Beyond the Label
Beyond the Label: The Call to Discipleship
We live in a world obsessed with labels. A single word can summon an instant picture in our minds—assumptions, stereotypes, expectations—shaping how we see others and even how we see ourselves.
So what happens when we say the word “Christian”? For some, it conjures church pews and Sunday mornings. For others, it means “a good moral person” or a family tradition. For some, it brings up hypocrisy, hurt, or political agendas. The word has been stretched, diluted, and redefined so many times that, in our culture, it can mean almost anything the speaker wants it to mean. And yet it’s a label many of us claim—sometimes proudly.
But here’s what might surprise you: the first followers of Jesus didn’t primarily call themselves Christians. That term shows up only three times in the entire New Testament. It was outsiders in Antioch who first used it—not as a compliment, but as a nickname, likely with a mocking edge.
The word the Bible uses over and over is disciple. And unlike “Christian,” which can feel fuzzy in modern conversation, disciple has a sharp, clear meaning.
Picture the scene by the Sea of Galilee. Jesus walks past the scholars, the religious professionals, the men with credentials and reputation—and He heads straight to the shoreline where fishermen are working their nets. In first-century Jewish culture, if you were a fisherman, it often meant you hadn’t made the cut in religious education. You weren’t the rising star. You weren’t the obvious candidate for spiritual leadership. And yet Jesus heads straight toward Peter, Andrew, James, and John and speaks two words that change everything:
“Follow me.”
In their world, students usually pursued a rabbi. They tried to impress him, hoping to be chosen as an apprentice. But Jesus flips the script. He doesn’t recruit the religious up-and-comers. He calls ordinary men with calloused hands and a working-class smell still on them. And the Bible says that when He called, they left their nets, their boats—even their father—and they followed Him.
But why would they do that? Because the dream of many Jewish boys was to become part of the religious leadership. And here was a Rabbi with unmistakable authority and power, not choosing the polished professionals or the “honor roll” disciples, but choosing them—the overlooked and the ordinary.
That moment reveals something timeless about discipleship—something that cuts through every culture and every century and lands right in our lives today.
Now notice what Jesus didn’t say. He didn’t say, “Apply to follow me.” He didn’t ask for resumes or run interviews. He simply said, “Follow me.” That matters more than we think.
Because if our relationship with God is built on our performance, we’ll always live insecure—wondering if we’ve done enough, fearing we’ll be exposed or rejected. But if it’s built on His choosing, then when we stumble, we’re held by something stronger than our willpower. Jesus didn’t choose the best. He chose the willing. The mission doesn’t depend on what we can do for Him—it depends on what He can do through us.
Friend Jesus isn’t building His kingdom on our impressiveness. He’s building it on our availability. That’s why the question isn’t, “Are you able?” The question is, “Are you available?”
And notice this too: Jesus doesn’t begin with a job description. He begins with a relationship. He doesn’t explain where they’re going or what it will cost. He calls them to be with Him. That’s discipleship at its core—a life with Jesus, reshaped by Jesus.
In ancient Jewish culture, there was a saying: “May the dust of your rabbi fall all over you.” The point was simple—walk so close to your teacher that the dust kicked up by his feet lands on your clothes. Meaning that His pace becomes your pace. His priorities become your priorities. His compassion becomes your compassion.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: you cannot become like Jesus if you don’t stay with Jesus. You don’t accidentally grow strong in faith. You don’t drift into intimacy with God through occasional proximity. You have to stay with Him. Jesus said it plainly: “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, you will bear much fruit.” That means His Word gets down inside us—not just on the surface, not just in moments of crisis, but deep enough to shape our thinking, guide our speech, and rewire our reflexes. The reality is that you cannot truly know Jesus apart from the Scriptures that reveal Jesus.
When the disciples left their boats and family, they didn’t just leave a job—they left security and identity. They chose to let Jesus become not a part of their lives, but Lord over their lives.
And sooner or later, following Jesus brings every one of us to a crossroads—where obedience costs us something: integrity versus advancement, purity versus popularity, truth versus ease.
But we must understand this: Jesus doesn’t only call us from something. He calls us for something. Matthew 4:19 isn’t merely an invitation to follow; it’s an invitation and a purpose:
“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Discipleship isn’t just personal transformation—it’s spiritual reproduction. Jesus doesn’t say, “Follow me and I’ll make you comfortable.” He doesn’t say, “Follow me and I’ll make you impressive.” He’s clear: “I will make you fishers of men.”
Not don’t miss this. We can’t save anyone—only God opens hearts and raises the spiritually dead. But we can obey. We can witness. We can pray. We can invite. We can speak. We can invest. We can be disciples who make disciples.
So here’s the question each one of us have to answer: Are you a disciple—or just a Christian in name? notice the question isn’t whether you grew up in church. Not whether you once had a spiritual moment. Not even whether you believe God exists. But who are you really?
If Jesus is who He says He is—Creator, King, Savior, risen Lord—then He deserves more than casual association. He deserves worship, obedience, and surrender. So are you His disciple or merely a label?
The other question you must ask yourself is: are you engaged in the mission, or stuck in the stands? If you’re not producing any spiritual fruit at all, you have reason to ask whether you’re actually following Jesus.
Here’s the unadulterated truth: the call to follow Jesus and the call to be a disciple are not two different callings. They are the same calling:
“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
Not “or.” Not “might.” Not “maybe.” Both. Together. Inseparable.
And here’s where the rubber meets the road: if we want to see heaven’s reality touch earth’s brokenness, it won’t happen through bigger buildings, better events, or clever plans. It will only happen when disciples live as disciples.
So don’t settle for just a label.
Be a disciple.
Follow Him close enough that the dust of the Rabbi gets all over you.
