Nothing can strike a note of guilt in the Christian heart quite as fast as the Great Commission—perhaps raising our kids comes close—but this one has a special sting.
We read the words and instantly feel their weight:
> “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given unto Me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”
It’s something we believe with all our hearts—yet somehow we struggle to like it. Because when we hear it, we remember every awkward conversation, every missed opportunity, every moment we felt unqualified.
But the Great Commission isn’t supposed to make us feel guilty.
It’s supposed to make us grateful.
Because the One who said “Go” is the same One who walked out of the tomb.
We don’t go because we’re brave; we go because He lives.
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Our Awkward Attempts
It’s not for lack of trying.
I once heard that if you’re flying, you should always take an aisle seat—never the window—because you can reach more people per flight. From there you can witness to the three across the aisle, the one beside you, the one in front, and the one behind. Six potential conversions before landing!
So I tried it.
Someone across the aisle was reading a book. “Looks like a good book,” I said.
“Yeah,” they replied.
And that was it. How do you get from “It’s a good book” to “Repent and be baptized”?
Eventually I prayed, “Lord, maybe if this plane suddenly dropped two thousand feet, people would be in a better frame of mind to talk about eternity.”
Another time I thought I’d sit at the very back near the restroom line. What better place for divine appointments? I imagined handing out Steps to Christ to nervous passengers waiting their turn. “I read Steps to Christ while I flew!”—what a testimony that would be.
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The Bus Ride to Guilt
Then there was the bus ride. Ten stops to go. A stranger sat beside me. And that quiet little voice said, If you don’t speak before they get off, you’ll be eternally lost—and so will they.
Stop 1. They stayed on.
Stop 2. Still there.
Stop 3. Now I’m sweating.
By Stop 9, they stood up and walked down the aisle—away from me and, I feared, into eternity. I clutched the seat and felt something sticky under my hand. Gum. Old gum.
And in my imagination the Lord whispered, “Their blood is on your hands.”
I laughed at myself, but I knew why it stung. Because there really are people out there who need us. There is injustice to confront, pain to comfort, meaninglessness to answer. The need is real. The question is why our methods feel so hollow.
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A World of Desperation
Have you noticed how doomsday our culture has become?
Every blockbuster ends with cities collapsing, oceans swallowing skyscrapers, humanity hanging by a thread. Even the news sounds apocalyptic—markets crashing, climates shifting, nations trembling. People are searching for meaning in the rubble.
I once read a novel about a father and son wandering through a burned, ashen world. Everything alive was gone. They survived on scraps, dodging others who had turned to cannibalism just to stay alive. When they finally reached the sea, the boy looked out over the gray horizon and asked, “What’s on the other side, Dad?”
“Nothing,” his father said.
The boy shook his head. “There has to be something.”
That line pierced me. There has to be something.
Every heart longs for that “something”—life beyond ashes, purpose beyond survival. The Great Commission is supposed to speak to that ache. Yet somehow, we’ve made it feel like a guilt trip instead of a gift.
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When Our Methods Don’t Work
So I ask myself: Why am I so inept at this?
A father once told me proudly that when his sons turned sixteen, they were required to leave home and make their own way. “It builds character,” he said. But one son couldn’t handle it; fear drove him to rebellion and addiction. I finally said, “I’m not arguing with your values, but it’s not working. If you had an investment that was failing, you’d change your approach. Why not now?”
And that’s what I began asking about evangelism. If what we’re doing isn’t working, why keep doing it? Maybe the problem isn’t the world—it’s our method.
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The Hook Problem
A friend who works with prison inmates once told me, “I’ve thrown away my fishing tackle. I’m done trying to hook anybody. I just want to help them.”
At first I argued. “But isn’t wanting to help still a hook?”
He smiled. “Not if the only thing I’m offering is grace.”
And that was it. For years we’ve approached people with a hidden agenda—to sell Jesus like a product, to win rather than to love. Our mission became marketing. But people can smell a sales pitch a mile away, even a religious one.
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Packaging or Product?
There’s a story about a little girl who went to work with her father, the president of a large pet-food company. Sales were dropping. Executives filled the boardroom arguing about packaging—new fonts, brighter colors, bolder slogans.
In the middle of their debate, the girl tugged her father’s sleeve and whispered, “Daddy, maybe the dogs just don’t like the food.”
Sometimes the issue isn’t presentation—it’s substance. We rebrand Christianity, adjust our slogans, upgrade our websites, but if the heart of our faith isn’t compelling, people won’t bite.
So what are we really offering? Are we offering control and competition—“come join our rightness”? Or are we offering resurrection life that cannot be contained?
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Three Commissions, One Decision
That question drove me back to Matthew 28. I discovered something remarkable: Matthew actually ends his gospel with three commissions—not one. Each one challenges us to decide where we stand.
1 — The Commission to Seal the Tomb
In 27 : 65 Pilate says, “Take a guard… make the tomb secure.” That’s the first commission—to keep Jesus locked in.
