Holy Innocents

 Today’s gospel lesson is rather unsettling. Matthew confronts us with Herod’s cruelty, the suffering of innocents, and a world marred by violence. It’s not the gentle Christmas story for which we long—no peaceful manger scenes or adoring shepherds. Instead, it’s the raw aftermath of Christ’s arrival, where darkness recoils with terrible force against the light.

Frank Tupper, spent time exploring the mysteries of God’s providence, and Frank invites us to reflect on this passage without denying its horror. Frank reminds us of a God who doesn’t coerce history, even in moments of unspeakable suffering, insisting that “God always does the most God can do.” In this lens, Joseph becomes our guide—a figure of quiet obedience, stepping into the chaos with a faith that shelters divine promise.

When the angel appears to Joseph, there’s no grand display of divine power to halt Herod’s plan. Instead, God works quietly through Joseph’s humble actions. “Get up,” the angel says, “take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt.” And Joseph does just that—no questions, no hesitation, trusting that God is present even in danger. He doesn’t have Herod’s might or authority, but he has a willingness to respond to God’s call, protecting what is sacred with courage and love.

Tupper’s vision of God’s providence unfolds here: God does not impose an iron will on the world, erasing every trace of suffering. Rather, God calls ordinary people to act faithfully in the midst of brokenness. Joseph models this divine-human partnership—co-laboring with God to preserve the very Child who embodies hope for all creation.

Yet, the question lingers: why doesn’t God stop Herod outright? Why must the children of Bethlehem face unspeakable violence? Such questions echo every time we witness tragedies where evil appears to hold sway. Tupper doesn’t offer tidy solutions; instead, he shows us a God who is fully present in sorrow, whose own heart grieves with the world. The tears of Bethlehem’s mothers intertwine with God’s tears. The Incarnation itself testifies to this: a love that enters our pain, choosing vulnerability over domination.

In this light, the Massacre of the Innocents is more than a tragedy; it’s also a stark reminder that darkness does not have the final word. God’s purposes remain, not through dramatic rescues but through the faithfulness of people like Joseph—through acts of refuge, protection, and quiet obedience. Even when cruelty seems triumphant, the Christ child endures, carried by the simple trust of those who listen and respond.

For us, this story is an invitation to examine our own call in God’s redemptive work. Joseph had no power compared to Herod, but he had a heart aligned with God’s whisper. We, too, are challenged to protect what’s sacred, to care for the vulnerable, and to believe that God is at work—even in the shadows of human cruelty. As we weep alongside the mothers of Bethlehem, we also cling to the hope that God’s tears mingle with our own, and that the love born in a manger will ultimately prevail over all that seeks to destroy it.

Darkness did not overcome the light. I ponder Joseph’s humility and courage, trusting that wherever darkness gathers, God enters with love, redeeming and restoring—even now.