Imagine rolling up to The Cookouts—smoke billowing, laughter cutting through the humid air, and the grill blazing like it was auditioning for its own reality TV show. For my mom, the 4th of July wasn’t just a holiday—it was the holiday. Forget Christmas trees and stockings; give her fireworks, sparklers, and a sideyard filled with family and food. She loved hosting barbecues, not just on the 4th but any summer Sunday she could. If the weather was decent, you could bet we were gathering at Mom and Dad’s for Hotdogs, burgers, or BBQ from the Top of the Hill Grill and enough sides to make a buffet line blush.

Those cookouts became sacred ground for our family. Once my siblings and I got married and had kids of our own, they were some of the rare times we could all gather around a table—or in this case, a yard filled with folding chairs and picnic tables. There was something magical about it: the sizzle of meat on the grill, kids running wild with popsicles in hand, and the unmistakable smell of BBQ sauce. You could practically taste the food before you even got close.

Now this would never be anyone from my family, but imagine if someone didn’t quite catch the vibe. Picture this: you’re soaking in the glorious aroma of pork that has been slow-cooked to perfection, a smoky tang in the air that promises fireworks for your taste buds. You’re already making a mental note to grab seconds before you’ve even had firsts. Then you see him. The guy who shows up with a sad, store-bought veggie tray and a potato salad that has kale and—brace yourselves—raisins. Folks, meet Cain. Cain’s the guy who didn’t get the memo.

This moment is where we cue the parallels to Genesis. Cain’s offering in Genesis 4 was like that sad veggie tray: technically acceptable, but completely missing the heart of the gathering. Abel, on the other hand, was like my mom’s BBQ—intentional, full of love, and exactly what the occasion called for. God’s response to their offerings wasn’t just about what was brought to the table but about the heart behind it. Abel’s offering reflected relationship and reverence; Cain’s, not so much.

At my parents’ house, those cookouts weren’t just about the food—they were about connection, laughter, and the kind of hospitality that made you feel like you belonged. And in its own way, that’s what God is after, too: not just what we bring to Him, but how and why we bring it. So the next time you fire up the grill or gather with loved ones, remember this: it’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s about the heart behind it. And maybe, just maybe, skip the raisins. Cain’s not just the guy who skimped out; he’s also the one who got bent out of shape when his veggie tray and that raisin-potato mess didn’t exactly bring the house down. Meanwhile, Abel is over there carrying in a platter of ribs—fall-off-the-bone, smoky, seasoned-to-the-soul ribs that have been on the smoker for hours. The kind of ribs that would have God Himself leaning in for seconds. God took one look at Abel’s offering and smiled because that right there was some heart on a plate. Cain? Not so much.

Now, God sees Cain sulking and asks, “Why so down? If you put in the effort, won’t it be accepted?” But Cain isn’t interested in hearing that. Instead of grabbing a rack of ribs or rethinking his veggie platter, Cain lets his resentment boil over. And rather than learning from Abel, he decides to take his anger out on him. Cain wanted the approval without the work, but Abel understood that bringing something worthy means you put in the time and the love—because a true offering isn’t about what’s easy; it’s about bringing your best.

Let’s be real—hospitality isn’t a checklist; it’s showing people they matter. And you don’t do that by showing up with a last-minute platter of celery sticks and calling it good. When you’re throwing a cookout, you know you’re gonna do it right. You roll up your sleeves, fire up the smoker, dig out the best spices, and maybe even clear out the freezer if you have to. This isn’t your regular potluck; this is the cookout. And when you’re pouring out love and generosity like that, people know it. They can taste it.

Back in March, I had the chance to write and preach a sermon I called “When Did Good Enough Become Good Enough?” It was one of those sermons where I had to do a little soul-searching myself because, let’s be honest, we’ve all been there. You know what I’m talking about—that Cain mentality. Cain’s sad veggie platter and his abomination of raisin-laden potato salad were his “good enough” offerings. He thought, This will do, tossed it on the table, and then got salty when God wasn’t impressed.

But here’s the thing: we’re all guilty of that mindset at times, aren’t we? We cut corners, go through the motions, and then expect applause for our half-hearted effort. It’s like running to KFC, dumping their coleslaw into a fancy bowl (even though it is good cole slaw), and acting like we slaved over it, Shout out to my Nana that used to do this. Then we get offended when no one reacts like we’ve just handed them a Michelin-starred side dish.

Here’s where it hits hard. When we approach life—and faith—with a “good enough” attitude, it spills over into our relationships, our work, and even how we represent God. And when we try to speak into someone’s life, offering advice or encouragement, they can see right through it. Instead of being taken seriously, we get the spiritual equivalent of “get bent.” Why? Because people know when your heart isn’t in it, just like God knew Cain’s wasn’t in his offering.

When I preached that sermon, I tied it to the ways we bring our gifts—our time, our effort, even our faith—to the table. Are we giving our best, or are we just phoning it in and hoping no one notices? Cain’s story is a reminder that “good enough” isn’t what God wants from us. He’s not looking for perfection, but He does want our hearts. He wants intention, love, and effort, whether it’s in our worship, our work, or even how we show up for the people in our lives.

So, the next time we’re tempted to cut corners—whether it’s in cooking, relationships, or faith—let’s remember that God deserves more than just “good enough.” And for the love of all things holy, leave the raisins out of the potato salad.

God’s is showing us that we need to bring something to the table; He’s asking us to bring something worth offering. Abel’s ribs were a labor of love. He wasn’t just throwing something together—he was bringing his best because he understood that true hospitality, real connection, takes sacrifice. And sacrifice isn’t about leftovers or what’s easy; it’s about putting your heart into it, about rolling up to the cookout with ribs, not raisins.

So, next time you’re at the table of life—or an actual cookout—think about what you’re bringing. Are you rolling in with a veggie platter and raisin-filled potato salad, hoping no one notices, or are you showing up with ribs? Bring the good stuff, the stuff you poured yourself into, because it’s that heart, that commitment that God’s looking for in our offerings. That’s what gets a nod of approval from above, and it’s what brings people closer together. Together so that way we can have those conversations that need to happen.

When you’re invited to or hosting the cookout, show up like it matters. Let the smoker do its thing, let the flavor speak, and let what you bring be your best. God’s asking us for more than “good enough.” He’s asking us to make it count. So, bring your ribs, leave the raisins at home, and make that meal worth sharing, that is build relationships that help build the Kingdom.