When the World Had No Word for What They Saw

The Christmas carol plays softly in the background: “Peace on earth, good will to men.” We’ve sung it a thousand times. We’ve written it on cards, stitched it on decorations, and repeated it like a mantra every December.

But if we’re honest, doesn’t it feel a little hollow this year?

Political tribalism tears families apart at the dinner table. Racial tensions never seem to heal. Social media echo chambers make it impossible to agree on basic facts. Christians can barely stand to be in the same room with other Christians over secondary issues. And we’re supposed to believe in peace on earth?

In 1863, the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow asked the same question. As the Civil War raged and his country tore itself apart, as he mourned his wife’s horrific death and tended to his wounded son, he penned the words to “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.” In despair, he wrote: “There is no peace on earth, I said, for hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Was the angelic proclamation at Christ’s birth just beautiful poetry? Or can the promise actually be kept?

The City Where Enemies Became Family

The answer is found in an unlikely place: a bustling Roman city called Antioch, decades after Christ’s resurrection.

Acts 11 takes us back to the aftermath of Stephen’s martyrdom, when persecution scattered believers throughout the Roman Empire. Most of these early Christians did what made sense—they preached to Jews only. Stay with your people. Keep it safe. Don’t rock the boat.

But some believers from Cyprus and Cyrene did something radical. They began speaking to Greeks also, preaching the Lord Jesus. And Acts 11:21 tells us something astonishing: “The hand of the Lord was with them, and a large number who believed turned to the Lord.”

This wasn’t just intellectual assent. These people—Jews and Greeks who had every reason to hate each other—were turning to the Lord together. They were worshiping together. Living together. Becoming something the world had never seen before.

The news spread fast. So fast that the church in Jerusalem sent Barnabas on a 300-mile journey to investigate what was happening in Antioch.

Grace That Could Be Witnessed

Here’s what I love about Acts 11:23—when Barnabas arrived, he “witnessed the grace of God.”

Not felt it. Not heard about it. He could actually see it.

I’ve only experienced this a handful of times in my life. Once was in Ethiopia, visiting a tribe that just years earlier had settled their conflicts by hacking each other to death with machetes. But the gospel had come. Lives had changed. And when I arrived, I didn’t encounter violence—I encountered joy unlike anything I’d ever seen. Former enemies praying for me. Worshiping with me. Receiving me as family.

That’s what Barnabas saw in Antioch. The grace of God wasn’t just a theological concept—it was visible in the transformed lives of people who should have been enemies but had become family.

And the world noticed.

A Name for Something Never Seen Before

Acts 11:26 drops this detail almost casually: “The disciples were first called Christians in Antioch.”

We take that word for granted. But this was the moment it was invented. Up until this point, followers of Jesus were viewed as just another sect of Judaism—like the Pharisees or Sadducees, but with some different beliefs about the Messiah.

But in Antioch, something was so radically different that outsiders looked at this movement and said, “We need a new word for this.”

They didn’t call themselves Christians. The world named them that. The world looked at their worship of Christ, their commitment to the apostolic teaching, their fellowship across impossible cultural barriers, their sacrificial love for one another, and said: “You people belong to Christ. You’re Christians.”

I wonder what the world would call us today if we didn’t identify ourselves.

Repentance to Life: When God Opens Doors We’d Rather Keep Closed

What would you do if someone told you that revival was breaking out among the people you like the least?

About a year ago, a friend texted me to say that a genuine move of God seemed to be happening on the Ohio State football team. As a University of Michigan graduate, that rivalry runs deep—it’s not just about sports; it’s cultural identity. My first response wasn’t celebration. But when I confirmed that people were truly being saved, that the gospel was reaching even them, I had to rejoice. Despite my college loyalties, I was genuinely glad to hear that the gospel was advancing.

But here’s the uncomfortable question we all need to wrestle with: Who are the “even them” people in your life? Maybe it’s not about a football rivalry. Maybe it’s a political affiliation that makes your blood boil. Maybe it’s a lifestyle you find reprehensible. Maybe it’s just people who annoy you. We all have these categories—people we’d struggle to genuinely celebrate if we heard they came to Christ.

