I am not Simeon,
waiting for the consolation of Israel,
cradling the Giver of life and death,
saying farewell with clear eyes, and
witnessing the embodiment of that for which was hoped.
No, I am Moses,
fleeing from shame and aggression,
hesitating before an incendiary presence,
stuttering over personal weaknesses, and
striking with rage rather than wait one more time.
I am not the Roman centurion,
commanding men upon men,
recognizing the stature of divine authority,
confessing to personal unworthiness, and
placing fixed trust so another might be healed.
No, I am the bleeding woman,
sneaking through these clamoring crowds,
pressing close for just one touch,
coming with a little faith and a hesitant hand, and
fearing yet more shame for what has been done.
I am not Abram,
leaving both home and ancestral country,
climbing in faith the mountain of sacrifice,
offering up the son of promise, and
trusting that this, too, would be kept by the Lord.
No, I am Jacob,
stealing a blessing with goatskin hands,
fleeing wrath from self-sown deception,
fearing for the safety of an embattled family, and
sending peace offerings of dread to stay another’s hand.
I am not Anna,
worshiping the One who allows there to be widows,
praying that the Lord might be known in glory,
weeping in tears of gladness, and
perceiving with fulfilled joy the Redeemer of Jerusalem.
No, I am Zechariah,
serving the Lord on the appointed day,
listening in fear of promise and redemption,
trembling and troubled by heavenly proclamation, and
losing speech by consequence of intimate disbelief.
I am not John,
seeing within exile the enthroned Lord,
bearing faithful witness to grace and truth,
singing with the saints before the throne, and
awaiting redemption to make all things new.
No, I am Jonah,
sneaking away from truth and trouble,
pouting under the nearest tree,
waiting for the destruction of the Lord, and
pining for judgment to give this unrest its meaning.
I am not Mary,
receiving the gift with honest fear,
pondering the redemption of human birth,
proclaiming the goodness of God from a rejoicing heart, and
saying do unto me, that the Word may become flesh.
No, I am Eve,
walking with man in God-breathed Eden,
accepting falsehoods from hissing lips,
grasping that which was never man’s to hold, and
choosing self and sin for the generations to come.
I am not,
turning away in the face of soul-searing truth,
faltering before commands that I do not keep,
stumbling in sin along my own-made paths, and
asking yet again for new-made mercies.
For I am not,
but I am His.
And He is the Son of the Father,
coming in Word and Truth and flesh,
giving Himself for the life of the world,
restoring trembling sinners in new-made bodies, and
promising His life for those who enter the waters of His death.