Introduction — The Power of “B.U.T.”
There’s a small word that can sabotage the biggest dreams, derail the best intentions, and shrink the boldest faith. It’s just three letters long, yet it carries the weight of an anchor. The word is but.
A teacher once asked her students to write about something they did over the weekend. A young girl read her paper aloud:
“I tried cooking a new recipe, but the cat insisted on taste-testing everything. I think he judged my soufflé — harshly.”
The class erupted in laughter, and the teacher smiled. “It seems ‘but’ is just code for ‘plot twist starring my cat.’”
That tiny word flipped a success story into comedy. And if we’re honest, it does the same thing in our walk with God.
“I’m going to forgive … but.”
“I’ll start praying again … but.”
“I’ll surrender everything to God … but.”
Every time we add that little conjunction, obedience turns into negotiation, and faith becomes hesitation.
We come to the altar with passion and leave with punctuation marks. But becomes the spiritual brake pedal. It’s the pause between conviction and commitment, between what we know we ought to do and what we actually choose to do.
That’s why today’s message carries a single challenge: It’s time to shrink the “but.”
Because as long as your but is big, your obedience will be small.
Some of us have been lugging around our buts for years — carefully polished excuses, polite rationalizations dressed up as humility. We tell God, “I want revival,” but we secretly add, “not if it changes my comfort zone.” We want to follow Jesus, but not if it costs too much or takes too long.
And yet the call of Christ was never “Follow Me — unless.” It was simply, “Follow Me.”
The Bible is filled with people who discovered what happens when you stop hiding behind your “but.” Peter, who said “But Lord, I am a sinful man,” became the one who preached Pentecost. Moses, who protested “But I can’t speak,” became the voice of deliverance. Each time a human said but, God replied, “Because I am with you.”
So the issue isn’t God’s calling — it’s our conjunction. The message today isn’t about grammar; it’s about grace. God wants to teach us how to replace every but with a because.
Because He forgave me, I can forgive.
Because He served me, I can serve.
Because He first loved me, I can say yes without fear.
The Big Little Word That Changes Everything
“But” is a hinge-word — and a hinge decides which way the door swings.
A woman told her neighbor, “My dog is very obedient … but only when he’s asleep.”
A boy bragged, “I taught my goldfish to play dead … but now it won’t stop doing stand-up comedy.”
Someone announced, “I ran my first marathon … but I ran it backwards.”
Another said, “I cleaned my room … but I hid all the mess under the bed.”
And a writer groaned, “I finished my novel … but I accidentally saved it as a GIF.”
Every “but” flips triumph into absurdity. It’s the hinge that turns accomplishment into irony.
Spiritually, that same hinge creaks in our lives:
“I believe in God … but I’m not ready to change.”
“I want to serve … but I don’t have time.”
“I forgive … but I’ll never forget.”
God hears that word and sighs, not because He’s angry, but because He knows we’re living beneath our calling. He’s not looking for perfect grammar; He’s looking for surrendered hearts.
Every great move of God begins when someone drops their but and picks up their because.
“But” focuses on obstacles. “Because” focuses on opportunity.
“But” argues for limitation. “Because” argues for liberation.
“But” looks at me. “Because” looks at Him.
So let’s open Scripture and see what happens when we trade excuses for obedience, when we let the Spirit shrink the “but” until all that’s left is a wholehearted yes.
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1 Purity Before Performance — Leviticus 12 : 1 – 7
Leviticus doesn’t top the best-seller list. It’s filled with regulations about sacrifices, cleansing, offerings — details that seem distant from modern life. But tucked in those ancient instructions is a principle that burns with relevance: Before you do anything for God, you must first be made clean by God.
After childbirth, a woman in Israel was considered ceremonially unclean for a set period. That wasn’t punishment; it was protection. God built time for healing into His law. At the end of those days, she brought her offering — a lamb if she could afford it, or two turtledoves if she couldn’t. Grace was written right into the statute: no one priced out of purity.
The message is simple: Holiness comes before hurry.
God cares more about the purity of your heart than the productivity of your hands.
We reverse that all the time.
“I’ll volunteer at church … but I’m not in the right headspace.”
“I’ll lead that ministry … but I’m still working through my own stuff.”
