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He Waited. And He Didn’t Miss It.

A Meditation on Luke 2:22-35

Simeon was old.

Not old like tired.
Old like seasoned.
Old like someone who had learned how to wait without going numb.

Scripture says he was righteous and devout.
Which is another way of saying: he stayed faithful when the story felt slow.

He was waiting for the consolation of Israel.
Waiting for God to make things right.
Waiting for the ache to ease.
Waiting for hope to take on flesh.

And the Spirit had whispered to him,
You won’t miss it. You’ll see it.

Not when.
Not how.
Just that he would.

So Simeon kept showing up.

Day after day.
Prayer after prayer.
Temple courts. Ordinary rhythms.
No headlines. No angel choirs.

And then…
moved by the Spirit…
he went to the temple that day.

Not because it looked special.
Not because the schedule said “Messiah arriving at 10:30.”
Just a nudge. A holy restlessness.
That quiet inner go.

And there they were.
Two tired parents.
A poor family.
A baby no one was watching.

Except Simeon.

He takes the child in his arms.
Not a symbol.
Not a sermon illustration.
A living, breathing infant.

And he says, Now I can rest.

Not because everything is finished…
but because everything has begun.

“My eyes have seen your salvation.”

Not an idea.
Not a system.
Not a strategy.

A person.

A light.
For all nations.
For outsiders.
For the overlooked.
For the ones who never thought they’d belong.

And then Simeon blesses them.
But he also tells the truth.

This child will disrupt.
He will expose hearts.
He will unsettle power.
He will be opposed.

And Mary…
yes, even you,
will feel the cost.

Because salvation is beautiful.
And it is never tame.

Friend, hear this:

God is still coming to the temple in unexpected ways.
Still arriving quietly.
Still choosing the small and the overlooked.

And the question isn’t, Is God at work?
The question is, Are we still waiting well?

Still listening?
Still sensitive to the nudge?
Still willing to be interrupted?

Simeon didn’t miss Jesus because he stayed open.
He didn’t grow cynical.
He didn’t harden into nostalgia.
He waited..with hope.

May we be the kind of people
who recognize Christ
when He comes wrapped in vulnerability
and not applause.

May we have eyes to see.
Arms willing to hold.
And hearts ready to say,

Lord, you have kept your promise.

_____________________

Luke 2:22-35

22 When the time came for the purification rites required by the Law of Moses, Joseph and Mary took him to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord 23 (as it is written in the Law of the Lord, “Every firstborn male is to be consecrated to the Lord”), 24 and to offer a sacrifice in keeping with what is said in the Law of the Lord: “a pair of doves or two young pigeons.”

25 Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was on him. 26 It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. 27 Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, 28 Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:

29 “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
    you may now dismiss your servant in peace.
30 For my eyes have seen your salvation,
31     which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:
32 a light for revelation to the Gentiles,
    and the glory of your people Israel.”

33 The child’s father and mother marveled at what was said about him. 34 Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, 35 so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

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The Dust That Dances

A Meditation on Ezekiel 37

There’s a valley.
You know this valley.

Not because you’ve walked through Ezekiel’s vision,
but because you’ve walked through your own.
The valley where hope has been buried.
Where the laughter has long stopped echoing.
Where the bones … your bones … lie scattered,
bleached by time, brittle with disappointment.

It’s that place where the dream died,
the relationship cracked,
the faith went silent.

Ezekiel is led there…
not by accident, not by misstep,
but by the hand of the Lord.
God takes him to the place of loss.
Not away from it.
Not around it.
Right into it.

And the question comes:
“Son of man, can these bones live?”

It’s almost cruel, isn’t it?
The question you don’t want to be asked.
The one that forces you to look
at the wreckage of what once was.

Ezekiel hedges:
“O Sovereign Lord, you alone know.”
Which is Hebrew for:
“I can’t say yes, and I don’t dare say no.”

And God doesn’t explain.
God doesn’t hand over a five-step plan.
God doesn’t analyze why the bones got there in the first place.
Instead, God tells Ezekiel to speak.

“Prophesy to these bones.”
Speak life into what has no ears.
Call to breath when there are no lungs.
Preach resurrection into the silence of the graveyard.

And as he speaks…
the bones start to rattle.
Bone finds bone,
ligament finds ligament,
flesh wraps around skeleton.
It looks alive.
But it isn’t.

Not yet.

Because form without breath is still death.
Order without Spirit is still emptiness.
Religion without Ruach is still a valley of bones.

So God says again:
“Prophesy to the breath. Call it from the four winds.”
And when the Spirit comes,
the bones rise.
An army of the resurrected,
standing on their feet,
alive by the Word and the Breath.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

God takes us to the places we’ve buried,
not to shame us with what we’ve lost,
but to remind us that resurrection begins in the valley.
Life doesn’t start in the temple…
it starts in the tomb.

Your bones … those broken dreams,
that faith you thought was gone,
the parts of you you left for dead…
they are not beyond the Breath.

