Held Low

We often approach faith like it owes us answers, as if our patience and obedience might earn us a clear view of what comes next. But scripture actually shows what guidance looks like in a very different, strategic yet practical way.

God’s direction and promises as they are presented in His Word rarely look like crystal balls or answer keys. What he gives us is really a guide that reminds us to prioritize orientation over foresight, and movement over certainty.

I’ve noticed that there are seasons when these distinctions matter more than we expect. When a once familiar road becomes blanketed in fog, faith is no longer about seeing the whole road, but about learning how to keep moving in reduced visibility.

Without going into detail, this is where I find myself now - on a dark, foggy, uneven path that forces me to think carefully about what it actually means to walk by faith when clarity feels so out of reach. Lately, I am unsure of the way forward. But it is also in this very terrain where my faith gets to show me what practice really looks like.

In a setting such as this, I find myself returning to a specific image from Psalm 119 that has quietly reshaped how I understand what faith is meant to provide.

A couple of years ago, a former pastor of mine pointed out something that has stayed with me. (Credit where it’s due, shoutout Brian.) When Psalm 119:105 says, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path,” it is not describing a floodlight…it is describing an oil lamp.

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. Psalm 119:105

An oil lamp! Tiny, held low, with only enough illumination to see the space that you’re standing in.

Before this visual prompting, I hadn’t realized how deeply I associated “light” with full access to everything ahead. What a relief to understand that I wasn’t meant to see the whole road. I’ve held onto this detail without fully knowing why. Now that I need it, however, it has taken on a different kind of weight.  

I’m used to seeing excerpts from Psalm 119 quoted for comfort, and have even sought these words myself in moments of struggle. But in my latest study, I’ve come to understand that this poem was not actually written from a place of comfort at all, or even from the safety of having conquered a dark trail. It is written in the present tense perspective, from right inside of uncertainty.

Throughout the psalm, the writer speaks through active and ongoing distress. He begs for help to stay alive and endure.

I am laid low in the dust; preserve my life according to your word. My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word. My soul faints with longing for your salvation, but I have put my hope in your word. My eyes fail, looking for your promise; I say, “When will you comfort me?” Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path. I have suffered much; preserve my life, Lord, according to your word.  Psalm 119:25, 28, 81-83, 105, 107

When the psalmist brings up that lamp, he is not offering the optimism of hindsight clarity…he is describing survival as it unfolds.

The imagery is brilliant. A small lamp that illuminated only the ground immediately at your feet. You can’t run with this type of light. The sole purpose of the portable oil lamp was to keep someone from falling in the dark. Which reminds us that knowing where to place your foot must matter more than knowing where the road eventually leads.

Psalm 119:105 does not say that the Word of God dissolves all uncertainty into a clear view. But it does tell us that with it, we have the ability to navigate in darkness.

As you move through the text, you’ll notice that the psalmist circles the same truths again and again. This isn’t repetitive by accident, as uncertainty itself is circular. We can follow him as he seems to be rehearsing trust, obedience, and remembrance across the length of the poem. It’s not because he forgets, but because he is still walking.

I delight in your decrees; I will not neglect your word. Teach me, Lord, the way of your decrees, that I may follow it to the end. Give me understanding, so that I may keep your law and obey it with all my heart. Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight. Your word, Lord, is eternal; it stands firm in the heavens. Your faithfulness continues through all generations; you established the earth, and it endures. Your laws endure to this day, for all things serve you. If your law had not been my delight, I would have perished in my affliction. I will never forget your precepts, for by them you have preserved my life.   Psalm 119:16, 33-35, 89-93

In a state of fear, we tend to cling to what we know, returning again and again to what has proven to steady us. We check our footing, knowing that, at minimum, we need to continue to put one foot in front of the other. Psalm 119 reflects this pattern. Our author is walking in the dark, pausing often, and adjusting the light that he has before continuing.

Likewise, there are moments when I open my Bible hoping for clarity, but realize instead that I’m reading something I already know. It doesn’t always answer the question I brought with me, but it steadies me anyway. I’m learning to accept that the light provided through the Word does not reveal what is going to happen, but it will always remind me what is true right now. And in times of stress, it is recognition that brings calming more than insight. The psalmist is not trying to predict where the road leads. He is trying to stay upright on it - steady enough to keep walking when the light is low. This is why he cycles through the truth so relentlessly. Wisdom, I’m finding, doesn’t come from sudden inspiration, as much as it is built from the memories of what we have learned, and what we’ve learned to carry.

I didn’t have language for it then, but my first memorable encounter with a light I thought I needed actually left me wanting limits instead.

Specifically, my own earliest understanding of a flood light came from the motion-activated light attached to our house when I was a kid. For a long time, I actually assumed that the word “floodlight” literally meant a light that turns on suddenly and shows you everything at once. And when ours did this, it was a novel concept at the time to see a beam reach so far beyond where I was standing. The yard lit up all at once. Trees, corners, shadows I had not noticed before. Interestingly, I was actually afraid of triggering it, specifically because of how much the light revealed. Spiderwebs, glowing eyes in my peripheral. Details I had not asked to see. That flood light never did make me feel safer - it only overwhelmed me.

Once again, I am reminded that there is relief in limitations. Realistically, we rarely have the power to fully remove stress, but understanding the reach of the oil lamp helps reframe it by shrinking its scope. If worry is only allowed to run as far as the lamp light reaches, its boundaries become visible, and we can see only what we need. The psalmist shares an example of faith setting limits, not giving control. I’ve said this before and stand by it here as well: the absence of future clarity should not be a barrier to obedience. It should not halt movement or unravel the netting of trust.

Something else that I really want to emphasize is that the psalmist of this poem does not claim an understanding of what God is doing. He does not suggest answers to things such as why suffering exists, how long pain will last, or what outcomes to expect. Instead, he keeps returning to the same anchor. The Word. Not as explanation, but as orientation. And Psalm 119 explains something so intrinsic. We don’t need more light; we need closer light. And we don’t need a faith that makes the darkness ahead turn into butterflies… we just need a faith that accepts the size of the light and trusts its limits. Right now, that matters to me.

So, I am not standing in or waiting for a floodlight. When I get questions about what we’re going through right now, how we are managing, what we’ve checked off, and what our plan is … when I say I don’t know it’s not because I’m not being active. But it does me no good to squint into what has not been given. I really cannot see what is ahead, I cannot even clearly see what is behind us right now – not well enough to reiterate to the well-meaning and the curious. But please know, I’m okay not seeing the whole path, I just need to know where to place my foot, and equally as important, where not to place it. What I do know for certain now - what I want to leave with others - is that a lamp cannot tell you where the road ends, but it can reveal where your next step should land. And if the Word is the lamp, there will always be enough light to keep walking. But most importantly … the lamp will only shine if you carry it with you.

May my cry come before you, Lord; give me understanding according to your word. May my supplication come before you; deliver me according to your promise. May my lips overflow with praise, for you teach me your decrees. May my tongue sing of your word, for all your commands are righteous. May your hand be ready to help me, for I have chosen your precepts. I long for your salvation, Lord, and your law gives me delight. Let me live that I may praise you, and may your laws sustain me.  Psalm 119:169-175