There is a quiet tenderness to the Second Sunday after Christmas. The world has already moved on—trees are at the curb, returns have been made, calendars flipped. But the Church lingers. We stay close to the manger just a little longer, listening for the soft rustle of angels’ wings, watching the holy family gather themselves for whatever comes next.

And what comes next, according to Matthew, is not peaceful at all. It is flight. It is danger. It is a young family waking in the night to the warning of an angel and slipping away under cover of darkness. The child who has barely taken his first breaths is already a refugee. The one who is called Emmanuel—God with us—begins his earthly life on the move, carried by parents who are doing everything they can to keep him safe.

It is striking that Matthew tells this story right after the wonder of Christmas. We might prefer to stay in the glow of shepherds and stars. But Matthew insists that the incarnation is not sentimental. It is costly. It is vulnerable. It is God choosing to enter the world exactly as it is—dangerous, unpredictable, and in need of saving.

And yet, even in this story of flight and fear, there is a thread of hope. Matthew keeps saying, “This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the prophet.” Not to suggest that God orchestrates violence, but to remind us that God is not surprised by the world’s brokenness. God is already at work within it. The holy family’s journey echoes Israel’s ancient journeys—down into Egypt, up out of Egypt, through exile, through return. Jesus steps into the long story of God’s people, carrying it forward toward redemption.

Jeremiah gives us the other side of that story today. If Matthew shows us the fear of exile, Jeremiah shows us the joy of homecoming. “See, I am going to bring them from the land of the north,” God says. “With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I will lead them back.” It is a picture of restoration so complete that even the most vulnerable—the blind, the lame, the pregnant, the laboring—are gathered in and brought safely home.

And then Jeremiah gives us that beautiful image: God’s people will be like a watered garden. Not a desert. Not a wasteland. A garden—tended, nourished, flourishing. A place where sorrow turns to joy, where mourning becomes dancing.

It is a powerful contrast to the holy family’s hurried escape. But both scenes reveal the same truth: God is a God who gathers, who protects, who leads us toward life even when the path winds through danger.

Psalm 84 deepens that truth. “How dear to me is your dwelling, O Lord of hosts.” The psalmist longs for God the way a bird longs for a nest. Even the sparrow finds a home near God’s altar. Even the swallow finds a place to lay her young. It is a tender image—God as the one who makes room for the small, the fragile, the overlooked.

And then the psalmist says something remarkable: “Happy are the people whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on the pilgrims’ way.” Not on comfort. Not on certainty. But on the way—the journey with God, wherever it leads.

That is exactly where we find ourselves in these days after Christmas. The season invites us to wonder at the mystery of God made flesh, yes. But it also invites us to follow that God into the world, trusting that the One who came among us in vulnerability walks with us still.

Paul, in Ephesians, gives us the language for that trust. He blesses God for choosing us, adopting us, claiming us as beloved children. And then he prays that we might have “a spirit of wisdom and revelation,” that the eyes of our hearts might be enlightened. He wants us to see—to really see—the hope to which God has called us, the riches of God’s inheritance, the immeasurable greatness of God’s power.

It is as if Paul is saying: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. You are not wandering without purpose. You belong to God. You are held by God. And God’s power is at work in you and around you, even when the world feels uncertain.

So what does all of this mean for us, here, on this quiet Sunday after Christmas?

• It means that the incarnation is not just a story we admire. It is a truth we live.

• It means that God meets us not only in the beauty of Christmas Eve, but also in the messy, complicated days that follow.

• It means that when we feel like the holy family—on the run, unsure, carrying more than we think we can bear—God is with us.

• When we feel like the exiles in Jeremiah—longing for home, longing for restoration—God is leading us toward joy.

• And when we feel like the psalmist—yearning for a place to rest, a place to belong—God is already preparing a dwelling for us.

• And when we feel like Paul’s community—trying to understand what faith means in real life—God is opening the eyes of our hearts.

   

Beloved, Christmas is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of a journey. A journey in which God walks with us, shelters us, strengthens us, and calls us beloved.

So as we step into this new year, may we set our hearts on the pilgrims’ way. May we trust the God who leads us through danger and into hope. May we look for the places where joy is already breaking in. And may we remember that the child who fled to Egypt is the same one who will one day gather all creation into the fullness of God’s love.

Thanks be to God.