Christmas II: Year A

“Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod.”

In Jerusalem, within the massive Yad Vashem Holocaust memorial, there is a monument to the 1.5 million children murdered by the Third Reich during the Holocaust. When you enter this simple modern structure, you find yourself in a darkened room with five lit candles. The domed ceiling, however, is comprised of thousands of tiny mirrors that reflect the light of these candles so that it appears that the ceiling is illuminated by 1.5 million tiny lights. In this same space, the names of all the children lost are broadcast in a continuous loop that repeats every three and a half months.

To say that this experience is moving does not do it justice. That all these children—each one with a name, each one with a story, each one with a family—were ruthlessly murdered by a government of a supposedly civilized nation defies our capacity to reason. When I visited a number of years ago, I found myself in tears, along with every other person who entered that room. The immensity of the loss and the weight of ordinary human evil that precipitated it were impressed upon me.

And this evil happened not because the people of that time were uniquely wicked. Rather, it happened because fear, silence, and indifference were allowed to take root. Too many people came to believe that nothing could be done, or that the suffering of others was not their responsibility. History shows us how devastating such attitudes can be, especially when those with power are left unchecked. Standing among those reflected lights, I could not help but think of another ruler, another massacre of children, and another family forced into the night. 

Jesus and the Holy Family were forced from their home by the murderous King Herod. They fled into Egypt, seeking to save their very lives. Jesus, who is God made truly human, entered the world in vulnerability. From the very beginning of his life, he knew danger, displacement, and fear. In this way, Christ identifies himself with the most fragile and threatened among us.

When we see the faces of children who suffer today—those living in poverty, fleeing violence, or caught in circumstances beyond their control—we are invited to see more than statistics or problems to be solved. We are invited to see the face of Christ. God did not choose to enter human history from a place of comfort or power, but from the margins. He did not come as a ruler with force at his command, but as a child dependent on the love and courage of others. He came as a refugee.

Some may feel uneasy when faith touches on matters that affect our shared life together. That discomfort is understandable. Yet the Christian faith has always shaped how believers see the world and their responsibilities within it. Following Jesus does not give us simple answers to complex problems, but it does call us to reflect carefully on how our choices affect the lives of others—especially the most vulnerable.

Jesus, who suffered at the hands of earthly authorities, reminds us that ultimate authority belongs to God alone. Our hope does not rest in any human system or leader, but in Christ, who emptied himself in love and brings hope to those who suffer.

This morning’s Gospel speaks of the Holy Family’s flight into Egypt, a story born of violence and fear, but also one filled with promise. Matthew tells us that this exile fulfills the words of the prophets: that out of suffering, God brings salvation. What appears to be the end of the story becomes the place where God is quietly at work.

Again and again, Scripture shows us that God brings light out of darkness and hope out of despair. This is the “glorious inheritance among the saints” that Paul speaks of in his letter to the Ephesians. On this last Sunday of Christmas, we are reminded that to be Christian is to be a people of hope—hope rooted not in optimism, but in trust that God is present even in the hardest places.

As followers of Christ, we are called to resist indifference and to cultivate compassion. We are called to examine our hearts, our habits, and our assumptions, and to ask whether they reflect the love we have first received. We are called to care for those who are vulnerable, to reject cruelty and dehumanization in all their forms, and to live with humility, knowing that all we have is a gift meant to be shared.

Christ, who was all-powerful, became vulnerable for our sake. He invites us to walk the same path of self-giving love. As we draw near to Jesus this morning, let us draw near to the child carried into a foreign land for safety, and to the family who trusted God step by step, without certainty of what lay ahead. Let us remember who this God is—the one who creates us, sustains us, and saves us—and allow that memory to shape how we live, love, and hope in the world.

I close with a wonderful poem by the Anglican priest and poet Malcolm Guite. He writes and, indeed, prays:

We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,
Or cosy in a crib beside the font,
But he is with a million displaced people
On the long road of weariness and want.

For even as we sing our final carol
His family is up and on that road,
Fleeing the wrath of someone else’s quarrel,
Glancing behind and shouldering their load.

Whilst Herod rages still from his dark tower
Christ clings to Mary, fingers tightly curled,
The lambs are slaughtered by the men of power,
And death squads spread their curse across the world.

But every Herod dies, and comes alone
To stand before the Lamb upon the throne.