Acts 11:1-18 shows the early church facing this exact struggle. And here’s what’s striking: for most of us reading this as Gentiles, there was a point in history when we were the “even them” people. The door that was opening in this passage was opening for us.

When the News Travels Faster Than the Messenger

The apostles and believers throughout Judea heard that the Gentiles had received the word of God. But notice what happens next: When Peter came up to Jerusalem, those who were circumcised took issue with him. They didn’t welcome him with open arms or ask to hear the amazing testimony of what God had done. Instead, they came with an accusation: “You went to uncircumcised men and ate with them.”

To modern ears, this might not sound like much. But in their context, this was a charge of lawbreaking. Peter, a leader in the church, was being accused of violating the very law that set them apart as God’s people. The controversy had been brewing for days while Peter was still in Caesarea, and by the time he returned home, instead of rest, he walked into an interrogation.

Imagine witnessing one of the most significant moves of God in history—the Holy Spirit falling on Gentiles just as He fell on the Jewish believers at Pentecost—and receiving immediate criticism from your own church family as your reward.

When the World is More Eager Than the Church

Have you ever noticed how sometimes the people we assume aren’t interested in God turn out to be the most spiritually hungry? We make excuses—”If they wanted to know about God, they’d come to church” or “The information is out there; it’s in their court now.” But what if our assumptions are wrong? What if the world is actually more eager to receive the gospel than we are to proclaim it?

That’s exactly what we discover in Acts 10, one of the most pivotal chapters in human history. This is the moment when God officially opens the door for the gospel to go to the Gentile world. Without this door swinging wide open, the gospel never would have reached people like us. But here’s the striking reality in this passage: Cornelius the centurion was far more ready to hear about Jesus than Peter was to tell him.

This passage confronts us with an uncomfortable truth about our own hesitancy to cross barriers, our reluctance to share what we’ve freely received, and our tendency to underestimate how hungry people really are for the truth.

The Eager Seeker Who Had Everything but Jesus

Cornelius wasn’t your average Roman centurion. Scripture paints a picture of a man who was devout, prayerful, generous, and God-fearing. He gave alms to the Jewish people. He prayed continually. He had drawn as near to the God of Israel as a Gentile could without becoming a full convert. By all appearances, this was a deeply spiritual man.

But here’s what we must understand: sincerity is not enough for salvation. Interest in spiritual things is not enough. Even having a god that you worship is not enough. Cornelius needed to hear about Jesus. He needed the gospel. Without it, despite all his devotion and good works, his sins remained unforgiven.

God knew this. So He sent an angel to appear to Cornelius with very specific instructions: “Send to Joppa and ask for Simon, who is also called Peter. Bring him here.” And what did Cornelius do? He immediately obeyed. He sent his servants. And then, while he waited for this preacher to arrive, he gathered everyone he could—his relatives, his close friends, his household—and said, “You need to hear this message too.”

Imagine that kind of spiritual hunger. Cornelius didn’t even know what message he was going to hear, but he filled his house with people to listen.

The Reluctant Messenger Who Said “No, Lord”

Meanwhile, Peter was on a rooftop, praying and physically hungry. And that’s when God gave him a vision—a dramatic, repeated, impossible-to-ignore vision. A sheet came down from heaven filled with all kinds of animals, and a voice said, “Get up, Peter, kill and eat.”

Peter’s response? “By no means, Lord, for I have never eaten anything unholy and unclean.”

Let that sink in. Peter said “No” to the Lord. And God had to repeat this vision three times before Peter would even begin to consider what God was showing him. Jesus had already declared all foods clean back in Mark 7, but Peter was still clinging to his traditions, his upbringing, his comfort zone.

This wasn’t really about food, though. The food laws had been given to make Israel a separate, distinct people—set apart for God’s purposes. But now that the Messiah had come, those barriers were being torn down. God was saying, “What I have called clean, no longer call unclean.” And He wasn’t just talking about bacon and shellfish. He was talking about people.

