In Simeon's hands and Anna's gaze, we are reminded of God's promise—not distant, not fading, but alive.
As we gather in God's house following Christmas festivities, with frost threading the landscape like silver strands, we enter a time still marked with the dust of the night's birth—the child not yet fully set in memory's weft. The feast has passed, the fires have begun to wane, and the songs of angels fade. Yet something lingers—an ember of light that refuses to die, its warmth caught deep in our bones. This fading warmth draws us toward the quiet place where Simeon and Anna stand—the hearth where two souls, once part of the daily grind of village life, are now poised at the edge of time's great turning.
In these days after Christmas, we are drawn into the silence of the waiting. Simeon, weathered and wise, stretches his arms to the child. "Now let your servant go in peace," he prays. His eyes have seen wholeness. His words bear the weight of countless prayers that have waited as long as the wintered earth waits for the spring rain. In that old man's embrace is the weight of all the hope of a broken people—held by the fierce grace of what's unseen.
Simeon is no stranger to the gnaw of yearning. For years, he lived not in simple idleness but in the slow burn of longing, a fire that shaped him deeply. This is not a fire to quicken desire but a fire that draws in the soul and keeps a man awake when the world sleeps. He waited—not for fleeting joy, but for something lasting: for the lifting of a winter that has grown too long, for the coming of renewal, that which was promised but, again, was unseen. He looked upon the child—not as a dream of sweetness but as a symbol of struggle and deliverance.
Yet even here, there is danger. Simeon has not taken the child in his arms without clear sight. He does not mask his joy in false hope. As he gazes at Christ, he sees what others do not: "This child is destined for the falling and rising of many," he predicts. With these words, he warns of the storm to come. The call of Christ is not to sit in comfort. It is a bonfire that enlightens, revealing the darkness within. Christ's light will challenge, unsettle, and tear open the stone chest of our hearts.
Simeon sees this with clarity: Christ will not belong to the familiar. He will topple thrones, cast down the pomp of the world, stir the waters where the stillness of stagnation has reigned too long. The fall of men—to vanity, to pride, to indifference—this fall is certain. As Christ's light ascends, the darkened corners are revealed. And in that uncovering, we meet not only the miracle of life but the bitter taste of death.
As Simeon's hands grow frail, they hold the child—firm and tender, knowing. He has walked the pilgrimage long enough to feel the earth shift under his feet. The rains have come, and he sees the new world sprouting up through the cracks.
And Anna, the widow, stands by. Her life's flame has burned steady, but not in a rush. It has burned with fasting, waiting, and silence. The noise of the world has not pulled her in. Her soul hums with a deep, ancient longing—a longing for truth long veiled but now near. She also knows the price of seeing Christ—its cost in soul, time, and prayer.
Anna's witness does not draw attention through grand words or visions but through the sheer steadiness of her waiting. While others rush by in hunger or comfort, she stays. In her grief and longing, she prepares room for what no one expects, what the angels themselves longed for. The child, this living change of all things, the tearing down of the old world so the new might be born.
In Anna's voice, we hear not just prophecy but a living call to those of us lost in busyness, in noise, and in the small comforts of the world. Her call to us is a quiet one—one that urges us to listen deeply. She speaks from the still center of waiting, the waiting that bears fruit even as we stand numb with the world's demands.
And so we move towards them and away from what numbs us. The season's promise does not fade—the cold may settle in, the streets grow slushy, and our homes may seem barren. But in Simeon's hands and Anna's gaze, we are reminded of God's promise—not distant, not fading, but alive. Christ has come. In weakness, in humility, he has drawn near to us, bringing light where darkness has reigned, filling us with the living hope we longed for.
In Christ, God's promises are no longer distant dreams. They have been made flesh—real, felt, lasting. The light Simeon waited for has arrived, and it will not go out. The weight Anna carried in her prayers has been lifted. The child she awaited with soul-deep longing now stands before us, teaching us how to live, how to face our death in his.
God's word, spoken in the flesh, is now real. There is no more waiting for what seems too far out of reach. The coming has already occurred. Wholeness is now a living, breathing reality, not some future hope. This is the truth that we stand on, the grace that holds us, and the strength that rises in our bones. Through Christ, all our longing and all our waiting have found fulfillment.
We are a people now carried by promise, a people now strengthened by the clear light of what has been revealed. No more searching, no more fear. Christ, God's deliverance, is near. With us, always, for all time.
This is Christmas. This is Emmanuel. This is God with us.
