Into the Glory

I woke up yesterday with that familiar pull again—the quiet, holy pressure in my spirit that refuses to let me live casual. Not because God is angry with me, and not because He’s dangling acceptance like a carrot. But because His glory is not a concept. His glory is a realm. And once you’ve tasted even a drop of His nearness, you start to realize something: life was never meant to be lived at a distance.

There is a way to walk with the Lord that is more than believing the right things. More than attending, serving, posting, and quoting. It’s the daily, practiced communion where your inner world becomes a sanctuary and your outer life becomes evidence. And the invitation is not reserved for the spiritually elite. It’s for the tired, the hungry, the ones who keep failing forward, the ones who are done performing and ready to be possessed—owned by love, led by the Spirit, and shaped by the Presence.

I hear the Spirit whispering, Into the glory. Not as a slogan. As a summons.

Because there’s a difference between visiting God and abiding in Him. And if I’m honest, there have been seasons where I treated the presence of God like a rescue boat—something I called for when the waves got high. But the Lord doesn’t want to be my emergency contact. He wants to be my atmosphere. Jesus didn’t say, “Visit Me when you can.” He said, “Abide in Me” (John 15:4–5). And that word abide is not rushed. It’s not occasional. It’s not convenient. It’s home.

Some people think the glory is only for the church service, the worship set, the conference night when the music is perfect and the room feels charged. But I’ve learned the glory doesn’t belong to a building. It belongs to a yielded life. Moses didn’t meet God in a cathedral. He met Him in the wilderness. And the burning bush wasn’t impressive because it burned—it was holy because God was in it (Exodus 3:1–6). That’s what changes ordinary ground into sacred ground: Presence.

And for years, I’ve carried a thought about Moses that won’t leave me alone. It’s not something I can prove with a timeline or measure with a ruler, but it rings in my spirit like a bell that keeps sounding: what if that bush had been burning long before Moses ever noticed it? What if it wasn’t a new fire that appeared that day, but an eternal invitation that had been blazing in the wilderness for years—maybe even the full forty years Moses was out there—while Moses was still becoming the kind of man who could see it?

Because the issue in the wilderness was never whether God was present. The issue was whether Moses was prepared to recognize Presence.

I can almost picture it—the same terrain, the same dust, the same silence, the same sheep, the same long days that looked like nothing was happening. And somewhere in that landscape, a flame that refused to consume, a holy mystery that would not go out, an altar that could not be explained. Yet Moses kept walking past it season after season, year after year, not because the bush wasn’t burning, but because his inner world wasn’t yet trained to discern what his eyes were looking at.

That’s what preparation does. Preparation doesn’t always change my environment; it changes my perception. It doesn’t always move the mountain; it opens my eyes to the God who has been standing on the mountain the whole time. And I feel the Spirit pressing this into my heart: some of the “burning bushes” in my life have been there longer than I think. The Lord has been speaking longer than I think. The Lord has been drawing me longer than I think. But there comes a point—an appointed point—when the internal training finally catches up to the external invitation.

Moses didn’t enter the wilderness as a meek man. He entered it as a man with wounds, a man with failure, a man with history—once a prince in Pharaoh’s house, then a fugitive, then a shepherd. Forty years of obscurity. Forty years of quiet. Forty years of smallness. And if I’m honest, that sounds like the kind of season we call “wasted” when we don’t understand what God is doing. But heaven never calls it wasted when God is shaping you.

Because the wilderness wasn’t punishment—it was preparation. It was the Lord stripping Moses of Egypt’s identity, Egypt’s methods, Egypt’s pride, Egypt’s strength. It was God teaching him how to lead one stubborn sheep at a time, so later he could lead a nation one stubborn step at a time. It was God teaching him patience, silence, endurance, humility—so that when glory appeared, Moses wouldn’t run past it chasing something else. He would finally have the spiritual maturity to do what many never do: turn aside.

And when Moses turned aside, Scripture says God called to him from the midst of the bush (Exodus 3:4). That detail grips me. God didn’t only call when Moses was near. God called when Moses was attentive. When Moses was ready. When Moses stopped, and looked, and yielded his attention. That’s when glory becomes personal. The fire may be present, but the encounter is released when a prepared heart recognizes the holy.

And I need to emphasize this because it’s not a minor detail in Exodus 3—it’s a spiritual law hiding in plain sight. The text doesn’t just say Moses saw the bush. It says he turned aside. “I will now turn aside and see this great sight…” (Exodus 3:3). That turning wasn’t physical only—it was spiritual. It was the moment Moses withdrew his attention from the familiar, from the routine, from the survival rhythm of the wilderness, and he gave his focus to what was holy. And then—only then—Scripture says God called to him from the midst of the bush (Exodus 3:4).