Even after the vision, Peter was confused. But then—perfectly orchestrated by God—the men sent by Cornelius arrived at his door. The Spirit spoke to Peter: “Go with them without misgivings, for I have sent them myself.”

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When God’s Power Does the Heavy Lifting: Reflections on Peter’s Healing Ministry

Have you ever walked away from a conversation about faith feeling like a failure? You stumbled over your words. You couldn’t remember that perfect response you’d rehearsed. The person walked away unconvinced, and you were left wondering if you’d done more harm than good.

If that’s ever been you, this past Sunday’s message was exactly what you needed to hear.

Evangelist Eric Love continued our journey through the book of Acts, bringing us to chapter 9, verses 32-43. What unfolded wasn’t just a lesson in biblical history—it was a recalibration of how we think about our role in sharing the gospel.

The Church Was Born for Mission

Eric opened by reminding us of the big picture. The book of Acts records the explosive growth of the early church in the thirty years following Christ’s resurrection. And Acts 1:8 serves as the thesis statement for everything that follows: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you shall be My witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”

Here’s what struck me: those words were spoken directly to the apostles, yet they were fulfilled by the entire church. When persecution scattered believers throughout Judea, Galilee, and Samaria, it wasn’t just the apostles preaching. Ordinary Christians carried the gospel wherever they went, planting churches and seeing thousands come to faith.

The Great Commission wasn’t meant for a select few. It belongs to all of us.

No Magic Tricks Here

In Lydda, Peter encountered a man named Aeneas who had been paralyzed and bedridden for eight years. Eric made an important observation: the miracles recorded in Scripture weren’t cheap illusions performed for gullible crowds. These were verifiable, severe conditions healed instantly and publicly.

You can’t fake blindness from birth. You can’t pretend to be lame for a lifetime.

Jesus healed a man born blind in John 9. Peter had previously healed a man lame from his mother’s womb in Acts 3. And now, Aeneas—eight years paralyzed—rises immediately at Peter’s word. These weren’t pulled rabbits or guessed cards. These were undeniable acts of God performed in plain sight, leaving witnesses with only one conclusion: this power comes from somewhere beyond human ability.

The Gift of God

Have you ever avoided someone because bridging that gap just seemed too difficult? Maybe it’s a coworker with opposing political views, a neighbor from a different background, or even a family member you’ve written off as “too far gone.” We all have people or places we’d rather avoid.

But what if God is calling you to cross that barrier?

In Acts 8, we witness one of the most dramatic cultural crossings in the early church. Philip, a Jewish believer fleeing persecution in Jerusalem, does the unthinkable: he goes to Samaria and preaches Christ. To grasp the weight of this moment, you need to understand that Jews and Samaritans despised each other with a hatred spanning centuries. Jews would literally travel miles out of their way to avoid passing through Samaritan territory. These weren’t just unfriendly neighbors—they were considered half-breeds, religious heretics, enemies.

Yet Philip goes. And when he does, something extraordinary happens.

When God’s Power Crosses Human Barriers

Philip didn’t sneak into Samaria to hide. He proclaimed Christ openly, and the crowds gave attention to what he said as they heard and saw the signs he was performing. Demons were cast out with loud shouts. The paralyzed walked. The lame were healed. The text tells us there was “much rejoicing in that city.”

Picture that scene for a moment. A Jewish preacher proclaiming a Jewish Messiah to a people who had been taught to hate Jews—and instead of rejection, there’s citywide celebration. This is the power of the gospel to demolish walls many thought were permanent.

Philip’s message was simple but profound: he preached the Kingdom of God and the name of Jesus Christ. He wasn’t offering self-help tips or cultural commentary. He was proclaiming that the long-awaited King had come, that His name was Jesus, and that anyone—even despised Samaritans—could enter His kingdom through repentance and faith.

Men and women believed. They were baptized. They publicly identified with this King and His kingdom. The barrier that had stood for generations crumbled in the face of resurrection power.

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The Fruit of Devotion: When Witness Becomes Costly

What would it take for you to stop talking about Jesus? A threat to your reputation? Your job? Your life?