We think activity will make us acceptable, but God says acceptance must come before activity.
Leviticus reminds us: purification precedes participation.
We live in an age obsessed with performance metrics. “Do more. Build more. Prove more.” Even ministry can turn into a competition of calendars. But God never asked for burnout; He asked for brokenness. He never said, “Impress Me.” He said, “Consecrate yourselves, and tomorrow you will see wonders.”
When Jesus washed the disciples’ feet, Peter protested. “You shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “If I don’t wash you, you have no part with Me.”
Purity before performance. Relationship before responsibility. Cleansing before calling.
So today, maybe your first act of obedience isn’t to do something — it’s to let God do something in you.
Let Him wash the private places where guilt still clings. Let Him scrub the shame that performance can’t hide. When He cleanses you, service stops being a burden and becomes an overflow.
You’ll no longer say, “I would obey, but I’m not worthy.”
You’ll say, “I will obey, because He has made me worthy.”
And when your heart is clean, your hands can build again.
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2 God’s Requirement, Not Our Excuse — Micah 6 : 8
Micah asks one of Scripture’s simplest and most searching questions:
“What does the Lord require of you?”
Then he answers it in words so clear they cut through centuries:
“To do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”
That’s it. Three verbs. No committees, no loopholes, no theological footnotes. Just justice, mercy, and humility.
The people of Israel had turned worship into negotiation. “How many sacrifices will it take to keep God happy? Would He prefer a thousand rams? Ten thousand rivers of oil?” They wanted to substitute offering for obedience, as though holiness were something you could pay for in installments.
God answered through Micah: “I’m not after your transactions. I’m after your transformation.”
And here’s where the but shows up again.
“I’d walk humbly, but people take advantage of me.”
“I’d be merciful, but they don’t deserve it.”
“I’d do what’s right, but it’ll cost me too much.”
Every “but” tries to negotiate with God’s requirements. But God’s will is not a suggestion box.
To do justice means to act on behalf of others, even when nobody notices. It’s seeing injustice and refusing to look away.
To love mercy means you don’t just extend forgiveness; you enjoy doing it. You relish grace because you’ve lived on the receiving end of it.
To walk humbly means you live with God-awareness instead of self-importance. You remember that every breath is borrowed.
Micah doesn’t say “run ahead of God” or “lag behind God.” He says “walk with God.” That’s daily, deliberate companionship.
When you start living like that, excuses dry up. You can’t cling to pride when you’re holding hands with humility.
Our modern versions of religion often sound impressive but weigh nothing: perfect music, polished sermons, yet hearts untouched by justice, mercy, or humility. We call it excellence; God calls it emptiness.
The Lord still whispers, “Do what’s right, love people, and stay low enough for Me to lift you.”
And when you do, the world sees Jesus — not because you shouted louder, but because you walked truer.
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3 Gifted for a Reason — 1 Peter 4 : 10 – 11
Peter writes,
“As each one has received a gift, minister it to one another,
as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.”
That means every believer carries a deposit of grace meant to be shared, not stored. The moment you were born again, heaven issued you an assignment. You weren’t saved to sit—you were shaped to serve.
But there’s a thief that robs the church of power more quietly than sin ever could: the subtle but.
“I’d serve, but I’m not qualified.”
“I’d help, but I’m too old.”
“I’d give, but I’m struggling myself.”
“I’d lead, but I’m scared to fail.”
Every “but” becomes a padlock on potential.
Think about Moses. God says, “Go to Pharaoh.” Moses replies, “But I can’t speak.”
Jeremiah protests, “But I’m only a child.”
Gideon pleads, “But my clan is the weakest.”
Heaven’s answer never changes: “I will be with you.”
When God calls, He doesn’t consult your résumé; He checks your readiness. He can anoint a stutter, magnify a whisper, multiply a lunch, and raise an army from a single “yes.”
Maybe you’ve said, “I’d serve God if my life were more together.”
But what if your service is the very thing that will pull your life together?
Serving shifts focus from weakness to willingness. It reminds you that ministry flows from mercy, not mastery.
Peter adds, “If anyone serves, let him do it with the strength God supplies.”
