One mother once said that she is always a little sad when Christmas is over, because she knows that after her family has hung up their stockings on Christmas Eve, it will be a whole year before any one of them hangs up anything again.
Most of us understand that feeling. Many of us are a little sad to see Christmas pass. The decorations will soon come down. The music fades. Life begins again. I hope—truly—that this Christmas was a joyful one in your home, a moment of peace and togetherness.
But today, on the Feast of the Holy Family, the Church reminds us of something very important: the Christmas story does not end in a perfect, protected home.
It continues in a world that is often dangerous, uncertain, and painful.
Brenda Roberts, a Sunday School teacher, was once reading the story of Jesus’ birth to her daycare children. She paused and asked, “What do we call the three wise men?”
“The three maggots,” replied a confident five-year-old.
Trying again, she asked, “And what gifts did they bring to baby Jesus?”
“Gold, frankensteins, and smurfs!”
Our Gospel today contains no frankensteins or smurfs—unless you want to associate King Herod with Frankenstein’s monster. And that would not be far off.
Immediately after the visit of the Magi, Joseph is warned in a dream: “Get up. Take the child and his mother. Flee to Egypt.”
The Holy Family becomes refugees.
Mary and Joseph do not return to a quiet, stable life. They do not go home to peaceful evenings and extended family gatherings. Instead, they pack what little they have, take a newborn child, and flee into the unknown—because the world has become dangerous for their family.
Meanwhile, Herod—driven by fear, insecurity, and envy—orders the slaughter of innocent children.
This is the Holy Family.
Not sheltered.
Not idealized.
Not protected from suffering.
And yet—holy.
We need to hear this clearly, especially today. We do not live in a world of sugar plums dancing in children’s heads. We live in a world where families struggle: with finances, illness, addiction, mental health, immigration fears, broken relationships, loneliness, and uncertainty about the future.
The Holy Family knows this world from the inside.
The Gospel writers never give us two front pages—one with good news and one with bad. In Scripture, the manger stands next to tyranny. The lullaby echoes beneath the threat of violence. And even in the Temple, Simeon tells Mary:
“A sword will pierce your soul.”
The Holy Family is not spared the pain of real life. They are faithful within it.
That is why they matter to us.
Humanity has always struggled with darkness. Ancient writers complained about greed, overcrowding, corruption, and people living beyond their means. Two thousand years later, nothing has changed. Human nature remains wounded. Every family carries its own burdens.
And yet—God does not abandon families because they are imperfect.
He enters into family life as it really is.
Christmas is God’s eternal declaration that evil will not win.
Herod may rage. Fear may rule for a season. Violence may appear powerful. But God’s plan unfolds quietly—in obedience, trust, and perseverance.
Joseph listens.
Mary consents.
Jesus grows.
Hope remains.
This is where the Feast of the Holy Family speaks directly to us as a parish—to Immaculate Heart of Mary.
A parish is not a collection of perfect families. It is a family of families, walking together through joy and hardship, faith and doubt, strength and fatigue.
Some families here today are strong.
Others are barely holding together.
Some are grieving.
Some are anxious about the future.
Some feel unseen.
The Holy Family reminds us that holiness is not the absence of struggle—it is faithfulness in the midst of it.
At IHM, we are called to be what the world often is not: a place of refuge. A place where families can breathe. A place where no one has to flee alone. A place where hope is guarded, like the child carried through the night into Egypt.
We do not deny the darkness—but we refuse to let it define us.
Like the anableps fish that sees both above and below the surface, we see two worlds at once. We acknowledge reality as it is, but we also keep our eyes fixed on what God promises.
So today, do not measure your family against an idealized picture. Measure it against the Holy Family: faithful, imperfect, vulnerable, trusting.
And as a parish family, let us be a sign—quiet but strong—that God still dwells among His people, still protects what is fragile, and still brings light into the darkest places.
The star still shines.
Hope still remains.
And God has not forsaken His own.