Not Among Exiles, An Exile Too
Preached at Blue Ocean Faith Columbus on Sunday, January 11, 2026
Reminder: I never stick completely to my written sermon. This isn’t a transcript, but the written sermon I was using when I preached.
Friends, listen for a word from God in the Gospel according to Matthew, the second chapter, verses 13-23.
Now after [the magi] had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “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.” 14 Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt 15 and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son.”
16 When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the magi, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the magi. 17 Then what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled:
18 “A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”
19 When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, 20 “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” 21 Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. 22 But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. 23 There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nazarene.”
This is the word of God for the people of God.
Friends, there’s something we often miss about the Christmas story. We’ve barely packed away the nativity scenes, the shepherds and the magi are heading home, and suddenly, in the middle of the night, an angel appears to Joseph in a dream with an urgent message: “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.”
Flee. That’s the word. Not “travel.” Not “journey.” Flee.
The Holy Family becomes a refugee family in verse thirteen. Mary and Joseph gather what they can carry, wrap Jesus in whatever blankets they have, and disappear into the night. They cross borders without papers, without permission, without knowing if they’ll be welcomed or turned away. They become asylum seekers, running for their lives from a government that wants their child dead.
This isn’t a footnote in Jesus’ story. This is Jesus’ story. Before he preached a single sermon, before he healed a single person, before he called a single disciple, Jesus was a refugee. The incarnation doesn’t just mean God became human. It means God became an exile too.
Matthew tells us Joseph took the family and “went to Egypt and remained there until the death of Herod.” We don’t know exactly how long they were there—maybe a year, maybe three, maybe longer. Long enough for Jesus to take his first steps on foreign soil. Long enough for Mary and Joseph to learn a new language, to navigate a new culture, to lie awake at night wondering if they’d ever see home again.
Egypt. The place where their ancestors had been enslaved. The place where Pharaoh had ordered the murder of Hebrew baby boys. And now Egypt becomes the place of refuge, the place of safety, the place where the child lives.
God has a way of turning our expectations upside down. The empire that was once the enemy becomes the sanctuary. The foreign land becomes home. And Bethlehem, the city of David, the city of promise, becomes the city of slaughter.
Because Herod, when he realizes the magi aren’t coming back to report, does what tyrants always do. He sends soldiers. Matthew says Herod “killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under.” Mothers screaming. Fathers pleading. Blood in the streets where there should have been lullabies.
Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.
Let’s be clear about what this text is telling us: Jesus’ survival depended on Egypt’s welcome. If Egypt had closed its borders, if Egypt had turned them away, if Egypt had said, “We can’t take any more refugees, we have to take care of our own people first,” Jesus dies. The incarnation would have ended in verse thirteen. There would have been no gospel, no resurrection, no salvation, because the host country said no.
Jesus lived because somebody said yes. Because some Egyptian family took them in. Because some Egyptian community made space. Because Egypt became the place where God’s own child found refuge.
Now. Right now, as we sit here, there are families fleeing violence, fleeing persecution, fleeing death. They’re carrying children who can barely walk. They’re crossing borders without papers, without permission, without knowing if they’ll be welcomed or turned away. They are Mary and Joseph. Their children are Jesus.
And we have a choice about what kind of people we’re going to be.
The Trump administration has enacted what they call the largest deportation operation in American history. Mass deportations. Workplace raids. Military involvement in immigration enforcement. The employment of loosely trained, masked thugs who shoot first and then run away. Families ripped apart. Children separated from parents. People who have lived here for decades, who have built lives here, who have contributed to our communities, all marked for removal.
Some people say, “Well, they should have come legally.” Tell that to the asylum seekers at our southern border who are blocked from even requesting asylum. Tell that to the people fleeing gang violence in Central America, where our own government’s policies helped create the instability they’re running from. Tell that to Mary and Joseph, who didn’t stop to get travel documents approved by Rome before they fled in the middle of the night.
Some people say, “We have to follow the law.” Herod had a law too. He ordered the execution of children, and his soldiers followed those orders. Sometimes the law is wrong. Sometimes the law is evil. Sometimes following the law means participating in atrocity.
And sometimes, sometimes the gospel calls us to stand between the law and the vulnerable, to say “Not here. Not in our community. Not to these families who are fleeing for their lives.”
Jesus doesn’t just sympathize with refugees. Jesus was a refugee. God didn’t observe exile from a distance. God experienced exile in God’s own body. The incarnation means that when we turn away a family seeking asylum, we’re turning away the Holy Family. When we support policies that separate children from their parents, we’re supporting the policy that would have killed Jesus.
Matthew makes this connection explicit. After Herod dies, the angel appears to Joseph again: “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” But even then, even coming home, Joseph is afraid. He hears that Herod’s son is ruling in Judea, and he takes the family north to Nazareth instead.
Once you’ve been an exile, you can never fully stop being an exile. Even when you return home, you return changed. You know what it means to be foreign. You know what it means to be afraid. You know what it means to depend on the kindness or cruelty of strangers.
Jesus carries that knowledge his whole life. When he says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” he’s not speaking hypothetically. When he says, “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me,” he knows what it means to be the least. He’s been there. He’s lived it. He is them.
So, what does this mean for us? What does it mean to be the church of a refugee God?
It means we don’t get to be neutral. It means we don’t get to say, “Immigration is complicated” and wash our hands of responsibility. It means we stand with our immigrant siblings, our refugee neighbors, our asylum-seeking friends, not because it’s easy, not because it’s politically convenient, but because our God was an exile too.
It means we support sanctuary movements. It means we oppose mass deportations. It means we advocate for immigration reform that treats human beings like human beings, not like problems to be solved or threats to be eliminated.
It means when someone in our community is facing deportation, we show up. We fill the courtroom. We make phone calls. We raise money for legal defense. We offer our homes, our resources, and our presence.
It means we vote for politicians who will protect immigrant families, not tear them apart. It means we organize, we protest, we make noise, and we refuse to let this happen quietly.
Because we worship a God who fled to Egypt. We follow a Savior who knew what it meant to be hunted, to be foreign, to depend on strangers for survival. And we claim a gospel that says the Holy Family are still on the move, still crossing borders, still seeking safety, still asking for welcome.
The question isn’t whether Jesus was an exile. Matthew settles that in chapter two. The question is whether we’ll be the kind of people who welcome him. Whether we’ll be Egypt, opening our doors, or Herod, sending soldiers into the night.
Not among exiles. An exile too. That’s who Jesus was. That’s who Jesus is. That’s who Jesus calls us to stand with.
May God give us the courage to answer that call.
Amen.