Letting Go, Leaning In: What Obedience Taught Me About God’s Plan

I used to think honour was something reserved for formal occasions–like standing when an elder enters the room, writing unnecessarily long and poetic thank-you notes, or pretending to enjoy your aunt’s questionable cooking out of sheer politeness. You know, the sort of honour that earns you a nod of approval but doesn’t really require much else. Turns out, I was wildly mistaken. Honour isn’t just about good manners–it’s a spiritual principle that unlocks divine intervention in ways I never imagined.

Now, let me be clear–I didn’t come to this realisation voluntarily. No, I was dragged into it, kicking and screaming, like a child being marched to bed when they’ve decided they’re nocturnal. Honouring people who deserve it? Easy. But honouring people who’ve hurt you? Scratch that, neglected your entire existence? That’s the kind of challenge that makes you wish there was a biblical loophole somewhere. Yet, there I was, just minding my own business, when God decided to drop a spiritual truth on me like an unexpected exam.

Here’s how it happened. I was peacefully seated at the Mavuno February 2025 gathering on a peaceful Saturday morning, ready to soak in some impartation, when Apostle Kalanzi dropped the bomb: “Honour your father.” Everything after that? A blur. It was like my brain hit the emergency exit button and checked out. And then came the conviction–completely uninvited, I might add. It crept up on me the way a bodaboda without headlights appears out of nowhere just as you’re making a smooth left turn. You know, the ones who somehow manage to yell at you for not seeing their ghostly silhouette in the dark? Yeah, like that–except this time, it wasn’t a near miss; it was a direct hit. Desperately seeking a loophole, I reached out to my campus pastor, the ever-gracious (and unfortunately very wise) Pastor Nyamu Matogo. Surely, I thought, she would offer a reasonable interpretation–one that didn’t involve me actually having to do anything. Instead, she confirmed the very thing I was trying to escape. Fantastic.

Just when I thought I had survived the worst of it, Apostle Moses Mukisa landed the final punch. His book, The Principles and Practice of Honour, didn’t just nudge me –it hit me like a heavyweight champion. With every page, my heart pounded as if I’d just completed a marathon (which, for the record, I have never attempted and never will). There it was, in plain black and white: Honour isn’t about whether someone deserves it; it’s about obedience. And let me tell you, obedience is one of those words that feels deeply inspiring–when it applies to someone else. But when it lands on you? It’s downright inconvenient.

See, my father walked out on us when I was younger–not just emotionally, but legally. He actually signed papers stating he no longer wanted any responsibility for us. That kind of rejection doesn’t just bruise; it leaves scars. When I first heard a sermon about honouring your father and mother, my immediate thought was, Surely, there’s a footnote somewhere in Leviticus exempting situations like mine. Spoiler alert: there isn’t.

So there I was, wrestling with this truth, fully aware that God wasn’t letting me off the hook. Like any self-respecting stubborn person, I tried to ignore it. But conviction is a relentless thing. The next day, in the middle of worship (where I foolishly thought I was safe), I felt it again: Honour him.

I wish I could tell you I obeyed instantly. That would have been such a beautiful story of obedience. I did not. I bargained. I debated. I even considered sending a polite “Hope you’re doing well” text just to technically comply. But I knew that wasn’t the kind of honour God was asking of me. So, in an act of sheer willpower, I did the thing I swore I wouldn’t do. I honoured my father–not just with words, but with substance and my heart. His response? “You have lifted my spirits.”

Now, whether he meant that metaphorically or whether he was referring to the bottle he often drowned in, I’ll never know. But here’s what I do know: something shifted. Not just in him, but in me. Because honour isn’t about the other person’s worthiness–it’s about our obedience. And obedience opens doors we never imagined.

That wasn’t the only revelation I was hit with that week. You know those moments when a truth smacks you so hard you wonder how you’ve gone your whole life without realising it? That’s exactly what happened when I learnt about spiritual transfer. I’d always assumed that listening to a sermon was about gaining knowledge. Maybe a few profound insights, a verse or two to highlight, and–if you’re feeling really committed–some notes scribbled in a notebook that you’ll never actually read again. But what I didn’t realise is that words don’t just inform–they impart.

Jesus Himself said, “The words I have spoken to you–they are full of the Spirit and life” (John 6:63). That means every time we hear the Word of God, something is being transferred into us. It’s not just knowledge; it’s power, anointing, inheritance. And that means who you listen to matters. If you’re constantly hopping from one preacher to another without discernment, you might find yourself spiritually bloated but not nourished. Ever heard of information overload? Well, there’s also something called spiritual constipation. And trust me, it’s just as uncomfortable. I’m learning now that receiving a teaching isn’t just about learning–it’s about being imparted with something. The anointing of the house you’re planted in becomes the anointing you carry. And if you dishonour the place where God has planted you, you cut yourself off from the very blessing assigned to it. This completely reframed the way I saw discipleship–it’s not just about following Jesus; it’s about receiving, carrying, and passing on an anointing.

Which brings me to my final revelation–multiplication. I used to think a discipleship group was just a fancy name for a Bible study with yummy snacks. But when I understood its true purpose, everything changed. A discipleship group isn’t just a gathering–it’s a launchpad for spiritual growth, mission, and multiplication. It’s about raising leaders, not just filling seats.

Jesus didn’t say, “Come, follow me, and let’s have a comfortable, predictable gathering.” He said, “Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). That means every person in a discipleship group is meant to grow and eventually lead others. It’s not about adding members–it’s about multiplying disciples. That’s exactly what happened with our group. What started as one became three, because true discipleship never ends with just one person. This changed the way I see church, leadership, and my own role in God’s plan. It’s easy to sit back and let others do the work. It’s comfortable to stay in the same group forever, being fed but never stepping out to feed others. But that’s not how the Kingdom grows. The church isn’t built through events–it’s built through discipleship.

So here’s what I’ve learnt: God moves through honour. He moves through spiritual impartation. And He moves through multiplication. Honour aligns us with His blessings. Spiritual transfer ensures that what we receive doesn’t stop with us. And multiplication guarantees that the Kingdom keeps expanding–not through flashy programmes, but through ordinary people willing to say yes.

If you’re reading this and feeling that uncomfortable nudge of conviction (trust me, I’ve been there), take heart. It’s not about being perfect–it’s about being available. Maybe your next step is honouring someone who doesn’t deserve it. Maybe it’s choosing to be planted where God has placed you instead of constantly chasing something new. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop consuming and start multiplying.

Wherever you are on the journey, remember this: obedience always opens doors. So honour. Receive. Multiply. And watch what God does with your simple yes.