Besides Christianity and specifically Catholicism being

Host: The snow fell like a slow confession, silent and gentle, covering the city streets in a trembling white hush. Neon signs glowed through the flurries, their reflections smearing across the wet pavement like strokes of a fading dream. Inside a small downtown diner, the windows fogged, the lights dim, and the faint hum of an old jukebox played the opening chords of All I Want for Christmas Is You.

Jack sat at the counter, his coat damp, a coffee mug steaming before him. Jeeny sat two stools away, stirring her hot chocolate, watching the world blur through the glass. Between them, the air smelled of cinnamon, diesel, and the faint echo of something ancient and fragile — like the ghost of faith lingering in a secular age.

Jeeny: “You know, Milo Yiannopoulos once said — ‘Besides Christianity and specifically Catholicism being wonderful, Christmas is intrinsic to American culture and worth defending. Think of what happens at Christmas time. People play Mariah Carey Christmas songs... What else do you need in life?’”

Jack: “Ha. That’s quite a mix — theology, pop music, and patriotism. Only in America could Mariah Carey become part of the holy trinity.”

Host: His smile was half mockery, half melancholy. Outside, a bell ringer stood by a donation bucket, his gloves frayed, his smile tired but unbroken.

Jeeny: “You mock it, but he’s not wrong. For one month every year, something shifts. People smile more, they give, they sing songs they’d never admit to loving. Isn’t that worth defending?”

Jack: “Defending? Against what? Time? Commerce? We turned a sacred holiday into a shopping marathon. You can’t defend something that’s already been sold.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about purity anymore. Maybe it’s about what remains despite the noise. Even if Christmas has been commercialized, the feeling it awakens — generosity, warmth, belonging — that’s still real.”

Host: The lights flickered slightly, reflecting off the chrome counter. A couple in the corner laughed softly over shared pancakes. The sound felt like a small miracle, fragile yet grounding.

Jack: “You really think Mariah Carey can save civilization?”

Jeeny: “I think she reminds people that joy still exists — even in a world that’s forgotten what holy means.”

Jack: “Joy sold by the minute on Spotify. A ritual of repetition. You call that sacred?”

Jeeny: “Why not? If millions sing the same song, at the same time, feeling the same warmth — isn’t that a kind of prayer?”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, but there was no cruelty in them, only the faint weariness of someone who’s seen too much truth to believe in wonder easily.

Jack: “A prayer without belief is just nostalgia. We love Christmas because it lets us pretend — pretend the world is kinder than it is, that people are good, that love conquers loneliness.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with pretending if it makes us act better? Every December, even the cynical ones donate a little, call their families, help a stranger. Isn’t that proof that goodness doesn’t need to be pure to be powerful?”

Jack: “You’re saying the illusion itself has moral weight.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying the illusion might be the only truth we have left.”

Host: The jukebox clicked, shifting songs. Silent Night began to play — slow, haunting, the notes trembling like fragile glass ornaments.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to make me light candles on Christmas Eve. She said the flame meant hope — that even one small light could remind the dark it wasn’t infinite. I stopped doing it after she died. The flame started feeling like a lie.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the lie is thinking the flame needs to mean something eternal. Maybe it’s enough that it means something to you, for a moment.”

Jack: “You think faith can survive without God?”

Jeeny: “I think faith is God — or what we call Him. Every act of hope, every song sung in the cold, every stranger offered warmth — that’s the divine, Jack. Even in a pop song.”

Host: The diner door opened briefly, letting in a rush of wind and the faint sound of carolers down the street. A child’s laughter cut through the night air like a bright note.

Jack: “So Christmas isn’t about Christ anymore — it’s about mood. Sentiment. Aesthetic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s evolved. Maybe God found a new disguise — in lights, in music, in human kindness. You think He cares what form His story takes, as long as it makes people remember to love?”

Jack: “Or maybe He’s just been replaced. Mariah Carey as the new Messiah — singing to a world that prays only to its own reflection.”

Jeeny: “You think cynicism is insight, but it’s just another faith — one that worships emptiness. I’d rather believe in something too shallow than in nothing at all.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but not with weakness — with the kind of conviction that makes even disbelief feel smaller. Jack said nothing. He just watched her, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup like a man listening to an old prayer he’d forgotten the words to.

Jeeny: “You talk about commercialization like it killed the sacred. But maybe the sacred just learned how to hide inside the ordinary. Think of it — millions of people singing together, even for something as simple as love at Christmas. That’s communion, Jack — not in church, but in the heart.”

Jack: “Communion in a shopping mall.”

Jeeny: “If the spirit’s there, does the place matter?”

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed softly, casting red and green light across their faces. The snow outside thickened, falling in quiet, endless motion.

Jack: “So you’d defend Christmas not as religion, but as... emotion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. As the last ritual we all still share. When else do strangers smile at each other on the street? When else do cities glow with warmth instead of fire?”

Jack: “Until it fades in January.”

Jeeny: “Even a temporary light can save someone from the dark, Jack.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The music drifted between them — a soft chorus of nostalgia and hope. The steam from their cups curled upward, merging in the faint glow of the counter light.

Jack: “You know, when you put it that way, maybe Mariah’s song is theology — the pop kind. She’s basically saying love is the only gift worth wanting.”

Jeeny: “See? Even you can find holiness in pop culture.”

Jack: “Don’t push it. I said theology, not salvation.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Same difference, some years.”

Host: The laugh they shared was small, but real — like a spark refusing to die in winter air. Outside, the carolers grew louder, their voices blending with the distant rumble of city life — horns, footsteps, wind.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Maybe Christmas is the world’s way of apologizing to itself. For all the cruelty, the greed, the loneliness. It takes one month to pretend it remembers how to love.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe pretending is practice.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long time, then reached across the counter, picking up the small sugar packet beside her cup. He tore it open, poured it into her drink, and said quietly —

Jack: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Host: Outside, the snow thickened, erasing the footprints of those who’d come before. The diner window glowed warm against the dark — a fragile heart beating in the cold vastness of the world.

And as All I Want for Christmas Is You began again on the jukebox, it didn’t sound shallow anymore. It sounded like faith — in love, in warmth, in the possibility that even a pop song could remind a weary world how to be human again.