The Courage To Stay

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.