Notice the sequence: you serve and the strength comes. Strength doesn’t arrive in advance; it arrives in motion. Like manna, it falls when you start walking.
There’s a moment every believer must face—where obedience collides with inadequacy. You’ll feel it before every act of faith. That tremor in your chest isn’t fear; it’s potential stretching its wings.
The church isn’t short on talent. It’s short on trust.
God doesn’t need another superstar; He needs surrendered servants who will simply say, “Here I am—use me.”
When you shrink the but, the “can’t” becomes “can.”
When you step forward, grace rushes in to meet you.
I’ve seen it hundreds of times: the quiet person who said yes to teaching one Sabbath morning class becomes the gentle shepherd of a whole fellowship. The man who said yes to greeting at the door becomes the heart of hospitality in the congregation.
You don’t have to do everything—just the next thing He asks.
That’s the rhythm of stewardship: small steps, supplied strength, surprising outcomes.
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4 Doing God’s Will Defines the Family — Mark 3 : 35
Picture the scene. The house is packed. Jesus is teaching, words pouring like living water into a thirsty crowd. Suddenly someone pushes through and whispers, “Your mother and brothers are outside looking for You.”
It’s a moment thick with cultural tension. In that world, family ties were sacred; bloodline was destiny. But Jesus looks around at the faces near Him—fishermen, tax collectors, former outcasts—and says something that must have stunned everyone.
“Whoever does the will of God is My brother, sister, and mother.”
He didn’t say whoever knows it.
He didn’t say whoever talks about it.
He said whoever does it.
That single sentence redrew the boundaries of belonging.
Faith is not inheritance; it’s imitation.
We love the idea of being in God’s family, but obedience is the family resemblance.
The Father recognizes His children not by their vocabulary but by their behavior.
“I’m a Christian, but I don’t follow everything in the Bible.”
“I love Jesus, but I like doing things my way.”
Those “buts” blur the likeness.
Imagine a household where every child says, “I love my parents, but I don’t listen to them.” Chaos, not community.
Jesus calls us to a higher loyalty—obedience that outlives opinion.
Doing the will of God isn’t about dramatic acts; it’s about daily alignment.
It’s choosing honesty over convenience, forgiveness over resentment, generosity over greed. It’s saying yes even when no one sees.
Obedience is not a leash; it’s liberation. It frees you from the tyranny of self.
When you do His will, you step into your truest identity.
And notice the reward Jesus offers: family.
To obey is to belong.
To yield is to be known.
Every time you follow the Spirit’s nudge instead of your comfort zone, you reaffirm whose you are.
Every time you forgive when it hurts, you echo the heart of your Elder Brother.
Doing the will of God doesn’t make you His child—it reveals that you are.
The mark of genuine faith isn’t perfection; it’s perseverance.
When you stumble, you get back up. When you doubt, you still obey. When you can’t see the whole road, you walk by the light you have.
That’s how obedience becomes intimacy. You stop working for God and start walking with God.
The Christian life isn’t complicated—it’s costly.
It’s the steady rhythm of “Yes, Lord,” one step at a time.
And when you live that way, the world sees a reflection of the Son.
The family resemblance returns. The Father smiles. Heaven says, “That one looks like Jesus.”
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5 Trading Excuses for Obedience — Shrinking the “But”
We’ve traced purity before performance, requirement before excuse, giftedness before self-doubt, and obedience as the mark of family. Now comes the hinge point—the trade itself.
To trade something means to release what you have in exchange for something better. It’s a transaction of trust. When a merchant trades, he believes the item he’s receiving holds more value than what he’s giving away.
That’s what faith is: the willingness to trade the known for the promised, the seen for the unseen, the safe for the sacred.
When we cling to excuses, we’re clinging to something small—fear, pride, comfort, control. God asks us to trade them for something eternal—obedience, faith, purpose, joy.
Every time we say “but,” we’re clutching the smaller coin. We’re afraid to hand it over because it’s familiar, it jingles in our pocket, and we’ve learned how to count on it.
But God invites us to open our hand.
“Trade me your excuse for My empowerment.
Trade me your fear for My faithfulness.
Trade me your hesitation for My hope.”
Heaven’s economy runs on exchange.
