A Christmas Homily: The Holy Family's Flight

 

A Christmas Homily: The Holy Family's Flight – A Journey of Refuge, Renewal, and Right Order Among Kin

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

As we gather in this Advent twilight, just weeks from the manger's glow, let us turn our hearts to the fuller tapestry of the Christmas story—not only the angels' song over Bethlehem, but the shadowed flight that followed.

In Matthew's Gospel, we read of the angel's urgent warning: "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" (Matthew 2:13).

Joseph rises by night, and the Holy Family embarks on a perilous trek across deserts, finding refuge not in isolation, but among their own—a thriving Jewish community of over a million souls in the vibrant capital of Alexandria, Egypt.

This was no tale of strangers in a strange land; it was a return to kin, echoing Israel's ancient sojourns and fulfilling God's promise: "Out of Egypt I have called my son" (Hosea 11:1; cf. Matthew 2:15).

In this Christmas reflection, we'll explore how the Holy Family's journey mirrors the providential migrations that have shaped nations, including our own America, where waves of Europeans and Russians sought new life among their people, building a great land through faith and integration.

Drawing from St. Thomas Aquinas' wisdom on immigration—rooted in the Old Testament—we'll see how such journeys honor the common good when lawful, differing sharply from unlawful entry that disrupts order. Like St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, these stories remind us that true refuge blooms in community, transforming trials into triumphs of the Gospel.

Picture the scene: Mary cradling the infant Jesus, Joseph guiding their donkey through moonlit sands, evading Herod's slaughter—the "wailing in Ramah" that pierced the night (Matthew 2:17-18; Jeremiah 31:15).

Yet, Egypt was no alien shore for them. Jewish roots there stretched back over 1,500 years, to when Jacob led his family—seventy strong—into the Nile Delta during famine, reuniting with Joseph, the viceroy of Pharaoh (Genesis 46:1-7, 26-27).

God assured him: "Do not be afraid to go down to Egypt, for I will make of you a great nation there. I myself will go down with you to Egypt, and I will also bring you up again" (Genesis 46:3-4).

This exodus birthed a people; later, after Babylonian captivity, more Jews settled in Egypt, including the prophet Jeremiah (Jeremiah 43-44).

By Jesus' time, Alexandria—a jewel of the Hellenistic world with three million inhabitants—hosted perhaps a million Jews, one-third of its populace, in bustling quarters alive with synagogues, the Septuagint's scholars, and merchants blending faith with commerce.

St. Stephen recalls this legacy in Acts: from Joseph's household in Goshen to the Israelites' multiplication under pharaohs, Egypt was a cradle of covenant life (Acts 7:11-17).

St. Alphonsus Liguori meditates on their arrival among a "barbarous and unknown race," yet sustained by divine grace and the warmth of shared heritage.

Here, the Holy Family—devout Galilean Jews—found not hostility, but home: Passover seders, Torah readings, and kin who preserved the faith amid pagan grandeur.

Their stay, until Herod's death, was a hidden Nazareth-in-exile, where the Child grew in safety, prefiguring the Church's missionary call to enculturate the Word without compromise.

This ancient pattern of refuge among kin resonates deeply with America's own Christmas story of immigration—a saga of hope that built our nation.

From the late 19th to early 20th centuries, Ellis Island's gates welcomed over 12 million souls fleeing Europe's pogroms, famines, and wars, processing them not as intruders, but as seekers of promise.

Between 1820 and 1910 alone, more than 28 million immigrants poured into the United States, with waves from Italy, Ireland, Germany, Poland, and Russia swelling the tide—over 2.7 million Italians by 1908, and hundreds of thousands from Russia, including Jews escaping tsarist persecution.

None arrived as "illegals" in the modern sense; before restrictive quotas in the 1920s, America's doors stood open to those who passed health and moral checks at ports like Ellis Island, arriving for a new life, not conquest.