And it’s still alive today. We can secure the tomb by dismissing the miraculous—explaining away resurrection until our faith is nothing but metaphor. Or we can seal it by making ourselves the message, pushing Jesus to the background while we perform religion in His name.
But if you remove resurrection from Christianity, it stops being Christianity. Take the strings out of a piano, and it’s no longer a piano. Take the resurrection out of the gospel, and all you have left is moral advice and potlucks.
2 — The Commission of the Angel
When the women arrive, the angel says, “He is not here; He is risen… go quickly and tell His disciples.” (28 : 6–7)
That’s the second commission—to announce what heaven has already done. “He’s gone ahead of you,” the angel adds. How liberating that line is! We’re not the advance team; we’re the follow-up.
Every time I’ve tried to run ahead of Jesus—to manufacture results, to force openings—I end up exhausted. The angel’s words pull me back: He goes before you. The risen Lord is already in the hearts of the people you’ll meet tomorrow. Your task is simply to recognize His footprints.
3 — The Commission of the Risen Christ
Then comes the third and final call—the one we usually quote: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given unto Me. Therefore go…”
But notice the therefore. Our mission is not grounded in guilt or fear—it’s grounded in resurrection authority. He has conquered death; therefore we go.
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Animated by the Resurrection
The resurrection is not simply a doctrine we defend; it’s a force that defines us.
It means we belong to a kingdom where nothing stays buried—not truth, not mercy, not people.
When Jesus says, “All authority has been given to Me,” He’s declaring that death itself has lost its license.
Every act of witness begins there—not in human effort, but in borrowed resurrection power.
To be Christian is not merely to agree that Jesus rose; it is to rise with Him.
When that awareness gets under your skin, you stop measuring success by numbers or responses.
You begin to see mission as life spilling over.
A resurrection-shaped believer becomes almost indestructible.
Knock them down, and they rise again.
Bury them in disappointment, and they sprout hope.
Press them into silence, and the fragrance of Christ still leaks out.
That’s what Jesus meant when He said, “Go.”
He wasn’t sending us out to sell a system; He was inviting us to live as proof that the grave is temporary.
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The Great Companion
Notice how the Great Commission ends: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”
That’s the secret.
It isn’t the going that makes the promise possible—it’s the presence that makes the going worthwhile.
The Great Commission isn’t about geography; it’s about companionship.
It’s not the size of our reach but the depth of our connection with Him that changes the world.
When the risen Christ is alive in us, our presence becomes His presence.
We don’t have to push our way into hearts—He’s already there, stirring curiosity, preparing the soil.
We simply walk into the work He’s already begun.
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Everyday Mission
That changes how we think about witness.
Mission is not reserved for pulpits or passports.
It happens in the ordinary rhythm of life: in the waiting room, in the grocery line, at the office, in the neighborhood.
The question isn’t, “How many people have I converted?”
The question is, “Where has resurrection life leaked out of me today?”
Maybe it’s in forgiving someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Maybe it’s showing calm in a culture addicted to outrage.
Maybe it’s simply refusing to despair when everyone else has given up.
That’s evangelism too—quiet, unadvertised, yet luminous with grace.
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When the Tomb Opens Inside Us
The first two commissions were about fear and control—securing the tomb or reporting what someone else had done.
But this third one is different.
It’s a commission that begins inside us.
Every believer must decide whether to keep Christ locked behind a stone of private faith,
or to let that stone roll away so His life can spill into the world.
The real miracle of resurrection isn’t that a stone moved in Jerusalem two thousand years ago.
It’s that stones still move—stones of indifference, pride, weariness, shame.
And when they move, light rushes in.
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Living Out the “Therefore”
So when Jesus says, “Therefore go,”
He’s not adding another burden to our checklist.
He’s giving us the natural next step of resurrection life.
You can’t stay in the tomb once you’ve been raised.
That’s why real mission always begins with wonder.
It begins when our hearts whisper, “He’s alive—and because He lives, so am I.”
We no longer carry guilt; we carry glory.
We no longer chase conversions; we share companionship.
We don’t drag people to religion; we invite them into resurrection.
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When the Commission Becomes Joy
Once that truth sinks in, the Great Commission stops feeling like a command and starts sounding like a love song.
We go because we can’t help it.
We serve because gratitude has legs.
We speak because silence would feel dishonest.
And somewhere in that ordinary rhythm—between the laughter of children, the ache of loss, and the everyday grind—
the world catches a glimpse of Easter in us.
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The Final Word
I’ve stopped thinking of the Great Commission as an assignment to complete.
I think of it now as a life to embody.
Because Jesus is risen, there’s no such thing as wasted effort, lost causes, or final goodbyes.
He’s ahead of us, beside us, within us—
and He’ll still be there at the end of the age, smiling as the story comes full circle.
So don’t measure your faith by how many people you’ve reached.
Measure it by how much resurrection life is shining through you.
You are the evidence that Christ is not in the tomb.
You are His living proof that the stone has been rolled away.
Amen