That tells me something that will change the way I live: God’s movement often waits for my turning. Not because God is weak. Not because heaven is limited. But because God is relational. He does not force revelation on a distracted heart. He draws. He signals. He burns without consuming. And when I finally turn—when I finally give Him my attention, when I finally slow down enough to spiritually see—then what was “present” becomes “personal,” and what was “near” becomes “now.”

Moses didn’t just notice something unusual. He responded to the invitation of the unusual. The turning aside was his consent. It was his “yes.” It was him saying, “This matters more than what I’m doing.” And I can hear the Spirit saying to believers right now: My glory has been waiting for your attention. My voice has been waiting for your stillness. My direction has been waiting for your surrender.

Because throughout Scripture, this pattern repeats: revelation comes first, and then heaven moves. The Lord reveals, the heart responds, and that response becomes the trigger point for divine action. Revelation is not information. Revelation is illumination—God letting you see what you couldn’t see before. And when you see, you can’t unsee. When you truly see, your obedience becomes possible. When you truly see, your life is disrupted in the most holy way.

This is why so many people want breakthrough but avoid revelation. Because revelation costs you your old story. It costs you your old excuses. It costs you the comfort of remaining unchanged.

And this is why I’m convinced that one of the greatest prayer points in this hour isn’t “Lord, change my circumstances,” but “Lord, open my eyes.” Because when eyes open, feet move. When hearts awaken, altars get built. When revelation lands, heaven starts rearranging things.

We see it in the New Testament with Peter. There’s a moment when Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15). And Peter answers by revelation, not by logic: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16). Jesus immediately identifies the source: “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but My Father…” (Matthew 16:17). In other words, Peter didn’t just have an opinion—he had an unveiling. And the second that revelation came, everything intensified. It’s like heaven said, “Now that you see who I am, you’re ready to hear what I’m about to do.”

And right after that, Jesus begins to speak plainly: “From that time Jesus began to show to His disciples that He must go to Jerusalem, and suffer… and be killed, and be raised the third day” (Matthew 16:21). Do you see the sequence? Revelation of Christ, then revelation of the cross. Revelation of identity, then revelation of assignment. Revelation of glory, then confrontation with sacrifice.

And chaos always tries to surround true revelation. Not because revelation is wrong—because revelation is dangerous to hell. When you see Jesus rightly, your life cannot remain the same. When you see Jesus rightly, your future is no longer negotiable. When you see Jesus rightly, a spiritual collision happens between what heaven intends and what your flesh prefers.

Peter got the revelation—but the next thing he tried to do was resist the pathway. He wanted the Christ without the cross, the crown without the suffering, the victory without the process. And Jesus had to confront that immediately because the revelation was real, but Peter’s mind still needed alignment (Matthew 16:22–23). And that’s the tenderness of God: He will give me revelation, but He will also deal with whatever in me tries to fight the implications of what I just saw.

So I’m hearing the Lord say: turn aside again. Not just into prayer. Not just into worship. But into perception. Into attentiveness. Into spiritual sight. Because many are asking God to move while refusing to look. Many are asking God to speak while refusing to quiet. Many are asking for change while refusing the revelation that would produce it.

But when I turn aside—when I stop, when I look, when I yield my attention—something happens in the unseen. Heaven leans in. The voice of God becomes clearer. Direction gets released. Assignments become defined. And yes, sometimes the warfare increases after revelation, not because I did something wrong, but because I finally stepped into what is real.

The bush was burning. Peter was seeing. And in both moments, heaven’s movement followed the moment of revelation.

And right here—this is the actual message of walking into the glory: it isn’t first about chasing encounters; it’s about becoming the kind of person who can recognize the Holy One when He is near. It’s learning the sacred rhythm of turning aside, seeing by the Spirit, receiving revelation, and then responding with obedience. Because glory is not merely something I feel—it’s something I enter by surrender. And the doorway is revelation.

So I choose it again: Lord, give me eyes to see—and give me the courage to respond to what I see.

That’s what I’m talking about when I say, walking daily with the Lord. It’s not trying harder. It’s turning aside. It’s recognizing the “burning bushes” hidden in the routine—morning coffee, a quiet drive, the kitchen, the interruptions—and choosing to respond to the whisper instead of the noise.