When Moses traded his “but” for obedience, the Red Sea split.
When Esther traded her “but” for obedience, a nation was saved.
When Peter traded his “but” for obedience, the church was born.
And when Jesus faced His own garden prayer—“Father, if it be possible… but not My will, but Thine be done”—He showed us that even the human “but” can be redeemed into divine surrender.
The cross was built on that trade: our sin for His righteousness, our rebellion for His obedience.
So what does it mean for you and me today to trade excuses for obedience?
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1 It Means Owning Your Call
Stop outsourcing responsibility.
You are not someone else’s backup plan. God didn’t mis-dial when He called your name.
He didn’t mean to reach someone more eloquent, richer, younger, braver. He meant you.
Every excuse we craft is a subtle accusation that God misjudged us.
When we say, “I’d obey, but I can’t,” we’re implying that the Creator didn’t calculate our capacity.
But He did. He knit you together with your assignment in mind.
You are not under-qualified; you are perfectly appointed.
Own your call. Speak your yes. Watch heaven move.
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2 It Means Trusting His Timing
Many of our buts hide behind the clock.
“I’d do it, but this isn’t a good season.”
“I’d surrender, but I need to get through this first.”
We treat obedience like a future event—something we’ll start when conditions improve.
But God’s invitations come with an expiration date called now.
When the Israelites circled the mountain for forty years, it wasn’t because God forgot the map; it was because they kept saying “but.”
“But there are giants.”
“But the cities are fortified.”
“But we’re not ready.”
And every but added another lap.
Some of us have been walking circles around our calling for years.
You keep bumping into the same lessons, the same frustrations, the same unfulfilled dreams, because you’re orbiting obedience instead of entering it.
Trust His timing. The promised land opens only when the “but” closes.
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3 It Means Choosing Relationship Over Reputation
Micah’s “walk humbly with your God” isn’t about image—it’s about intimacy.
Excuses usually grow in the soil of comparison. We see someone else’s gift and say, “But I’m not like them.”
When Saul compared himself to David, jealousy bloomed. When Peter compared himself to John, distraction followed. Jesus had to say, “What is that to you? Follow Me.”
Obedience is personal. God’s instructions come in your size.
If He calls you to sing, don’t measure your voice against someone else’s microphone.
If He calls you to give, don’t check someone else’s wallet.
If He calls you to forgive, don’t wait for someone else to apologize first.
Relationship over reputation—presence over performance. That’s how the “but” shrinks and belonging grows.
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4 It Means Letting Grace Finish What You Start
Obedience will stretch you beyond your natural ability, and that’s on purpose.
Grace picks up where grit runs out.
Paul wrote, “It is God who works in you both to will and to do of His good pleasure.” Notice—He works in you, not merely through you.
Some people never begin because they’re waiting to feel ready.
Others begin but quit when resistance comes.
Grace says, “Keep walking. I’m the wind at your back.”
When you start to sink like Peter, grace doesn’t lecture—it reaches.
When you fall like Elijah under the broom tree, grace doesn’t scold—it cooks breakfast.
When you weep like Jeremiah, grace doesn’t hush—it collects every tear.
That’s the God we serve: the Finisher who refuses to leave projects half-done.
So when you hear the whisper, “I can’t keep this up,” answer it with truth:
“No — I can’t. But He can, and He is.”
That’s not a but of excuse; it’s a but of grace.
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5 Trading Excuses for Obedience — Shrinking the “But”
We’ve traced purity before performance, requirement before excuse, giftedness before self-doubt, and obedience as the mark of family. Now comes the hinge point—the trade itself.
To trade something means to release what you have in exchange for something better. It’s a transaction of trust. When a merchant trades, he believes the item he’s receiving holds more value than what he’s giving away.
That’s what faith is: the willingness to trade the known for the promised, the seen for the unseen, the safe for the sacred.
When we cling to excuses, we’re clinging to something small—fear, pride, comfort, control. God asks us to trade them for something eternal—obedience, faith, purpose, joy.
Every time we say “but,” we’re clutching the smaller coin. We’re afraid to hand it over because it’s familiar, it jingles in our pocket, and we’ve learned how to count on it.
But God invites us to open our hand.