And then—go fishing for men.
We live in a world obsessed with labels. A single word can summon an instant picture in our minds—assumptions, stereotypes, expectations—shaping how we see others and even how we see ourselves.
So what happens when we say the word “Christian”? For some, it conjures church pews and Sunday mornings. For others, it means “a good moral person” or a family tradition. For some, it brings up hypocrisy, hurt, or political agendas. The word has been stretched, diluted, and redefined so many times that, in our culture, it can mean almost anything the speaker wants it to mean. And yet it’s a label many of us claim—sometimes proudly.
But here’s what might surprise you: the first followers of Jesus didn’t primarily call themselves Christians. That term shows up only three times in the entire New Testament. It was outsiders in Antioch who first used it—not as a compliment, but as a nickname, likely with a mocking edge.
The word the Bible uses over and over is disciple. And unlike “Christian,” which can feel fuzzy in modern conversation, disciple has a sharp, clear meaning.
Picture the scene by the Sea of Galilee. Jesus walks past the scholars, the religious professionals, the men with credentials and reputation—and He heads straight to the shoreline where fishermen are working their nets. In first-century Jewish culture, if you were a fisherman, it often meant you hadn’t made the cut in religious education. You weren’t the rising star. You weren’t the obvious candidate for spiritual leadership. And yet Jesus heads straight toward Peter, Andrew, James, and John and speaks two words that change everything:
“Follow me.”
In their world, students usually pursued a rabbi. They tried to impress him, hoping to be chosen as an apprentice. But Jesus flips the script. He doesn’t recruit the religious up-and-comers. He calls ordinary men with calloused hands and a working-class smell still on them. And the Bible says that when He called, they left their nets, their boats—even their father—and they followed Him.
But why would they do that? Because the dream of many Jewish boys was to become part of the religious leadership. And here was a Rabbi with unmistakable authority and power, not choosing the polished professionals or the “honor roll” disciples, but choosing them—the overlooked and the ordinary.
That moment reveals something timeless about discipleship—something that cuts through every culture and every century and lands right in our lives today.
Now notice what Jesus didn’t say. He didn’t say, “Apply to follow me.” He didn’t ask for resumes or run interviews. He simply said, “Follow me.” That matters more than we think.
Because if our relationship with God is built on our performance, we’ll always live insecure—wondering if we’ve done enough, fearing we’ll be exposed or rejected. But if it’s built on His choosing, then when we stumble, we’re held by something stronger than our willpower. Jesus didn’t choose the best. He chose the willing. The mission doesn’t depend on what we can do for Him—it depends on what He can do through us.
Friend Jesus isn’t building His kingdom on our impressiveness. He’s building it on our availability. That’s why the question isn’t, “Are you able?” The question is, “Are you available?”
And notice this too: Jesus doesn’t begin with a job description. He begins with a relationship. He doesn’t explain where they’re going or what it will cost. He calls them to be with Him. That’s discipleship at its core—a life with Jesus, reshaped by Jesus.
In ancient Jewish culture, there was a saying: “May the dust of your rabbi fall all over you.” The point was simple—walk so close to your teacher that the dust kicked up by his feet lands on your clothes. Meaning that His pace becomes your pace. His priorities become your priorities. His compassion becomes your compassion.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: you cannot become like Jesus if you don’t stay with Jesus. You don’t accidentally grow strong in faith. You don’t drift into intimacy with God through occasional proximity. You have to stay with Him. Jesus said it plainly: “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, you will bear much fruit.” That means His Word gets down inside us—not just on the surface, not just in moments of crisis, but deep enough to shape our thinking, guide our speech, and rewire our reflexes. The reality is that you cannot truly know Jesus apart from the Scriptures that reveal Jesus.
When the disciples left their boats and family, they didn’t just leave a job—they left security and identity. They chose to let Jesus become not a part of their lives, but Lord over their lives.
And sooner or later, following Jesus brings every one of us to a crossroads—where obedience costs us something: integrity versus advancement, purity versus popularity, truth versus ease.
But we must understand this: Jesus doesn’t only call us from something. He calls us for something. Matthew 4:19 isn’t merely an invitation to follow; it’s an invitation and a purpose:
“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” Discipleship isn’t just personal transformation—it’s spiritual reproduction. Jesus doesn’t say, “Follow me and I’ll make you comfortable.” He doesn’t say, “Follow me and I’ll make you impressive.” He’s clear: “I will make you fishers of men.”
Not don’t miss this. We can’t save anyone—only God opens hearts and raises the spiritually dead. But we can obey. We can witness. We can pray. We can invite. We can speak. We can invest. We can be disciples who make disciples.
So here’s the question each one of us have to answer: Are you a disciple—or just a Christian in name? notice the question isn’t whether you grew up in church. Not whether you once had a spiritual moment. Not even whether you believe God exists. But who are you really?
If Jesus is who He says He is—Creator, King, Savior, risen Lord—then He deserves more than casual association. He deserves worship, obedience, and surrender. So are you His disciple or merely a label?
The other question you must ask yourself is: are you engaged in the mission, or stuck in the stands? If you’re not producing any spiritual fruit at all, you have reason to ask whether you’re actually following Jesus.
Here’s the unadulterated truth: the call to follow Jesus and the call to be a disciple are not two different callings. They are the same calling:
“Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
Not “or.” Not “might.” Not “maybe.” Both. Together. Inseparable.
And here’s where the rubber meets the road: if we want to see heaven’s reality touch earth’s brokenness, it won’t happen through bigger buildings, better events, or clever plans. It will only happen when disciples live as disciples.
So don’t settle for just a label.
Be a disciple.
Follow Him close enough that the dust of the Rabbi gets all over you.
And then—go fishing for men.
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