Because the noise is real.

There are days my mind feels like a crowded market. Thoughts calling for attention. Problems demanding solutions. People needing answers. Emotions rising like weather. And I can feel the subtle drift—the human drift—where I start to live from my soul instead of my spirit. I begin to react instead of discern. I begin to hurry instead of listen. And suddenly, without even meaning to, I’m “doing life” while the Lord is standing right there, waiting for me to notice Him again.

But the Spirit is faithful. He doesn’t shout to compete. He taps. He nudges. He draws. And He brings me back to that simple, fierce, beautiful posture: Seek first the kingdom of God (Matthew 6:33). Not seek first the solution. Not seek first the opinion of people. Not seek first the emotional relief. Seek first the King.

I’ve learned that walking with the Lord daily is not primarily about adding more spiritual activities. It’s about surrendering the inner control center. It’s about yielding the first and deepest “yes” of the day.

Sometimes I wake up and my flesh is already writing my schedule. My natural mind is already rehearsing conversations. My emotions are already forecasting disappointment. And if I don’t interrupt that early, I will live the whole day under the management of self. That’s why the most spiritual thing I can do at the start of my day is often the simplest:

“Holy Spirit, I belong to You. Lead me today. I refuse to live independent. I refuse to live distracted. I refuse to live numb.”

Because the truth is, the war for glory is fought in the ordinary.

Most people imagine spiritual warfare as a dramatic moment—an obvious temptation, a major crisis, a visible attack. But more often than not, the enemy’s strategy is quieter: fatigue, distraction, irritability, compromise-by-inches, procrastinated obedience, and a slow leak of passion. He doesn’t always need to destroy me—he just needs to dull me.

And dull believers don’t shine.

Dull believers still attend. Still post. Still talk. Still function. But they stop burning. The lamp is still there—there’s just no oil in the secret place. And Scripture is clear: the wise ones carried oil (Matthew 25:1–13). Oil doesn’t come from hype. Oil comes from intimacy. Oil comes from the hidden life with God where no one claps and no one sees—where you and the Lord tell the truth together.

That’s where glory begins: in truth.

Walking daily with the Lord means I stop lying to myself. I stop calling busyness “fruitfulness.” I stop calling avoidance “peace.” I stop calling compromise “wisdom.” And I let the Lord search me—not to shame me, but to heal me. “Search me, O God… and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23–24). When I pray that sincerely, I’m basically saying, “Lord, disrupt whatever is keeping me shallow.”

And He will.

Sometimes the Lord leads me into glory by confronting what I’ve been tolerating.

There are patterns that can live in a believer like squatters—attitudes we excuse, reactions we justify, words we don’t repent of because they’re “understandable.” But glory and excuse-making do not coexist comfortably. The closer I get to God, the more my mouth matters. Not just my actions—my spirit. My tone. My posture. The way I carry disagreement. The way I interpret people. The assumptions I entertain. Because “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Luke 6:45). If the heart becomes a sanctuary, the mouth becomes a river of life. If the heart becomes cluttered, the mouth becomes a weapon.

And I’m realizing this: the Lord is raising believers in this hour who will not just be right—they will be radiant. Not just doctrinally sound—internally aligned. People whose inner world has been disciplined by love.

Because love is the clearest attribute of God. “God is love” (1 John 4:8). Not God has love. Not God sometimes shows love. God is love. Which means the closer I draw to Him, the more love must become my nature too. Not sentimental love. Not tolerant love. Covenant love. Holy love. The kind that speaks truth without cruelty, and carries power without pride.

Walking daily with the Lord means love becomes my leadership.

It’s easy to be spiritual when everything is easy. But daily walking reveals what’s really reigning. When someone cuts me off in traffic. When plans change. When I’m misunderstood. When I’m tired. When I’m tempted to “handle it myself.” That’s where the Lord looks at me and says, “Will you let Me lead you here too?”

Because He’s not just Lord of my worship songs. He’s Lord of my reactions.

And this is where glory gets practical.

Glory looks like the Spirit stopping me mid-sentence and saying, “Don’t say that.”

Glory looks like the Lord softening my heart toward someone I wanted to label.

Glory looks like obedience when no one will reward it.

Glory looks like forgiveness before the apology arrives.

Glory looks like generosity that doesn’t need to be noticed.

Glory looks like shutting the door on temptation before the argument starts.

Glory looks like peace that doesn’t make sense (Philippians 4:6–7).

