When God Leans Into Your Nothing
There's a moment in Genesis 1 that's easy to rush past. Before the light, before the land and seas, before the stars were flung into space, there was darkness. Chaos. Emptiness. The Hebrew words paint a picture of a formless void—wild and waste.
And hovering over that nothing? God. Not walking away from it. Not angry at it. Attracted to it.
This past Sunday, as our community processed yet another week of violence, loss, and the weight of a world that feels like it's on fire, Pastor Chad drew our attention to this stunning reality: the same God who looked at cosmic chaos and saw a canvas for creation looks at the darkness in our lives the exact same way.
Two Creation Stories
Chad connected Genesis 1 with an unexpected companion: Luke 24. On the day of resurrection—the first day of the new creation—two disciples were walking away from Jerusalem. They had the evidence: the empty tomb, the angels' testimony, the third day prophecy. Yet their faces were downcast. Their conclusion? "We had hoped he was the one." Past tense.
They were surrounded by darkness. Running from it. And Jesus did something remarkable—He didn't scold them from a distance. He came near. He walked with them. He asked questions as if He didn't already know the answers.
Sound familiar? The Spirit of God hovering over the waters. Jesus hovering alongside the hopeless.
The Wrong Lenses
Here's what convicted me: those disciples knew Scripture. They grew up memorizing it, discussing it, living by it. And they still got it wrong.
Why? Because they were reading it like security camera footage—data to analyze, problems to solve, ammunition to stockpile. They missed that it was a love story.
Genesis 1 isn't a science textbook. It's poetry. And poetry doesn't diminish truth—it deepens it. The creation story isn't interested in debating how many hours are in a day or whether the earth is young or old. It's interested in who created, why they created, and what it was meant to be.
The why? Love.
Love at the Speed of Light
Chad took us on a journey through the cosmos—186,282 miles per second to cross to the moon in 1.3 seconds, but 50,000 years just to cross our own galaxy. Two trillion galaxies. One septillion planets. And Genesis 1:16 almost casually mentions: "He also made the stars."
That was a Thursday.
The God of that kind of power looks at your emptiness—your doubt, your trauma, your running away—and says, "Let me at it. I love this. I love your nothingness. You don't believe in me? I'm all about that. I'm coming."
When those disciples finally recognized Jesus at dinner, when He broke bread in that familiar way, they asked each other: "Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?"
That's what the Bible is supposed to do. Not give us formulas or algorithms. Not arm us for debates. It's supposed to set us on fire.
The Hardest Application
Perhaps the most challenging moment came when Chad addressed how we view others—especially those we're tempted to hate.
"Every person," he said, "bears God's image. Two weeks ago, both sitting under Christmas trees, hugging their families."
This doesn't erase what's wrong. It doesn't negate the need for justice or restitution. But it resists the darkness that wants us to other, to label, to wish destruction.
The same God who speaks "let there be light" into our darkness calls us to be light carriers—even when everything in us wants to curse.
Your Name
Isaiah 40 says God brings out the starry host one by one and calls them each by name. Not one is missing.
"So why do you complain," Isaiah asks, "that your way is hidden from the Lord? That your cause is disregarded by your God?"
The God who names stars knows yours. The Word that spoke galaxies into existence is the Word made flesh who chooses to enter your chaos. He doesn't give you a formula. He gives you Himself.
And with affection, He calls your name and says: "Wake up. I'm bringing you to life. I have plans."
Whatever darkness you're sitting in today—doubt, grief, exhaustion, cynicism—know this: God sees that canvas. And He's not walking away.
He's hovering. Ready to create.