When God’s light blinds: Standing firm in the glare of truth

In the intensive care unit, the room went still except for the hum of the monitors and the shallow rise and fall of my wife’s chest. She lay pale from anesthesia, her body marked by decades of procedures.

Mike Tyson famously said, “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” I knew what I believed — or thought I did — until reality landed its blow. The light of Christ still shone, but in that moment it felt blinding as I strained to process what was right before me.

Headlines trumpet confusion as wisdom, cruelty as strength, and lies as truth. God’s light exposes all of it.

Christian, what do you believe?

That question often barges in under fluorescent lights at zero-dark-thirty, in the antiseptic air of another hospital ward. I have carried it for four decades. The answers I had given in calmer moments felt almost foreign. What felt solid now seemed strange in the glare of suffering — like when our surgeon told Gracie to shield her eyes before flipping on the switch during early rounds.

Light can blind — at first

The light can be startling — even blinding. Nathan’s words to David were blunt: “Thou art the man” (2 Samuel 12:7, KJV). In an instant, the light of God’s truth flooded David’s soul. He wasn’t confused by darkness — he was undone by holiness.

That first rush of light leaves us blinking, unsure of our next step. I’ve watched how often believers steady one another in those moments. Many recall stumbling in the dark, but fewer notice how many flounder in the light.

Paul did. On the road to Damascus, he was blinded by Christ’s light. For three days, he couldn’t see, eat, or drink — helpless until another believer, Ananias, prayed over him. Paul didn’t start his ministry standing tall; he began flat on the ground, unable to move without help.

Step from a dark room into sudden brightness, or bask in sunlight only to move into shade, and your eyes scramble to adjust. The same happens when God’s word exposes what we’d rather not see or illuminates what we can’t easily process. As C.S. Lewis once said of the sun, “By it, I see everything else.”

But learning to live in the light takes time. Lewis captured that same disorientation in “The Last Battle,” when Eustace stepped unwittingly into Aslan’s country through a terrifying portal. What lay ahead looked strange and even jarring, though it opened to something unimaginably wonderful. But as friends came alongside him, his fear gave way to awe.

The beauty hadn’t changed; only his ability to stand in it had.

The man in Mark 8 felt this too. When Jesus touched his eyes, he blinked into daylight and said, “I see people, but they look like trees, walking.” He knew the light was real, but the world inside it looked strange. He needed another touch before he could see clearly.

Are we willing to be light?

Our culture knows the disorientation but refuses the cure. Headlines trumpet confusion as wisdom, cruelty as strength, and lies as truth. God’s light exposes all of it. Which is why we must ask: Christian, what do we believe?

And am I willing to live as light in a world stumbling in darkness? Am I willing to be Nathan, speaking truth that wounds in order to heal — first to myself and then to others? Am I willing to be like Ananias, walking toward a Saul who once hated the faith and offering the touch that restores his sight?

What I’ve seen is that Christ’s call doesn’t stop with stepping into the light; it presses us to keep walking in it — and to carry it to others.

The psalmist wrote, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” Not a floodlight for the road — just a lamp for the next step. Step by step, not sprinting.

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Some, like Paul, even knew ahead of time what he would suffer. Yet God gave grace — and even a glimpse of glory. The vision didn’t erase the hardship but rather reshaped how Paul endured it.

The famed hymn writer Fanny Crosby understood this better than most. Blinded as a baby, she said, “When I get to heaven, the first face that shall ever gladden my sight will be that of my Savior.”

Until then, Christ’s call remains: “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.” A lamp doesn’t hide under a basket. A beacon shines so that others can find safety.

A call to stand firm

On this four-decade journey as a caregiver, I must preach to myself daily: “Stop floundering in the light!” Take a breath. Stand firm on the ground it reveals.

And once I’ve found my footing — usually with another steadying me — I’m called to help the next person who’s still blinking in the brightness.