Resurrection is not about trying harder,
but about yielding to the Spirit
who comes from the four winds
to do what you cannot.

So maybe the invitation is this:
Step into the valley.
Name the bones.
Prophesy anyway.

Because in the hands of God,
even the dust knows how to dance.

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Scars Over Swords

A Meditation on Revelation 6

The seals are breaking.
One after another.
And the world …
our world …
comes undone.

A white horse rides.
Conquest.
Victory at the expense of peace.

A red horse rides.
War.
Blood staining the soil.

A black horse rides.
Greed.
Bread for the rich, famine for the poor.

And then …
the pale horse.
Death.
Followed by Hades.
The shadow we all fear.

Do you see it?
It’s not just future.
It’s now.
Every time empire marches.
Every time the powerful take.
Every time we worship profit instead of people.
Another horse is unleashed.

And under the altar …
voices cry out.
“How long, O Lord?”
How long until the violence ends?
How long until justice rolls down?
How long until mercy has its day?

And we feel that cry, don’t we?
When the news breaks our hearts.
When another child goes hungry.
When another war begins.
How long?

But then …
don’t miss it …
the scroll is in the hands of the Lamb.

The Lamb.
Not the emperor.
Not the generals.
Not the ones with crowns and swords.

The Lamb.
Slain.
Scarred.
Risen.
The one who conquers by laying down his life.
The one who opens the seals because only love
only sacrifice
only resurrection
is strong enough to hold history.

So yes …
the world unravels.
Yes …
the horses ride.
Yes …
the martyrs cry out.

But the Lamb holds the scroll.
The Lamb holds history.
The Lamb holds us.

And maybe …
just maybe …
every time we forgive instead of retaliate,
every time we share instead of hoard,
every time we choose love instead of fear,
we silence the hoofbeats.
We resist the riders.
We live the Lamb’s way.

Because in the end …
it’s not the horsemen who win.
It’s not death who wins.
It’s the Lamb.

Always.
The Lamb.

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The Knock at the Edge of Everything

a meditation on Revelation 3

It’s late.
And the world feels weary again.

Letters are being written, messages whispered to flickering lamps in seven churches. Echoes of divine warnings and promises swirl like incense through thin spaces.

And in Revelation 3,
the curtain pulls back…

Laodicea, lukewarm.
Philadelphia, faithful.
Sardis, asleep.

Each one invited into something deeper.
Each one addressed not with contempt, but with invitation.

Because Revelation 3 isn’t about shame.
It’s about a holy longing.

A longing for us to wake up.

“I know your deeds.”

That’s how it begins.

A phrase that cuts and comforts all at once.

Because someone sees.
Someone knows.
Someone who hasn’t turned away, even when we have.

These aren’t the harsh words of an angry deity with a clipboard.
They’re the fierce words of love that won’t settle for numb apathy, for dead religion wrapped in perfume.

This chapter, like much of Revelation, is poetry disguised as prophecy.
It’s not a threat.
It’s a call home.

“You have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead.”

Oof.

That one’s for Sardis.
But let’s be honest … it might be for us too.

Because it’s possible to look awake…while sleepwalking through our lives.
To keep showing up.
Keep saying the right things.
Keep doing church-
while the soul atrophies from lack of fire.

We build programs instead of altars.
We cling to comfort instead of resurrection.

And Jesus says,
“Wake up.”

Not because He’s angry.
But because He misses us.

“I stand at the door and knock.”

That verse…

We’ve domesticated it.
Turned it into kitsch.
A soft watercolor Jesus politely tapping.

But this isn’t a Hallmark moment.

This is divine urgency.

Jesus is outside the church,
outside the heart,
knocking…not just to come in,
but to dine, to commune, to reignite something.

To tell us that He wants more than our religious compliance…
He wants our company.

He wants us hot or cold,
not safe and tepid.

He wants something real.

To the faithful in Philadelphia…
He says, “I’ve placed before you an open door.”

And I wonder…
What doors has He opened for us that we’ve been too afraid to walk through?

Because sometimes it’s easier to build bigger walls
than to walk through open doors.

Sometimes we mistake familiarity for faithfulness,
and call it obedience,
when really…it’s fear dressed up in Sunday clothes.

But Jesus opens doors no one can shut.

So maybe your fear doesn’t get the final word.

And to the ones who overcome…
He gives names,
white robes,
crowns,
intimacy.

Not as prizes for performance…
But as restorations of what was always meant to be.

Your name.
Your place.
Your belonging.

So today,
maybe we pause.

Maybe we stop pretending.
Stop posing.

Maybe we get quiet enough
to hear the knock at the edge of everything.

Maybe we invite Him in…not just to our churches,
but to the parts of ourselves we’ve kept hidden behind thick doors and polite smiles.

Because He’s knocking.
And not just to judge.

But to heal.
To wake.
To feast.

To make us fully alive again.
Not someday.
But now.

“Whoever has ears…”
Listen.
Really listen.
The door’s open.

And He’s already moving toward the table.

Are we?