Let There Be Light: Genesis 1:1-5

Before anything was, God was.

No space. No time. No matter spinning through void. Nothing but the eternal I AM, complete in himself, needing nothing, lacking nothing—yet choosing, in the mystery of divine love, to create.

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

The earth was formless and empty. Imagine it: chaos without shape, darkness so absolute it had never known the concept of light, waters churning in the void with no shore to break against. The deep—that ancient Hebrew word tehom carries the weight of primordial abyss, the yawning emptiness before existence found its footing.

And the Spirit of God hovered over the waters.

Hovered. The word suggests a bird brooding over eggs, wings trembling with generative power, life waiting to burst forth. The Spirit moved across the face of the deep, pregnant with possibility.

Then God spoke.

"Let there be light."

And there was light.

No sun yet—that would come later. This was light itself, pure and primordial, ripping through the darkness like the first breath of a newborn universe. Light that had no source except the voice of God. Light that existed because he commanded it to exist.

God saw that the light was good.

He separated the light from the darkness. He called the light "day" and the darkness "night." The first naming. The first ordering. Chaos beginning to take shape under the weight of divine speech.

And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.

One day. One word. One explosion of existence where nothing had been. The story had begun.