In Acts 6-8, we encounter Stephen—a man who understood something profound about Christian identity that we’ve largely forgotten. When we call him the first Christian martyr, we miss the revolutionary truth: the word “martyr” simply means “witness.” Stephen wasn’t exceptional because he died; he was faithful because he understood what every believer is called to be.

This Sunday, we explored how Stephen’s story isn’t about one extraordinary man’s sacrifice—it’s about God’s pattern for advancing His kingdom through faithful witnesses who count the cost and speak anyway.

The True Meaning of Being a Witness

When Jesus declared in Acts 1:8, “You will be my witnesses,” He literally said, “You will be my martyrs.” This wasn’t a call to an elite group of super-Christians. This was—and is—the fundamental calling of every believer.

Stephen grasped this completely. Full of grace and power, he performed signs and wonders among the people. When religious leaders couldn’t refute his wisdom, they resorted to false accusations, dragging him before the Sanhedrin. They accused him of blasphemy against Moses and the temple—serious charges that warranted death.

But notice Stephen’s response. He didn’t defend himself or try to negotiate his way out. Instead, he seized the opportunity to bear witness to Christ. With his life hanging in the balance, Stephen chose proclamation over preservation.

The Pattern of Rejection and Faithfulness

Stephen’s lengthy sermon before the Sanhedrin wasn’t just a history lesson—it was a prophetic indictment. He traced through Israel’s history, showing a consistent pattern: God sends deliverers, and His people reject them.

Abraham left everything to follow God’s promise. Joseph was sold into slavery by his own brothers. Moses was rejected by the very people he came to rescue, with them saying, “Who made you a ruler and judge over us?” The prophets were persecuted and killed by those who should have received their message.

Stephen’s point was devastating in its clarity: “You are doing just as your fathers did.” The religious leaders who prided themselves on preserving Moses’ law and honoring the prophets were actually following in the footsteps of those who rejected God’s messengers. And ultimately, they had murdered the Righteous One—Jesus Christ—whom all the prophets had announced.

What the Early Church Teaches Us About Healthy Conflict Resolution

Have you ever noticed how quickly people assume something must be wrong when a church talks about problems? I remember preaching through Acts years ago and coming to this same passage about the early church’s first internal conflict. Afterward, multiple people pulled me aside, lowered their voices, and asked, “So what’s really going on?”

Nothing was going on. We were just preaching through the book of Acts.

But that reaction reveals something important about how we think about church health. We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that a healthy church is one without problems. The reality? Church health isn’t measured by the absence of problems—it’s measured by how faithfully we handle problems when they arise.

And they will arise.

The Problem Nobody Saw Coming

Acts 6 opens with a jarring phrase: “Now at this time, while the disciples were increasing in number, a complaint arose.” Notice the timing. This wasn’t happening during a low point. The church was thriving. People were being added daily. The Word was spreading. The apostles had just been flogged for preaching Jesus and had rejoiced in their suffering.

Everything was going remarkably well.

And then came the complaint.

The Hellenistic Jews—those who had adopted more Greek culture and customs—accused the church of neglecting their widows in the daily food distribution. Meanwhile, the native Hebrew widows were being cared for. This wasn’t a minor logistical hiccup. The word Luke uses for “complaint” is the same word the Septuagint uses to describe the Israelites murmuring against Moses in the wilderness. This was serious grumbling that threatened to fracture the unity of the early church.

Here’s what makes this so significant: this division existed before the church even began. The cultural divide between Hellenistic and Hebrew Jews was real and deep. When these groups came to faith in Christ, there was beautiful unity. But growth, logistical challenges, and limited resources began to expose fault lines that were always there.

The tension was real. The complaint was legitimate. And if left unaddressed, vulnerable widows would suffer.

The Response That Changed Everything

What the apostles did next is stunning. They called the entire congregation together—no closed-door meetings, no damage control—and said something that might sound shocking at first: “It is not desirable for us to neglect the Word of God in order to serve tables.”

Wait, what? Were they too prideful to help? Too busy with “important” ministry?

Not at all.

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