Looking into the Uncomfortable Light
A Reflection on the Holy Innocence and Christian Ethic of Violence
There is a part of the Epiphany story we too often hurry past or quietly minimize: the Holy Innocents. Nestled uncomfortably into the beauty of star-light and gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh is a story of fear, brutality, and unspeakable loss. When Herod realizes that the Magi have not returned with information about the child “born King of the Jews,” his response is swift and violent. He orders the slaughter of children in an attempt to eliminate a single perceived threat to his authority.
The Church remembers this not to dwell morbidly on violence, but because it tells the truth about the world into which Christ was born. From the very beginning of Jesus’ life, power responds with fear. Authority protects itself. Violence is deployed as a tool of control. The Holy Innocents stand at the cradle just as the cross will one day stand at the end of Jesus’ life—both framed by the hard power of the state.
That cry of grief has never stopped echoing.
We hear it wherever the vulnerable are caught in the machinery of war, refugees forced from their homes, disaster, famine, and loss. We hear it when lives are reduced to numbers, when suffering becomes abstract, and when violence becomes so familiar that it fades into the background. One of the great spiritual dangers of our time is not only that violence exists, but that we become numb to it—accepting it as inevitable, normal, or simply “the way the world works.”
Every time Christians pray the Lord’s Prayer, we quietly resist that lie.
When we say, “thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” we are naming a hope that stands in judgment over the world as it is. We are praying for a day when violence will cease, when fear will no longer govern decisions, and when innocent lives will never again be treated as expendable. We pray this knowing that God’s kingdom is not yet fully realized—and yet trusting that it is already breaking in.
Jesus Himself is not naïve about the brokenness of the world. He tells His disciples to carry a sword, and yet, in the only moment one is ever used, He immediately heals the wounded man. The Gospel acknowledges that prudence, preparation, and protection matter in a world that is still fractured by sin and fear. At times, force may be necessary to protect the vulnerable, to restrain evil, and to preserve the greater good of peace, justice, and life.
And still, violence is never celebrated.
Even when force is used, it is treated as tragic rather than triumphant—something to be grieved rather than glorified. Christians are called to live honestly in the tension of the world as it is, while never confusing that world with the one God desires. We accept that the kingdom is not yet fully here, even as we refuse to stop hoping, praying, and working toward it.
We worship a God who meets the world’s brutality not with domination, but with grace and mercy—and who ultimately defeats violence not by greater force, but by defeating death itself. Resurrection, not retaliation, is God’s final word.
To remember the Holy Innocents is not to resolve the tension of the world, but to inhabit it faithfully. It is to grieve every loss, refuse numbness, and keep praying—sometimes through clenched teeth—for the kingdom Jesus taught us to seek. A kingdom where peace, justice, mercy, and abundance no longer need defending because they finally reign.
Until that day, the Church remembers. The Church prays. And the Church dares to believe that the prayer Jesus placed on our lips is not wishful thinking—but a promise still unfolding.
Pax et Bonum!
Fr. Ben +
