04. January 2026
Christmas 1 (observed)
Luke 2:33-40
Then Simeon blessed them, and said to Mary His mother, “Behold, this Child is destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign which will be spoken against (yes, a sword will pierce through your own soul also), that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” (Lk 2:34–35).
This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His + Name. AMEN.
Merry Christmas. And no—Christmas does not end with angels. The angels sing. The shepherds run. The sky breaks open. Glory floods the night. And then it ends. The shepherds go back to work. The singing fades. The straw goes cold. The mystery cools.
And Mary and Joseph—exhausted, bewildered, still trying to understand what has happened to them—do what faithful people do after God acts. They go to church.
They brought the child to the temple “to present him to the Lord” (Luke 2:22–23). They offered what the Law required—small, ordinary, unimpressive obedience (Luke 2:24). They do the small, obedient things that look utterly insufficient—almost embarrassing—when you remember they are carrying God in the flesh. No spectacle. No explanation. Just parents, a baby, a few coins’ worth of birds, and the steady rhythm of the Lord’s house.
And already that tells you something about the God we are dealing with. God does not despise the ordinary. He hides Himself in it. Waiting in the temple are two people the world has already learned to step around.
Simeon is old. Not “seasoned.” Not “distinguished.” Old. Old in the way your bones argue with the weather. Old in the way patience has replaced ambition. Old enough to stop pretending the world can be fixed with energy and elbow grease.
Luke says Simeon was “righteous and devout, waiting for the consolation of Israel.” Waiting. Not managing. Not innovating. Not chasing relevance. Waiting.
And the Holy Spirit had made him a promise: “it had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ” (Luke 2:26). Which means Simeon had lived a long time with a quiet, daily thought: Maybe today. Maybe not. Years of waking up, going to the temple, praying, listening—and going home again still alive.
That should comfort you because Simeon’s faith does not look productive. It does not look successful. It does not look impressive. It looks like waiting. Breathing. It looks like the kind of faith most Christians actually live: hearing the Word, praying it back to God, doing the next faithful thing, and waiting—sometimes with joy, sometimes with ache, sometimes with the quiet fear that you misunderstood God entirely.
Then one day, into the ordinary churn of the temple, Simeon sees a baby. Not a glowing baby. Not a remarkable baby. Not a baby with a helpful sign hovering over his head. Just a child—carried by parents who look like they have not slept well in weeks.
And something breaks open. Simeon takes the child in his arms—already outrageous. Old men are not supposed to grab strangers’ babies in church. So don’t tell me I never preached about Christian living.
And the Spirit moves Simeon. As he takes the child in his arms, he sings the most bracing song in the Church’s hymnal: “Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation” (Luke 2:29–30). Now. In other words: Thank God—I can die. In peace.
This is not sentimental. That is a man who has waited long enough to know what matters. The promise is fulfilled. The Savior is here. The work is done—not because Simeon finally accomplished enough, but because he is holding the Consolation of Israel in his arms.
Simeon does not say, “Now my life begins.” He says, “Now my life is complete.” Because faith does not always lead to new projects. Sometimes faith leads to a laying down. Sometimes faith leads to a good death. And that is not defeat. That is victory.
This is why the Church sings Simeon’s song after receiving the Lord’s Supper. Because Simeon teaches us what it means to see salvation. Salvation is not an idea. Not a mood. Not a feeling you generate. Salvation is a Person—placed into your mouth.
In the Bible, God loves to work through what Lutherans have always called signs—things that look like the opposite of what they contain. He hides His glory under what looks weak. A baby looks like weakness; yet that baby contains the Lord’s Christ. A cross looks like failure; yet that cross contains the victory of God. Bread and wine look ordinary; yet by the Word of Christ they contain and deliver what He says: His true body and blood, given and shed “for you.”
God’s way is to hide His glory under lowliness, so that you must receive Him by His Word—by hearing, by trust. Not by your senses. Not by your pride. Not by your demand that God perform according to your specifications. God reduces you to what you actually are: a receiver. Simeon receives. And he is ready to die in peace.
But Simeon is not finished. He turns to Mary—young, stunned, still holding together angels and labor and confusion—and he ruins Christmas for her. “This child is appointed for the fall and rising of many in Israel. He will be opposed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.”
That is not pillow embroidery. That is prophecy. This rescue will hurt. Not because something has gone wrong—but because this is how God saves. Christmas is not God arriving to make your life easier. Christmas is God coming to tell the truth. And the truth cuts.