“Trade me your excuse for My empowerment.
Trade me your fear for My faithfulness.
Trade me your hesitation for My hope.”
Heaven’s economy runs on exchange.
When Moses traded his “but” for obedience, the Red Sea split.
When Esther traded her “but” for obedience, a nation was saved.
When Peter traded his “but” for obedience, the church was born.
And when Jesus faced His own garden prayer—“Father, if it be possible… but not My will, but Thine be done”—He showed us that even the human “but” can be redeemed into divine surrender.
The cross was built on that trade: our sin for His righteousness, our rebellion for His obedience.
So what does it mean for you and me today to trade excuses for obedience?
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6 When Obedience Becomes Worship
There’s a point where obedience stops feeling like duty and starts sounding like doxology.
You realize each “yes” is a song.
Abraham’s walk up Mount Moriah was worship in motion.
Mary’s “Be it unto me” was worship in surrender.
Jesus’ “Not My will” was worship in agony.
When obedience becomes worship, excuses lose oxygen.
You stop bargaining with God because you’re too busy adoring Him.
That’s why heaven measures love not by how loudly we sing, but by how quickly we obey.
You can sing, “I surrender all,” yet still clutch the one area where obedience feels unsafe.
But when you release it—when you finally let go—peace floods in like fresh air in a sealed room.
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7 The Ripple Effect of One Yes
Never underestimate the reach of your obedience.
When Noah built an ark, he saved a world.
When Rahab hid the spies, she rewrote her family tree.
When Philip left a thriving revival to chase one Ethiopian chariot, he opened a continent to the gospel.
Obedience is contagious.
Your “yes” gives others permission to believe theirs matters too.
Think of the people in your circle—the ones watching quietly to see if faith is real.
They don’t need perfection; they need proof.
And your obedience is the proof that God still transforms ordinary people into living testimonies.
Someone is waiting on the other side of your obedience.
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8 The Final Exchange
Let’s bring it home.
We began talking about “buts”—the excuses that shrink our faith.
We laughed at cats, dogs, goldfish, and misplaced novels. But now the humor has turned to holy invitation.
God is standing at the door of your next step, hand extended.
He’s not angry. He’s patient.
He’s saying, “Trade Me your but.”
Give Him the sentence that begins, “I would, but …”
and let Him rewrite it as, “I will, because …”
Because He’s faithful.
Because He called you.
Because He cleansed you.
Because He deserves it.
Because you love Him.
The cross already paid for your yes.
All that’s left is to live it.
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Appeal — The Yes That Changes Everything
Maybe you’ve been living in the parentheses of a “but.”
You know what God has asked. You’ve felt the nudge in prayer, the restlessness at night, the repeated confirmation in Scripture—but every time you get close, the same word slips out.
“But I’m too hurt.”
“But I failed before.”
“But I don’t have what it takes.”
Tonight, the Spirit is whispering, “Shrink it.”
You don’t have to fix everything first. You just have to step.
Like the priests who carried the ark, the water won’t part until your foot touches it.
Take that step.
Trade your excuse for obedience.
Trade your hesitation for hope.
Trade your fear for faith.
There’s freedom on the other side of your yes.
Some of you will walk out of this place lighter than you’ve felt in years—not because your circumstances changed, but because your posture did. You stopped leaning away from God and started leaning in.
Your “yes” tonight might seem small—a prayer, a phone call, a confession, a commitment—but heaven counts it as monumental.
And when you do, something miraculous happens: your story becomes someone else’s reason to believe.
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Closing Exhortation
Don’t let the sermon end with “but.”
Let it end with “because.”
Because He saved me, I will serve.
Because He healed me, I will help.
Because He forgave me, I will follow.
Because He loves me, I will obey.
Shrink the but, and watch God enlarge the blessing.
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Closing Prayer
Father,
We’ve made so many promises punctuated with but.
We’ve told You we would obey if conditions were right, if wounds were healed, if fear would fade.
Tonight we trade all of that for a simple, sacred yes.
Purify our hearts before performance, remind us what You require, awaken the gifts You’ve placed within us, and knit us into the family that does Your will.
Let obedience become our worship, and may our small steps open wide the gates of Your glory.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
