A homily for the Feast of the Holy Family, the second Sunday in Christmas based on Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23.
After the wise men had left, an Angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the Prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
When Herod died, an Angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel.
But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the Prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nazorean.” ― Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23.
Here we are, just days after Christmas. Some of us are tired. Some of us are relieved it’s over. Some of us wish it would last longer. The tree is still up, but already a little dry, needles are beginning to drop. The lights are still on, but we’re back to schedules, back to worries, back to whatever was waiting for us before the angel choir showed up.
And into this moment — into this here and now — the Church gives us a Gospel about a family that doesn’t get to stay by the manger. Joseph is asleep. Not peacefully, but the kind of sleep you fall into when you’re exhausted from holding everything together.
And then — again — he is woken. *“Get up.”* Not tomorrow. Not when it’s safer. Get up now. Take the child and his mother and flee.
This is not just a story from long ago in a far away place. This is what it feels like when the ground shifts under your feet. When plans you just made are suddenly useless. When the thing you love most is threatened and you realize you don’t have the luxury of thinking it through.
Love does not always arrive with candles and carols and gifts wrapped with bows. Sometimes love arrives as urgency.
Imagine it. Mary gathering up what little they have, Joseph checking the door, listening to the night with danger ears. Jesus — still so small — being lifted into arms that are already tense with fear. The cold air. The confusion. The question that has no answer yet: Why is this happening?
This is the Holy Family. Not framed and serene, but moving quickly, quietly, because staying is no longer an option.
We are living in a time when a lot of people know exactly what this feels like. Families crossing borders. Parents making impossible decisions. People leaving homes not because they want to, but because love says, You cannot stay. And before we turn this into something symbolic or spiritualized, Matthew refuses to let us forget: Jesus is one of them, one of us. Right now. In this world. God does not watch from a distance. God goes with them. That’s what love looks like here and now: not escape from danger, but presence within it.
Herod is still very much alive in our world. Not just in one person, but in every system, every fear, every hunger for control that is willing to sacrifice the vulnerable to stay in power. Herod’s fear has many accents. It always sounds reasonable to itself. But it always costs children.
And love does not argue with fear on fear’s terms. Love does not try to outshout it. Love simply takes the child and leaves. Love protects life, even when it means disappearing, even when it means starting over somewhere unfamiliar.
Some of you are doing that right now — maybe not geographically, but emotionally, spiritually. You are carrying something fragile: a relationship, a child, a recovery, a truth about yourself, a hope you’re not sure will survive. You are learning that love sometimes means saying no, stepping back, walking away, choosing the harder road because it is the only one that leads to life.
Joseph didn’t get a roadmap, just one step at a time: Go. Stay. Return. Divert. Nazareth instead of Judea. This is not indecision; it is trust, lived in real time. Love here is not certainty. Love is responsiveness. Love is listening closely enough to move when the time comes.
And notice this: when it is finally safe to return, they do not go back to the place of promise or prestige. They go to Nazareth. Ordinary. Unremarkable. A place where nothing much happens. A place where you raise a child and earn a living and try to be faithful without anyone noticing.
That may be the most challenging part of this Gospel for us. We are good at dramatic love — crisis love, emergency love, Christmas love. But Nazareth love? The love that shows up every day? The love that washes dishes, the love that pays bills, apologizes again, offers forgiveness, keeps listening, keeps choosing patience? That is where God chooses to dwell.
The Feast of the Holy Family is not telling us, “Be perfect.” It is telling us, “Be present.” Be present to the life you actually have, not the one you thought you’d have. Be present to the people entrusted to you, not the ones you wish you were with. Be present to the love that is asking something of you now, not later.
Because here is the truth we often miss: salvation is happening in the middle of all this. Not after things calm down. Not when the family finally looks holy enough. Right here. Right now in the getting up. In the fleeing. In the returning. In the choosing of Nazareth.
In this octave of Christmas, we are still learning what it means to say that God became flesh. It means God knows what it is to be tired. God knows what it is to be afraid for a child. God knows what it is to live under powers that do not care about love. God knows what it is to grow up in an ordinary place and make an ordinary life holy from the inside.
If your family feels messy, strained, unfinished — this Gospel is for you. If your love feels more like endurance than joy right now — this Gospel is for you. If you are doing your best and still unsure whether it’s enough — this Gospel is for you. Because the Holy Family is not held together by perfection. They are held together by love that keeps moving, keeps listening, keeps choosing life.
And that love is not confined to them. It is here. It is Now. It is in you. In the small, brave decisions you will make today. In the way you protect what matters. In the way you get up and go on.
This is how God is still entering the world — quietly, vulnerably, faithfully — through love that refuses to stop, even here, even now.
About Fr. Graham Hill C.Ss.R.
Redemptorist priest living and working in Toronto, Ontario. Who proudly practices eccentric activities with strings under tension — from musical instruments to recurve bows.
