What Will This Child Become?

There’s a question we all ask when we look into a newborn’s face.

Sometimes we say it out loud.

Sometimes we keep it tucked quietly in our hearts.

What will this child become?

Every baby carries possibility. A future not yet written. A life that will unfold in ways no one can fully predict.

History loves answering that question after the fact.

A baby grows up and changes how we understand the universe.

Another grows up and gives voice to justice.

Another overcomes unimaginable obstacles and reshapes how the world thinks about courage.

With most children, time does the answering.

But one child is different.

When Jesus was forty days old, He was brought, not to a palace, not to a throne, but to the temple in Jerusalem. No fanfare. No spotlight. Just a young couple quietly obeying the Law, bringing the simplest offering allowed for the poor.

And there, in the middle of ordinary faithfulness, an old man stepped forward.

His name was Simeon.

Waiting That Doesn’t Go Numb

Luke describes Simeon with remarkable restraint. No résumé. No credentials. Just a sentence that tells us everything we need to know:

He was righteous.

He was devout.

And he was waiting.

Waiting for what?

“The consolation of Israel.”

In other words, Simeon was waiting for God to comfort His people, not with better circumstances, but with redemption. Not with politics or power, but with a Savior.

What makes Simeon extraordinary isn’t that he waited.

It’s how he waited.

He waited without hardening.

Without growing cynical.

Without deciding that silence meant abandonment.

Four hundred years had passed since the last prophet spoke. Generations had come and gone. Yet Simeon stayed alert, expectant, soft toward God.

Waiting can do one of two things to a person.

It can numb you.

Or it can train you.

Simeon’s waiting trained his heart to listen.

And when the Spirit whispered, “Go,” he went.

That’s hope, not passive endurance, but readiness. Hope keeps showing up. Hope stays awake. Hope keeps its eyes open for God to move.

And because Simeon waited like that, he saw what others missed.

When Light Enters the Room

When Simeon takes the child Jesus into his arms, he doesn’t hesitate. He worships.

Not politely.

Not quietly.

Not privately.

“My eyes have seen your salvation.”

That sentence matters.

Simeon doesn’t say he sees a beginning, or a sign, or potential.

He says he sees salvation.

Not an idea.

Not a system.

A person.

And then he widens the scope:

“A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.”

That’s a shocking thing to say in the temple.

Because Simeon isn’t just talking about Israel’s hope anymore. He’s talking about the world. Outsiders. Nations. People who weren’t even looking in the right direction.

This child, Simeon says, will be light.

And light always does two things at the same time.

It reveals what’s true.

And it exposes what’s hidden.

We love the first part.

We’re less enthusiastic about the second.

Light is wonderful...until it shines into corners we’d rather keep dim.

Dust.

Clutter.

Things we’ve learned to live with.

Jesus doesn’t just comfort.

He clarifies.

He doesn’t just guide.

He exposes.

And once light enters the room, neutrality disappears.

You don’t stay unchanged.

You step toward the light, or back into the shadows.

A Crossroads, Not a Compliment

Simeon’s song is beautiful. But it’s not sentimental.

Because after praising God, Simeon turns, locks eyes with Mary, and speaks words no parent expects to hear while holding a newborn.

“This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many.”

Destined.

Not accidental.

Not unfortunate.

Not avoidable.

Jesus will divide people, not because He is cruel or careless, but because truth always does.

Some will rise because they humble themselves and receive Him.

Others will fall because they refuse to surrender control.

Same child.

Same light.

Very different responses.

Then Simeon says something even heavier:

“A sword will pierce your own soul too.”

Mary hears that while holding her baby.

No timeline.

No explanation.

Just this: loving Him will hurt.

And suddenly the future rushes forward.

This child will be misunderstood.

Opposed.

Spoken against.

He will be lifted up, but not on a throne.

He will be pierced.

This is where the road splits.

Jesus does not allow polite distance.

He doesn’t accept casual admiration.

He is not a decoration.

He is a decision.

Light That Carries Darkness

Here is the heart of the good news:

Jesus did not come just to shine light on us.

He came to carry darkness for us.

The child Simeon held would one day walk straight into the night.

Rejected.

Pierced.

Lifted up.

Not as a victim.

As a Redeemer.

The falling and rising Simeon spoke of begins at the cross.

Jesus falls under the full weight of sin, so we can rise into forgiveness.

He is spoken against, so we can be spoken for.

He is pierced, so our hearts can be healed.

This child doesn’t just become light.

He becomes rescue.

The Question Only You Can Answer

History answers the question “What will this child become?” for most people.

With Jesus, history tells us what He did.

But you answer what He becomes to you.

That answer doesn’t come from tradition.

Or sentiment.

Or familiarity.

It comes from response.

This child was not born merely to be admired.

He came to be received.

And the question doesn’t expire after Christmas.

It follows us.

It deepens with time.

It presses into ordinary days.

So here it is, simple, honest, unavoidable:

What will this child become… to you?

A memory?

A tradition?

A nice story?

Or...your Savior.

Your light.

Your King.

Because Christmas doesn’t end at the manger.

It leads to a crossroads.

And every one of us must decide.