People ask, “How do you walk daily with God?” And I’ve learned it’s not one grand secret. It’s a thousand small turnings.

It’s choosing to “set my mind on things above” (Colossians 3:1–2) when my mind wants to spiral.

It’s choosing stillness when my flesh wants noise.

It’s choosing prayer when my ego wants control.

It’s choosing humility when my pride wants to be right.

It’s choosing worship when my mood wants to sulk.

And the Lord meets me in that.

Not because I earn Him, but because I align with Him.

There’s a verse that has become like a doorway for me: “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91:1). Notice it doesn’t say, “He who visits.” It says, “He who dwells.” The secret place is not an occasional retreat. It’s a home address. It’s where my soul learns to sit down and stop running the world.

And here’s what I’ve learned about the secret place: it isn’t only a location. It’s a posture.

Yes, it includes time alone with God—Scripture open, heart honest, spirit quiet. But it also becomes a continual inward turning throughout the day. Like a radio dial tuned to heaven. I’m learning to “pray without ceasing” (1 Thessalonians 5:17) not by speaking nonstop, but by staying God-aware. By keeping a thread of communion running in the background of everything.

“Holy Spirit, what are You saying right now?”

“Lord, what do You want me to do next?”

“Jesus, keep me gentle.”

“Father, I trust You.”

That’s daily walking. That’s how the glory becomes my environment instead of my event.

And I need to say this because someone reading this feels disqualified: you don’t walk into glory by being flawless. You walk into glory by being honest.

The enemy loves to accuse. He’ll tell you, “You messed up. You’re unworthy. Stay away.” But the Spirit convicts differently. The Spirit says, “Come closer. Let Me cleanse you. Let Me restore you.” “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us… and cleanse us” (1 John 1:9). Cleansing is not a one-time thing. It’s part of the walk. Feet get dusty on the road. That’s why Jesus washed feet (John 13:5–10). Daily walking requires daily washing.

So I don’t run from Him when I stumble. I run to Him.

I’ve also learned that walking daily with the Lord means learning to obey quickly.

Delayed obedience is often disguised rebellion. We don’t call it rebellion because we still “mean to.” We still “intend to.” We still “agree” with God. But the truth is: intentions don’t transform me—obedience does.

Jesus said, “If anyone loves Me, he will keep My word” (John 14:23). Love proves itself in obedience. And obedience is not primarily about rules—it’s about relationship. It’s about trusting the One who leads you.

Sometimes the Lord tells me to do things that seem small: send that message, apologize first, give that offering, stop watching that, get up earlier, forgive again, cancel that plan, take a walk and pray, read that chapter, sit in silence for ten minutes. And I’m learning that small obediences are the bricks that build a life strong enough to carry glory.

Because glory has weight.

The Bible describes glory as something substantial, something that changes a person. A shallow life can’t carry a heavy anointing. A divided heart can’t sustain deep Presence. If God is taking me “into the glory,” He will strengthen my inner man (Ephesians 3:16) and purify my motives, not to punish me, but to prepare me.

And this is where many believers misunderstand hardship. Sometimes what feels like resistance is actually reinforcement. Sometimes God is not withholding—He’s training. He’s enlarging capacity. He’s building roots. Because public fruit always depends on private depth.

If I want to walk daily with the Lord, I must stop measuring my spirituality by my feelings. Feelings are real, but they are not reliable leaders. “The just shall live by faith” (Romans 1:17). Faith is how I walk when I don’t feel God and I still obey. Faith is how I worship in dryness. Faith is how I stay tender when life gets hard.

And here’s the shockingly good news: God honors consistency more than intensity.

We love spiritual “highs,” but heaven loves faithfulness. The glory is not only found in mountaintop moments. Sometimes it’s found in the repetition of choosing God again and again. Like manna—daily bread (Exodus 16:4). Like oil—kept replenished. Like friendship—built over time. Like marriage—covenant lived out in ordinary days.

Some of the deepest encounters I’ve had with the Lord were not dramatic. They were quiet. A sudden peace in prayer. A scripture lighting up like fire. A gentle correction that saved me from regret. A moment where I felt His pleasure while doing something simple. And I’m convinced that if we would stop chasing the spectacular and start honoring the daily, we would discover the glory has been waiting in the mundane all along.

Because the Lord wants to walk with me.

From the beginning, that was His desire. God walked with Adam in the garden (Genesis 3:8). Enoch walked with God (Genesis 5:24). Noah walked with God (Genesis 6:9). And then Jesus came, Emmanuel—God with us (Matthew 1:23). And after the cross and resurrection, the Spirit came to dwell within us (1 Corinthians 6:19). This isn’t a distant God. This is a God who moved in.

