When Christmas Isn’t Silent: Finding Emmanuel in the Mess

The first Christmas wasn’t a silent night. And if we’re honest, yours probably wasn’t either.

We’ve spent December singing carols about peace and joy, watching heartwarming movies, and maybe even posting pictures of perfectly wrapped presents. But now, in this weird week between Christmas and New Year’s, reality sets back in. The lights come down. The family drama we tried to ignore comes back. The news cycle reminds us that the world is still broken.

And the Gospel reading for the first Sunday after Christmas? It doesn’t help. Matthew takes us from the manger straight into a nightmare: a murderous king, a refugee family, and mothers weeping for children who are no more.

This is not the Christmas vibe we signed up for.

The Christmas Story We Don’t Talk About

Andrew Peterson’s song “Labor of Love” captures something most nativity scenes miss: “It wasn’t a silent night, there was blood on the ground. You could hear a woman cry in the alleyway that night… and the stable was not clean, and the cobblestones were cold.”

That jarring image—blood on the ground, cold cobblestones—is exactly where Matthew’s Gospel takes us. While we’re still basking in the afterglow of Christmas Eve services, Matthew sucker-punches us with the story of Herod’s massacre.

The Magi have barely left when an angel wakes Joseph with urgent news: your family is no longer safe. King Herod wants to destroy your son. Joseph doesn’t argue. He doesn’t write a worship song. He simply wakes up, gathers his family, and flees to Egypt as refugees.

When Herod realizes the Magi aren’t coming back to report Jesus’s location, he orders every infant two years old and under in Bethlehem killed. Matthew documents this tragedy by quoting Jeremiah: Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted because they are no more.

Where Is God in the Massacre?

This raises one of faith’s most difficult questions: Where is God in the midst of this violence? Why was Jesus the only baby whose life was spared while other children died so brutally?

Matthew doesn’t offer simple answers or tidy theology. Instead, he offers us something more profound: a God who doesn’t watch from a distance but is born directly into the struggle, the danger, and the mess.

By quoting Jeremiah’s image of Rachel weeping, Matthew resurrects the forgotten voices of grieving mothers—voices that every other historian of that era ignored. This isn’t just background noise to Jesus’s story. It’s a cry for justice that has not been served. It’s a cautiously presented exposé of a state crime committed by a corrupt, fear-mongering ruler.

Emmanuel in the Cold

Jesus doesn’t escape the human condition. He relives, sums up, and brings to fruition the entire history of his people’s suffering. When we call him Emmanuel—God with us—we’re not talking about a God who shows up for the highlights reel. We’re talking about a God who is present in the darkest moments when life feels unbearably hard.

The Holy Family’s flight to Egypt echoes generations of their ancestors’ enslavement. Their later settlement in Nazareth connects them to social ostracism. From his first days, Jesus is embedded in the story of refugees, violence, and systemic oppression.

This is God-with-us: not bypassing our suffering, but entering into it fully.

Has Anything Really Changed?

As we look toward a new year, we have to ask: Has anything really changed? Evil continues. Families still flee violence. Children still suffer under corrupt systems. The road is just as cold for many people today as it was for the Holy Family.

If you look at any artistic rendering of the flight to Egypt, you’ll see the faces of refugees—faces we can still see today in families seeking safety across borders, fleeing war zones, escaping persecution.

Like Joseph, we’re called to move from verbal reasoning to obedient action. How many times have we ignored God’s messengers in our news feeds calling us to help others escape harm? How often do we scroll past opportunities to embody Emmanuel—to be God-with-others in their mess?

Born in Hope, Rooted in Reality

The first Christmas wasn’t a silent night. And for many of us at the end of 2025, this one isn’t either. But here’s what we can’t miss: in the midst of the blood, the cold cobblestones, and Rachel’s weeping, a Savior was born.

We enter 2026 not with shallow optimism that pretends everything is fine. We enter with sturdy, rooted hope—the kind that acknowledges reality while trusting in an ever-present Messiah who cares more about making love known than evil cares about fear.

The carol “What Child Is This?” doesn’t stay in the manger. It asks why this child is laid in “mean estates” where animals are feeding. It answers: “Nails, spear, shall pierce Him through. The cross be borne for me, for you.”

This hymn remains powerful precisely because it doesn’t ignore the pain. It crowns the one who suffered through it. It holds both the manger and the massacre, both the hope and the heartbreak, both Emmanuel’s birth and the cold reality of the world he was born into.

Your Move: From Comfort to Action

We don’t sing Christmas carols to escape reality. We sing because we already know how the story ends. Justice will be served. The shoot has risen from the stump. Emmanuel is with us in the mess, and he’s inviting us to be with others in theirs.

So as you move into this new year, ask yourself: Where is God calling me to move from comfortable belief to obedient action? Whose suffering am I being called to witness rather than scroll past? How can I embody Emmanuel—God-with-us—for someone who needs to know they’re not alone?

Share this post with someone who needs to hear that faith doesn’t require pretending everything is fine. Real hope is rooted in reality, and Emmanuel is still with us in the mess.