They sought kin already rooted here—family networks in New York's Little Italys, Chicago's Polish enclaves, or Boston's Irish quarters—much like Mary and Joseph turning to Alexandria's Jews.

These newcomers integrated, not by erasing their heritage, but by weaving it into America's fabric: laboring in factories, building railroads, and enriching the culture with faith, food, and festivals.

They grew this great nation, contributing to its moral and economic might, all while holding fast to the Gospel that welcomed them.

St. Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic Doctor whose teachings illuminate the harmony of faith and reason, offers profound insight into such migrations, drawing directly from the Old Testament's call to hospitality.

In his Summa Theologica, Aquinas upholds the biblical mandate to welcome strangers, citing God's command through Moses: "You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt" (Exodus 22:21; cf. Leviticus 19:34).

For Aquinas, this reflects natural law: humans, made for society, have a right to migrate for survival or betterment, as Abraham did when famine drove him from Canaan (Genesis 12:10), or as Jacob's family sought refuge in Egypt (Genesis 46).

Yet, Thomas distinguishes sharply between lawful sojourns that serve the common good and unlawful entries that harm it.

A nation, like a household, may regulate borders to protect peace, resources, and order—just as Pharaoh initially welcomed Joseph but later oppressed the Israelites when their numbers threatened his rule (Genesis 47:11-27; Exodus 1:8-14).

Illegal entry, in Aquinas' view, violates justice by disregarding the host community's laws, akin to theft or invasion; it burdens the innocent rather than building mutual flourishing.

Thus, the Holy Family's flight was no breach but a providential return to kin under divine guidance, modeling integration that honors both the migrant's dignity and the host's rights—much like the orderly waves at Ellis Island.

Foremost among such stories shines St. Frances Xavier Cabrini, the Italian immigrant saint whose feast we honor in December.

Born in 1850 near Milan, she founded the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart in 1880, her heart set on China—yet Pope Leo XIII redirected her to America in 1889: "Not to the East, but to the West."

Arriving in New York amid 50,000 fellow Italians—many poor, unlettered, and adrift in tenements—she faced chaos: lynchings in New Orleans, exploitation in Pennsylvania mines.

Undaunted, Cabrini reconciled feuding benefactors, opened orphanages, schools, and hospitals like Chicago's Columbus Hospital, serving not just Italians but all immigrants.

With no "illegal" status—entering legally with papal mandate—she integrated deeply, learning broken English, navigating American law, and fostering citizenship while preserving Catholic identity.

By her death in 1917, her order spanned eight countries, aiding over a million souls.

Canonized in 1946 as the first American saint, she's patroness of immigrants, embodying how refuge among kin sparks renewal: "The pope sent me here, and here I must stay," she declared to a doubting archbishop.

Like the Holy Family and Aquinas' balanced vision, Cabrini's journey turned exile into mission, building spiritual homes in a new land without disrupting the common good.

So, what does this mean for us this Christmas?

In a world of borders and debates, the Holy Family, Aquinas' teachings, and saints like Cabrini teach that migration, when rooted in faith and law, forges communities of light.

Our parishes echo Alexandria's synagogues and Ellis Island's halls—places where newcomers find kin in Christ, integrating as disciples who enrich us all.

Yet, it calls us to action: Welcome the stranger as Christ welcomed Egypt's Jews, offering not suspicion, but solidarity—while upholding just laws that safeguard the vulnerable on both sides.

In your homes, share stories of ancestors who crossed oceans for hope; at table, pray for today's refugees, that they find kin like Mary and Joseph did, through orderly paths of mercy.

My friends, as we adore the Babe of Bethlehem, remember: God's family knows no walls, but honors order in love.

From Egypt's ancient Jews to America's immigrant saints, He calls us to journey together, growing His kingdom one faithful, lawful step at a time.

Let us pray: O Holy Family, guide all wanderers to refuge in Your love. Through Christ, our Way home. Amen.

In this joyful season, may peace fill your hearts and homes.