So why do I live like He’s far?

Often, it’s because I’ve trained myself to live externally. I react to what I see, what I feel, what people say, what pressure demands. But walking daily with the Lord means I live from the inside out. “We walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Corinthians 5:7). Faith is not denial—it’s alignment. It’s choosing God’s perspective as my primary reality.

And when I do, something changes.

My day stops being a battlefield I’m trying to survive and becomes a journey I’m walking with a Companion who never loses. Even when I face opposition, I’m not abandoned. Even when I’m uncertain, I’m guided. Even when I’m weak, His strength is made perfect (2 Corinthians 12:9). The Presence doesn’t remove all problems—but it transforms how I stand inside them.

Now I’m going to speak prophetically to the one reading this who feels like you’ve been stuck in cycles.

You’ve been praying, but you’ve also been weary. You love God, but you’ve felt distracted. You’ve wanted deeper intimacy, but life keeps pulling you outward. Hear me: the hunger you feel is not a flaw—it’s a calling. That discontentment is not depression—it’s invitation.

The Lord is not condemning you. He is drawing you.

And the pathway is simpler than you think: return to your first love (Revelation 2:4–5). Not your first ministry. Not your first doctrine. Your first love. That place where Jesus was not part of your life—He was your life.

This is the season to simplify.

Turn down the noise. Shut the door. Open the Word. Talk to God like He’s there—because He is. Repent quickly. Obey quickly. Worship daily. Bless people. Forgive. Give thanks. Let your home become an altar. Let your car become a prayer closet. Let your meals become moments of gratitude. Let your work become worship. Let your conversations carry kindness. Let your mind be renewed. Let your eyes be clean. Let your heart be soft.

Because glory is not an accessory. Glory is an atmosphere. And I was made to live in it.

I’m not writing this as someone who has “arrived.” I’m writing as someone who keeps choosing the same door every day. The door of surrender. The door of communion. The door of “yes.”

And I believe—no, I’m convinced—that the Lord is raising believers in this hour who will not be ruled by their emotions, not enslaved to distraction, not numb to the Spirit, not addicted to noise. Believers who will become walking tabernacles. People who carry peace into chaos. People who bring heaven into rooms. People whose daily walk becomes a daily witness.

Because when you walk with the Lord, your life starts to preach without you trying.

People can feel it. They may not have words for it, but they will sense there’s something different about you. Not because you’re perfect—but because you’re present. Not because you’re loud—but because you’re rooted. Not because you’re impressive—but because you’re inhabited.

And that’s what “Into the glory” means for me.

It means the Lord is taking me beyond occasional encounters into consistent communion.

Beyond religious performance into relational surrender.

Beyond external Christianity into inner transformation.

Beyond self-led living into Spirit-led walking.

And today, I say yes again.

Declarations (Speak these out loud)

Father, I declare that I will not live at a distance—I will walk with You daily, closely, and joyfully.

I declare that my spirit will lead my soul, and my soul will not dominate my decisions.

I declare that distraction is breaking off my life, and divine focus is resting on me.

I declare that the secret place will become my home, not my emergency option.

I declare that the Word of God will be living and active in me, sharpening my discernment and renewing my mind.

I declare that I will recognize the Presence of God in ordinary moments, and my routine will become holy ground.

I declare that I will turn aside quickly when You call, and I will not rush past divine invitations.

I declare that revelation will increase in my life, and as I see by the Spirit, heaven will move on my behalf.

I declare that my obedience will be quick, my repentance will be instant, and my heart will stay tender before the Lord.

I declare that I will walk in love—pure, strong, and sincere—because God is love and I am being conformed to His nature.

I declare that anxiety will not rule me; the peace of God will guard my heart and mind in Christ Jesus.

I declare that compromise is losing its grip, and holiness is becoming my delight.

I declare that I will be filled with the Holy Spirit daily, and the oil of intimacy will not run dry in my life.

I declare that my home, my work, my words, and my relationships will carry the atmosphere of heaven.

I declare that I am going into the glory—into deeper communion, stronger faith, clearer hearing, and greater fruit.

I declare that the Lord is teaching my hands to war and my heart to worship, and I will overcome by the blood of the Lamb and the word of my testimony (Revelation 12:11).

And I declare that as I walk with God, others will be drawn—not to my personality—but to the reality of Jesus Christ in me. Amen. Much love.