This child will expose hearts. He will topple people who thought they were standing just fine. He will lift people whom everyone else stepped over. He will forgive sinners publicly. He will eat with the wrong people. He will refuse to behave—politely or privately.
And he will be killed. Not because he failed. But because he succeeded too openly. Why is Jesus opposed? Why the enemies? Why the councils, plots, arrests, and execution? Not because he heals. Not because he feeds crowds. Not because of miracles.
Jesus is killed for forgiving sinners. He forgives where forgiveness threatens control. He forgives where people want measurement. He forgives openly—and mercy like that must be silenced.
So Simeon tells Mary the cost: “a sword will pierce through your own soul also” (Luke 2:35). Not because God failed. Not because Christmas went wrong. But because this is how God saves: not by avoiding pain, but by taking it into Himself and draining it dry.
Christmas is already aimed at Good Friday. The wood of the manger points to the wood of the cross. The infant hands that clutch Mary’s finger are the hands that will be stretched out to carry your sin. The Child is born to be “a sign that is opposed” (Luke 2:34) so that He can do what you cannot do: carry the opposition, absorb the hatred, answer it with forgiveness, and rise again. Simeon knows this. Old men who have waited long enough usually do. And then, as if the Spirit wants to make sure we don’t miss the point, Anna appears.
Eighty-four years old. Widowed most of her life. Living in the temple because she has nowhere else to be. She does not offer polite commentary. She praises God. And she tells anyone who will listen that this child—and only this child—is the Savior of Jerusalem.
That is dangerous talk. Because when the Savior comes, things change. Power shifts. Death loses ground. Stories are rewritten. Anna speaks like someone with nothing left to lose. Because she doesn’t.
And here is the sharp gift of the Sunday after Christmas: God places His salvation in the hands of people the world has already moved past. Not kings. Not managers of religion. Not the impressive. An old man ready to die. An old church lady who will not stop talking. That is the Lord’s way.
And now the text turns toward us. Because we like Christmas gentle. We like the child quiet. We like the story safe and contained. But Simeon and Anna will not allow that. They tell us this child will divide. This child will demand allegiance. This child will cost you something.
Which is why faith is not a mood. It’s not a seasonal emotion. Faith is a reckoning. It is being brought to the end of yourself and learning to live as a receiver. And that’s why this text belongs right after Christmas: because Christmas is not a one-night show. Christmas is the Lord moving into your life and refusing to leave.
So look at the scene again. Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to the temple. And in the temple, Jesus is recognized—not by the powerful, but by the faithful. He is recognized by those who have been trained by waiting, trained by hearing, trained by prayer, trained by promises. That is the Church.
Week after week, you come into the Lord’s house the way Simeon did: not with certainty in yourself, but with the Word. You come with bodies that ache. With grief you can’t fix. With sins you can’t undo. With prayers that feel repetitive. With waiting that feels long. And the Lord meets you the same way He met Simeon: with Christ.
Not a glowing spectacle. Not a spiritual performance. Christ—given in the means He has chosen.
And that’s why Simeon’s song lives where it does in the liturgy. After the Supper, the Church sings, “Lord, now you let your servant depart in peace…” because we are not pretending. We are confessing reality: we have seen salvation. We have received Him. We have been given what we needed. If the Lord calls us home, He will not find us empty-handed. He will find us holding Christ by faith, with His forgiveness in our mouths.
So yes, blessed are you who receive Him today—not because He will make your life easier, but because He will make your life true. He will forgive you. He will name your sin without lying to you, and then He will put it to death in His own body. He will give you a clean conscience. He will give you peace that doesn’t depend on your circumstances. He will give you hope that can survive the grave.
And that is what lets a Christian sleep—even if the world is loud, even if your heart is conflicted, even if your body is failing. Because the peace is not in you. The peace is in Him.
So here we are—just after Christmas Day. Lights still up. Hymns still ringing. And old voices still telling the truth: this Child is our rescuer. This Child is in conflict in the flesh. This Child is mercy that refuses to stay small, refuses to stay tidy, refuses to stay private. He is the Lord’s Christ (Luke 2:26). He is “a light for revelation to the Gentiles” and “the glory of your people Israel” (Luke 2:32). He is your salvation.
This is the Word of the Lord that came to me, so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing, you may have life in His + Name. AMEN.
Rev. Christopher R. Gillespie
St. John Ev. Lutheran Church & School - Sherman Center
Random Lake, Wisconsin