Heaven’s Heartbeat - The Light and the Glory

With barely a second thought, we jogged straight into the west end of the Snoqualmie Tunnel on the John Wayne Trail, our breath syncing to the crunch of gravel underfoot. 

In the blink of an eye the four of us—Jacob, Gareth, Ben, and me—crossed from the full daylight of a Washington state morning into an instant midnight. The 2.25-mile-long mountain beast swallowed us whole, wrapping us in a wet, dense gloom that felt ripped from some other world. We flicked on our headlamps, meager beams that called for strides of faith, more than a revealed pathway. 

We pressed into the shadow, but the shadow pressed back, unyielding, bending our minds until up and down blurred into nothing. Deeper in, I said, “Let’s test it.” 

We tested it, killing our lights one by one. 

How does one describe it? Instant blindness! An absolute, disorienting black. No hand-in-front-of-your-face, no outline of a trail partner inches away—just the echo of breathing, the rhythmic slap of shoes on stone and the sound of unseen dripping water. Even though I knew my companions were there, the darkness made me feel alone.  

We were like specters in our own story, running straight into the unknown, hearts pounding—not just from the run, but from the raw edge of isolation. And just how long could someone run blind before doubt creeps in? 

At one point, I wondered to myself, “Does this tunnel ever end?”

It was somewhere past the halfway mark when the pinprick appeared—a tiny, obscure star winking in the tunnel’s night. 

Jacob’s voice broke through the gloom. “There it is!” he yelled. It came out as a half-laugh, half-prayer. Energized, we laughed too, lungs heaving, legs pumping in rhythm as that pinpoint swelled with every stride. It grew, step by step, from a tease to a promise, until—in a rush of wind and wonder—we erupted from the eastern mouth, bathed in God’s wild gift to the world: light. Sweet, heart-lifting light. Unfiltered and alive, it enveloped us, chasing shadows from our eyes. We had miles to go, and the light encouraged us forward down the trail.

In another place and another time, an old man named Simeon shuffled along a tunnel of his own. It wasn’t a gravel path beneath his sandals, but the worn stones of the Jerusalem temple, heavy with incense and the weight of years. He’d been in that darkness a long, long time. He had known decades of waiting, holding to promises whispered by the Holy Spirit like a distant echo in the night. 

The world outside felt the weight of the Roman boot. Inside, temple merchants haggled over doves. Simeon’s eyes, however, dimmed by age, scanned the crowds for something more: a light he’d been told would come. A salvation prepared in the sight of all peoples. 

Did his arms tremble as he lifted the baby from Mary’s arms that day?

Did he shudder a little as he thought about the scroll of prophecy? Did his voice shake as he lifted his old eyes toward heaven and whispered the Spirit-breathed promises?

“Lord, now you are letting your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation... a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.”

Those weren’t the ramblings of a disoriented old man in a dark tunnel. Simeon knew the lay of the land. His fingers had traced the Torah’s ancient words, he intimately knew the Prophets’ fiery promises, and the ache of the Psalmists’ hopes and fears.

Consider this for a moment.

His phrase, “a light for revelation to the Gentiles,” was no accident; it echoed Isaiah’s ancient charge that stretched to the earth’s farthest edges. He speaks of a Light revealed in that holy moment. In time it would tear veils from eyes blinded by the pagan altars of the nations and the forgotten covenants of Israel. 

Back in our tunnel, that pinprick had done the same. It didn’t erase the dark; it pierced it, pulling us forward when blindness screamed to stop. And as we burst into daylight, glory waited—not fireworks, but the simple, staggering presence of sun on stone. It brought to mind the Shekinah glory that once crammed the tabernacle, then the temple, spilling over to what had been lost.                   

Simeon had cradled God in His arms. He had whispered over the infant face of his Creator. This, at last, was Immanuel, God with us. 

You know tunnels like that, don’t you? The ones where the dark is so thick your own hand vanishes, the loneliness is as heavy as a Roman boot and Christmas becomes as meaningless as a merchant’s jingle.

In spite of the sparkle of neighborhood lights, this season feels like a dark tunnel to so many souls. The shadows deepen in small, remembered pains…

…the barista misspelling your name again, her own eyes hollow from pulling double shifts to make ends meet…

…the neighborhood kid—no dad in sight—kicking gravel alone, aching for one safe voice to whisper, “I see you”…

…the recent widow staring at an empty chair…

…the young adult home from college for the first time post-divorce…

In these moments, another “Be a Light” sermon or a cheery Santa song falls flat, unable to pierce the mantle of darkness.

For Simeon—and for us—it’s Jesus who blazes in, not to shame, but to save and heal. His light doesn’t just chase shadows from our soul’s tunnel; it reveals ultimate truth. In Simeon’s day, it was a light for the nations, and a glory for Israel’s weary hearts.

Yet Simeon’s hope held grit. He didn’t soften it for Mary, telling her, “A sword will pierce your soul.” Light exposes; glory demands a cost. That’s where the prophecy gets personal.

What pierces you?

When the four of us barreled out of that tunnel into the light, everything changed!

Yes, the dark had tested us, but the light? It unveiled the way forward, showed we weren’t alone, and ignited a fresh fire to keep running.

Christmas whispers the same: every dark tunnel ends in Jesus—a revelation for the whole world and glory for His people, Israel.

Keep moving forward. You are seen. You are not alone.

The Light is for you.