say and more about what we refuse to give up on.
Barnabas understood that.
And the church still depends on people who do.
--- III
One of the quiet dangers in the life of the church is that we can admire encouragement without practicing it.
We like the idea of Barnabas.
We respect the role he played.
We enjoy the outcome of his faithfulness.
But admiration is easier than imitation.
Encouragement, when practiced honestly, places us in uncomfortable spaces.
It puts us between people. Between opinions. Between outcomes we cannot control.
Encouragement requires discernment, not naïveté. It is not ignoring risk. It is choosing relationship despite risk.
Barnabas does not deny reality. He acknowledges failure. He recognizes fear. He understands pressure.
But he refuses to let those realities have the final word.
That refusal is costly.
(pause)
In many churches, discouragement does not arrive loudly. It settles in quietly.
People stop speaking up.
They stop initiating.
They stop believing their presence matters.
They still attend.
They still serve.
They still smile.
But inside, something has withdrawn.
Encouragement addresses that withdrawal—not with noise, but with nearness.
It says, “I see you.”
It says, “You’re not invisible.”
It says, “What you carry matters.”
Those words sound simple. But they are powerful precisely because they are rare.
The reason they are rare is because encouragement requires emotional labor.
It requires us to notice. To remember. To follow up. To remain engaged longer than convenience would allow.
Barnabas accepted that labor.
He did not scatter affirmation broadly. He invested courage intentionally.
(pause)
We see this again in the way Barnabas handles disagreement.
His conflict with Paul over John Mark is not minor. It is sharp enough to separate them.
Scripture does not sanitize that moment. It does not force resolution. It allows tension to remain unresolved.
Yet—remarkably—God works through both paths.
Paul continues his mission. Barnabas continues his work of restoration.
Encouragement does not require uniformity. It requires faithfulness.
Barnabas is willing to be misunderstood. Willing to be questioned. Willing to take a path that appears less productive in the short term.
Encouragement is often long-term work.
It does not rush outcomes. It does not demand immediate proof. It trusts that growth unfolds over time.
That trust is hard-earned.
(pause)
Here’s where this intersects with our lives.
Most of us are living among people who are unfinished. Including ourselves.
We are surrounded by people in process.
People who are learning.
People who are recovering.
People who are quietly questioning whether they still belong.
Encouragement is what keeps those people in the room long enough for grace to do its work.
Without it, the church becomes efficient—but brittle. Active—but fragile. Busy—but thin.
Encouragement adds depth.
It allows people to fail without vanishing. To struggle without being sidelined. To grow without being rushed.
Barnabas understood that the church is not a machine to optimize. It is a body to nurture.
(pause)
But we need to be honest about something.
Encouragement does not come naturally in every season.
There are times when we simply do not have much left to give.
Times when our own discouragement feels too heavy.
Times when staying present feels beyond our strength.
Barnabas experienced that too.
Scripture tells us there was a moment when he faltered. When pressure shaped his behavior. When fear overrode conviction.
Even the encourager needed correction.
Even the strong needed grace.
And that detail matters deeply.
It reminds us that encouragement does not flow from personal adequacy. It flows from the Spirit of God.
The same Spirit who restores us also works through us.
Which means you are not disqualified from encouraging others because you are tired. You are not disqualified because you have failed. You are not disqualified because your faith feels thinner than it once did.
Encouragement is not about surplus. It is about availability.
(pause)
Barnabas did not encourage others because he was always confident. He encouraged them because he trusted God’s work more than he trusted appearances.
That trust allowed him to stay.
Stay with Paul.
Stay with Mark.
Stay with communities learning how to follow Christ imperfectly.
Encouragement, at its core, is the discipline of staying.
Staying when outcomes are uncertain.
Staying when progress is slow. Staying when recognition is unlikely.
That kind of staying quietly shapes the future.
Not through force. Not through brilliance. But through faithfulness.
(pause)
So before we move toward closing, let this settle.
Encouragement is not a program. It is not a technique. It is not a personality trait.
It is a posture.
A posture that says: “I will not withdraw my belief in you just because this is hard.” “I will not rush what God is still shaping.” “I will stay.”
The church does not survive on enthusiasm. It survives on people who choose that posture again and again.
Barnabas was one of those people.
The church is still standing because others followed his example.
--- Conclusion
There is a quiet temptation in the Christian life that we don’t talk about very often.
It’s the temptation to believe that encouragement is optional.
Optional because we assume people are fine.
Optional because we assume someone else will step in.
Optional because we’re tired, stretched thin, or unsure we have anything left to give.
But Scripture never treats encouragement as optional.
It treats it as essential.
Not because it makes the church feel better—but because it keeps the church alive.
Barnabas never set out to be remembered. He never tried to define his legacy. He simply responded to what was in front of him.
A need. A fear. A failure. A future not yet realized.
And again and again, he chose to stay.
That choice—repeated quietly over time—shaped the early church more than speeches or strategies ever could.
Paul does not emerge in isolation. Mark does not recover alone. Communities do not mature without patience.
Encouragement is the connective tissue of the body of Christ.
Without it, faith becomes transactional. With it, faith becomes resilient.
(pause)
Before we turn this outward, we need to let it land inward.
Because some of you are here today not wondering who you should encourage—but wondering whether you still belong.
You know your failures. You know the places where you pulled back. You know the moments when fear or fatigue shaped your choices.
Somewhere along the way, you started telling yourself that your usefulness has passed.
Hear this clearly.
Barnabas’s story includes failure. It includes hesitation. It includes moments where pressure got the better of him.
And yet Scripture still calls him “son of encouragement.”
Grace did not erase his calling. Correction did not remove him from the story. Failure did not have the final word.
The same Spirit who restored Barnabas is at work in you.
He is not waiting for you to be impressive. He is not measuring your energy level. He is not disqualifying you because you are tired.
He is inviting you to stay.
Stay present. Stay available. Stay open to what He is still doing.
Encouragement does not flow from strength. It flows from grace.
(pause)
That matters because we often imagine encouragement as something dramatic.
A big speech. A decisive intervention. A moment that changes everything.
But most encouragement is small.
A word remembered. A note written. A conversation that doesn’t rush. A presence that doesn’t withdraw.
Encouragement rarely announces itself. But it accumulates.
And over time, it becomes the reason someone didn’t quit. Didn’t walk away. Didn’t give up on faith.
You may never know the full impact of the encouragement you offer. You may never see the outcome. You may never receive credit.
Barnabas didn’t.
But the church remembers him—not because he sought recognition, but because he gave courage where it was needed most.
(pause)
So let me ask the question one last time—not as a challenge, but as an invitation.
Where is God asking you to stay?
Not to fix. Not to manage. Not to control.
But to stay.
Who needs your presence more than your advice? Your belief more than your instruction? Your patience more than your solutions?
Encouragement does not require perfection.
It requires willingness.
Willingness to see people as unfinished.
Willingness to trust God’s work more than appearances.
Willingness to risk hope one more time.
That willingness is a quiet form of courage.
And it is still how God builds His church.
(pause)
If you feel empty today, hear this.
You are not asked to give what you do not have. You are invited to let the Spirit work through what remains.
Sometimes encouragement is not about adding something new. It’s about refusing to withdraw what God has already placed in you.
Faith. Presence. Hope.
Sometimes just staying is enough.
The church does not need more brilliance. It does not need louder voices. It does not need stronger personalities.
It needs people who will stand beside one another and say, “I’m not leaving.”
That’s the courage to stay.
And by God’s grace, it’s still within reach for every one of us.
