Mercy in the Night

It happened in the dead of night, over the Labor Day weekend. Children—some as young as ten—were shaken awake in government shelters, told to gather their belongings, and herded onto buses. The plan was to put them on planes and send them away from the country they had fled to for refuge. Secrecy was the point. Fear was the fuel. But just before the flights could leave, a federal judge intervened. Roused from her sleep at about 2:30 a.m., Judge Sooknanan issued a restraining order and later said she was “surprised,” noting, “I have the government attempting to remove unaccompanied minors from the country in the wee hours of the morning on a holiday weekend.” [1] In her words, the cruelty was laid bare. In her actions, truth and justice found a timely defender. This story underscores a theme that runs through Scripture and our present moment: when the forces of evil move under cover of night, God raises up voices to push back darkness.

We should not miss the pattern at work. These are not random acts but part of a broader effort to reshape our national life by normalizing fear and cruelty. The deeper tragedy is not simply that “the world does what the world does,” but that many who claim the name of Christ have embraced these ways—turning from His calling to bear His fruit (Gal. 5:22–23) toward barren works of fear, anger, and self‑preservation.

Exodus chapter 1 tells the story of another empire cloaking oppression in necessity. “Then a new king, who did not know about Joseph, came to power in Egypt” (Ex. 1:8). This was not ignorance but a willful forgetting of God’s mercy. The God who had preserved Egypt through Joseph’s wisdom was dismissed. Grace was erased. Fear took its place. The new Pharaoh crafted his narrative with calculated precision: “Look,” he said, “the Israelites have become much too numerous for us. Come, we must deal shrewdly with them…” (Ex. 1:9–10). From this manufactured crisis came systemic oppression—brutal labor to break spirits, then state‑sponsored infanticide. Yet two women (Shiphrah and Puah) obeyed God and changed the course of history forever:

“The midwives, however, feared God and did not do what the king of Egypt had told them to do” (Ex. 1:17).

Their reverence of God outweighed fear of man. Their courage preserved life.

The parallels are not hard to see. Then, a fabricated crisis; now, rhetoric of “invasion.” Then, infants targeted; now, unaccompanied minors and asylum seekers. Then, a king decreeing death; now, draconian policies carried out under cover of night. And then, as now, unlikely voices arise—midwives who feared God more than kings, judges who halt planes, lawyers and advocates who risk much to defend the vulnerable. And still today, God raises up faithful preachers who proclaim the whole counsel of God, refusing to bend Scripture to the service of fear or power. Their voices remind the Church of its true vocation: to be the hands and feet of Christ—showing sacrificial love (Matt. 22:37–39), bearing the fruit of the Spirit (Gal. 5:22–23), and demonstrating discipleship by remembering that to serve the least of these is to serve Christ Himself (John 14:15; Matt. 25:40). Our call is not to echo Pharaoh but to embody the mercy and grace of Jesus.

But this is more than a story of human courage. God’s purposes are not undone. God preserved Israel through Shiphrah and Puah. But our ultimate deliverance comes through Christ—born under the shadow of a ruler’s decree of infanticide (Matt. 2:16–18). It was no accident that His incarnational life began in a stable and was soon marked by exile in Egypt, echoing Moses’ story and the plight of vulnerable children today. In that flight, He entered fully into the suffering of His people. And although for a moment it seemed His path would end in exile—even at the Cross—His resurrection secured our ultimate return home (John 14:2-4).

At the Cross He completed redemption, bearing sin and judgment in our place. By His resurrection He shattered sin, fear, and death once and for all. And this reality compels us to live as He did:

“Whoever claims to live in him must live as Jesus did” (1 John 2:6).

So, the question is not whether cruelty will persist—it will. The question is whom will we fear: Pharaoh or God? Will we fear the powers of this age, or the King whose kingdom is not of this world (John 18:36)? Scripture answers: “He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (Mic. 6:8).

This is our Exodus moment. In an age when children are herded onto buses in the night, when cruelty is justified as policy, when fear is baptized as conviction, the Church must remember who we are—not servants of Pharaoh, but followers of Christ; not apologists for fear, but bearers of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self‑control (Gal. 5:22–23). Therefore, let us refuse fear‑driven narratives, defend the vulnerable, insist on due process and truth, and practice hospitality to the stranger (Rom. 12:13). With humility, let us return to the Word—submitting our instincts, rhetoric, and policies to its searching light—so that our witness is shaped by Scripture rather than fear. To live otherwise is to betray the One we claim to serve.

The good news is that God is not thwarted. He still raises up leaders who, like Moses and Aaron, will speak God’s words to the Pharaohs of our age. He still works through ordinary faithfulness. And He still calls His people to reflect His heart. Paul urges us:

“The night is nearly over; the day is almost here. So let us put aside the deeds of darkness and put on the armor of light” (Rom. 13:12).

So then—wake up, Church! Let us cast off the darkness and walk in the light of Christ. Jesus is unequivocal in His calling: “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matt. 25:40). That is the measure of our discipleship and the hope that outlasts Pharaohs. And that is the call we dare not ignore.