You know, one of the last things Jesus ever told His disciples before He went back to Heaven was this right here in Matthew 28:19—“Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” That’s not just a suggestion, that’s a commission. We call it the Great Commission, but for most of us it’s been the Great Omission.

Jesus didn’t say, “Sit and wait for folks to show up.” He said, “Go.” That little word is big. It means get up from your comfort zone, walk out your front door, and take the gospel with you to whoever God puts in your path. The gospel is portable—it’ll ride in your Jeep, sit with you on the porch, or walk with you through Walmart.

We don’t have to know everything. We just have to share what we do know—that Jesus loved us enough to die for us, He rose again, and He offers forgiveness and eternal life to anyone who believes. That’s good news worth passing along!

Friend, God’s not looking for perfect people—He’s looking for willing people. If He can use fishermen, tax collectors, and even a hot mess like me, He can use you. So today, let’s decide that we’re not going to keep the gospel bottled up. Let’s carry it, live it, and share it, so that somebody else gets to taste the grace we’ve already enjoyed.

Because at the end of the day, our calling is clear: Go. Teach. Baptize. Repeat. And in the going, we’ll find the greatest joy of all—watching lives change by the power of Jesus Christ.

Friend, let me tell you something beautiful out of Galatians 3:28. Paul says, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.” That’s God’s way of saying the ground is level at the foot of the cross.

We live in a world that loves to divide—by color, class, background, politics, or preference. But when you come to Jesus, all those walls come tumbling down. At the cross, the businessman in his suit stands shoulder to shoulder with the farmer in his muddy boots. The single mom with a heavy heart is just as loved as the deacon with a perfect attendance pin.

It reminds me of those old church dinners on the grounds. Didn’t matter if you brought fried chicken or just a bag of chips—you spread it all out on the same table, and everybody ate until their heart was content. That’s a picture of the kingdom of God. We may come from different kitchens, but in Christ we’re all sitting at the same table.

So today, instead of looking at what separates us, let’s look at what unites us. If you’re in Christ, you are family. And family sticks together.

Because in Jesus—there’s no “them” and “us.” There’s just us. One body. One Spirit. One Savior.

The day had been long, the kind of day that leaves the mind heavy and the body tired. Evening settled in with a soft breeze, and I stepped out into the side yard, matchbox in hand and a La Herencia Cubana CORE tucked between my fingers. The sound of the evening hummed like an old hymn, steady and faithful.

I struck the match, and the flame came alive quick and fierce, as though it had been waiting for this moment. I kissed the fire to the foot of the cigar, and the CORE answered back with a crackle, like kindling catching in a fire pit. The first draw rolled across my tongue — pepper, leather, earth. Bold, unashamed. It didn’t ask permission to be strong; it simply was.

The smoke rose thick into the twilight, curling like a story told slow. And with every puff, the world seemed to ease its grip, the noise of the day falling away until it was just me, the rocking chair, and the steady heartbeat of the cigar. Hemingway once said the world breaks everyone, and afterward some are strong at the broken places. That’s what this stick tasted like — strong at the broken places.

As the CORE burned on, the flavors shifted — a little coffee, a little cocoa, something sweet hiding under the pepper. It reminded me of grace, that hidden sweetness God tucks into life’s harder seasons. You don’t always taste it right at first, but if you stay with it, it comes through.

By the halfway mark, the cigar had found its rhythm. Strong, but steady. Like a man who’s walked through storms and learned how to keep moving forward. Each draw felt less like smoke and more like a sermon in the evening air: life is hard, but it is also good. Bitter and sweet, strength and rest, all rolled into one.

When I finally laid it down, the ash told the story — long, even, and true. And the finish stayed with me, earthy and rich, the way an old conversation with a trusted friend lingers in your memory long after the words have faded.

The CORE isn’t just a cigar. It’s a journey. It’s a reminder that life is meant to be smoked slow, savored, and reflected upon. On a porch. In the quiet. With time to listen to the stories the smoke is telling.

-MJHarvell