Walking In The Light Series

Night flying has its own unique challenges.

During the day, a pilot has constant reference points — the horizon, the ground, landmarks that quietly tell you where you are in relation to everything else.

At night, many of those references disappear. You can still fly. The aircraft still responds. The instruments are still working.

But something subtle changes. You become far more aware of distance. Lights that are miles away can look close. Things that are close can disappear entirely. A single light can begin to matter more than everything else around it.

The danger in night flying isn’t always sudden disorientation. Often, it’s drift. Not a dramatic loss of control — but a slow widening of distance between the pilot and the references that keep flight stable.

That’s why pilots are trained not just to read instruments, but to stay oriented — to remain aligned — to resist the quiet temptation to wander from what is holding them steady.

Long before anyone ever flew an airplane, Scripture described this human condition.

“Darkness was upon the face of the deep.”

That’s how the Bible begins.

Not with sin.

Not with rebellion.

Not with failure.

With darkness.

Formless.

Empty.

Unoriented.

And notice what God does next. He does not condemn the darkness. He does not punish the chaos. He does not lecture the void.

He speaks.

“Let there be light.”

Light does not arrive as judgment. It arrives as presence. Before land or sky. Before purpose or direction. Before anything is named or shaped —

There is light.

Light is what makes everything else possible. Spiritually, many of us recognize this immediately.

There are seasons when faith feels clear — prayer flows, Scripture feels alive, God feels near. And then there are other seasons. Nothing dramatic has happened. No rebellion. No collapse. Just… distance.

God feels farther away than He really is. Problems feel closer than they actually are. Truth hasn’t moved — but our sense of nearness has. Nothing essential has changed. Except where we are standing.

In those moments, the danger isn’t that we’ve stopped believing. It’s that we’ve stopped remaining.

Darkness doesn’t always push us away. Sometimes it simply invites us to drift.

Here is the good news Scripture has been telling from the beginning: God does not withdraw His light. He remains.

“God is light, and in Him there is no darkness at all.”

Which means walking in the light doesn’t mean life is always bright.It means staying near what gives light. Not rushing. Not striving. Not constantly recalibrating.

Remaining.

Tonight, we’re going to talk about what it means to walk in the light — not as a moment of clarity, but as a way of staying.

Not how to escape darkness.

But how to abide near the One whose presence defines reality.

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Because faith is not the absence of darkness.

Faith is choosing nearness

when darkness is present.

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--- Part One: Walking, Not Standing Still

One of the most common misunderstandings about faith is the assumption that clarity should be permanent.

We come to Christ, the light breaks in, and for a while things make sense.

Prayer feels natural.

Scripture feels alive.

Direction feels clear.

Somewhere along the way — often without realizing it — we begin to believe that this is how faith is supposed to feel all the time. That once we’ve come into the light, darkness should be behind us.

Scripture never makes that promise. Jesus does not say, “Whoever follows Me will never experience darkness.”

He says,

“Whoever follows Me will not walk in darkness.”

That distinction matters.

Jesus does not promise the absence of darkness. He promises direction within it.

Notice the verb He chooses.

Not stand.

Not arrive.

Not settle permanently.

Walk.

--- Part Two: What to Trust When You Can’t Trust Your Senses

One of the most dangerous moments in low visibility is not panic.

It’s confidence.

In night flying, pilots are taught that when visual references disappear, their instincts don’t go quiet — they become persuasive.

The aircraft feels level.

The motion feels steady.

Nothing seems obviously wrong.

And very often, that’s when a mistake is being made.

The body insists it knows where it is.

The inner ear offers reassurance.

The senses say, “You’re fine.”

But they’re wrong.

That’s why pilots are trained early to learn a hard lesson: there are moments when you must stop trusting how things feel and start trusting what you know.

They are taught to rely on instruments — fixed references that do not change just because perception does.

Spiritually, the same principle applies. There are seasons when faith feels intuitive — when what you feel and what is true line up neatly. Prayer flows. Scripture resonates. God feels near.

And then there are seasons when they don’t. Prayer feels flat. Scripture feels distant. God feels farther away than He really is. In those moments, the danger is not darkness. The danger is misinterpretation.