Christians get trees. Jews get bushes. To stay in good standing

Host: The night was cold, and the city streets shimmered under a thin veil of frost. Snowflakes drifted lazily down, melting into the neon puddles that glowed beneath the soft hum of streetlights. Inside a small corner café, warmth pooled around the windows, fogging the glass where passersby traced their breath. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights blinking in uneven rhythm — a tired but faithful symbol of December’s contradictions.

Jack sat at a table near the window, his grey eyes reflecting the tree’s colors — red, green, gold — all distorted through the lens of skepticism. Across from him, Jeeny sipped from a steaming mug, her brown eyes soft but fierce, like someone who’d seen faith in places where others saw irony.

Host: The air between them was calm, almost festive, yet beneath it ran the low current of unspoken challenge — a holiday argument waiting to bloom.

Jeeny: (smiling lightly) “You know, Alan Colmes once said, ‘Christians get trees. Jews get bushes. To stay in good standing with the Tribe, you’ve got to refer to a Christmas tree as a Hanukkah bush.’ I always loved that one.”

Jack: (snorting softly) “Yeah. Sounds like he found a polite way to mock both sides at once. That’s a skill.”

Jeeny: “It’s humor, Jack. The kind that tells truth while everyone’s too busy laughing.”

Jack: “Truth? It’s sarcasm dressed as unity. A tree or a bush, call it whatever you want — it’s still people trying to feel like they belong.”

Jeeny: (setting her cup down) “Exactly. Belonging. That’s what it’s really about. Not the tree, not the bush — the feeling of being part of something sacred.”

Host: The lights flickered above them, catching Jeeny’s face in a soft glow, and Jack’s in the shadow that followed. The café hummed quietly — a blend of coffee, cinnamon, and quiet music from an old radio. The season’s warmth was both genuine and artificial — like tinsel over truth.

Jack: “You think sacredness comes from objects? Decorations? Labels? Religion turned holidays into marketing campaigns centuries ago. We’re just the customers now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even customers can feel something real. You can mock a tradition, but you can’t erase what it does to the heart. My grandmother used to light the menorah every year — not because she thought God was watching, but because it reminded her of her mother, her childhood, her people. That’s not a transaction. That’s continuity.”

Jack: “Continuity or comfort? Sometimes nostalgia hides fear — fear of being left out, forgotten, replaced.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “And what’s wrong with that? Even fear tells you what you value.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the faint sound of distant carolers. Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny smiled faintly — she knew the rhythm of this debate too well. Calm, provoke, reveal.

Jack: “You’re making emotion sound like faith. People need meaning, sure, but why tie it to mythology? Why call a tree a Hanukkah bush to pretend everyone’s the same? That’s not inclusion — that’s performance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe performance is how we learn empathy. When cultures meet, they borrow, adapt, rename — that’s survival. That’s evolution. Judaism did it, Christianity did it, even ancient pagans did it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying appropriation is fine if it feels warm?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying sharing isn’t always stealing. Sometimes it’s how humans show love — by imitating what they envy.”

Host: Her voice softened, but there was steel underneath. Jack stirred his coffee, watching the dark swirls shift like thoughts he couldn’t quite settle. Outside, a child pressed her face to the window, eyes wide at the blinking lights, the kind of wonder adults spend years trying to recover.

Jack: “You know what I think? All this — the trees, the candles, the songs — it’s camouflage. We wrap our emptiness in color. Call it tradition. Pretend it’s meaning.”

Jeeny: “And what if the wrapping is the meaning? Maybe we decorate the emptiness so it’s bearable.”

Jack: (pausing) “That’s… bleak.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s beautiful. We can’t escape longing, so we make rituals around it. Look at Christmas. It’s not really about the birth of Christ anymore — it’s about hope. The same way Hanukkah isn’t just about oil lasting eight days — it’s about endurance.”

Jack: “So every holiday’s a psychological trick?”

Jeeny: “Or a mirror. It shows what people need to believe to keep going.”

Host: The wind pressed against the glass, and the tree’s lights flickered again, as if agreeing. The ornaments trembled, small reflections of two faces — one skeptical, one luminous — locked in the strange tension between faith and irony.

Jack: “But isn’t it dishonest to pretend the symbols mean the same thing? A Christmas tree and a Hanukkah bush aren’t the same — one’s birth, one’s resilience. When we blur them, we lose the depth.”

Jeeny: “Depth doesn’t come from separation, Jack. It comes from understanding that different truths can coexist. A Christmas tree can glow next to a menorah, and both can mean love. The world won’t collapse because two lights shine together.”

Jack: “Tell that to half of history.”

Jeeny: (gently) “History is full of people who thought their light was the only one worth burning. That’s the real tragedy.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked toward the window, where the snow had thickened. White flakes fell like quiet forgiveness over a city that rarely gave it. His reflection stared back — half lit by the tree, half drowned in shadow.

Jack: “You talk like peace is as simple as sharing decorations.”

Jeeny: “No, peace is about acknowledging the need to share. Humor, like Colmes’ quote, isn’t just a joke — it’s a bridge. He was pointing out how absurd we are, yes, but also how much we want to connect. We call it a Hanukkah bush not to deceive, but to belong without betraying ourselves.”

Jack: “Or to blend in so we don’t get judged.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes blending in is surviving. My grandfather changed his last name when he came to America — said the old one ‘sounded too foreign.’ He didn’t do it out of shame. He did it so his children could be treated like they belonged. Like they could walk into a room without suspicion.”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet, he lost something too.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But he kept us safe. Every adaptation costs something — that’s the price of living among others.”

Host: The music from the radio drifted into an old carol, and the lyrics filled the small space between them like snow settling into silence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I hate the tree — or the bush, or whatever we’re calling it tonight. It’s a lie wrapped in goodwill.”

Jeeny: (leaning closer, eyes steady) “Then maybe the lie is the goodwill. We agree to play along, to pretend our symbols match, because we love each other enough to want them to.”

Jack: “That’s… sentimental.”

Jeeny: “So is being human.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The tree’s light blinked again, steady now. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full, like the hush before the first note of a familiar song.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to call it a Hanukkah bush. She didn’t want the neighbors to think we’d given up on being Jewish. But she still hung ornaments. Still sang carols. I guess she was negotiating with both sides of herself.”

Jeeny: “That’s not hypocrisy. That’s humanity — trying to reconcile the many names of love.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s proof that we never stop pretending.”

Jeeny: “Pretending, or practicing? Every year, we rehearse the same story — hope, loss, renewal — and maybe one day we’ll mean it.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, though not from tears — from the firelight bouncing off the mug in her hands. Jack looked down, his mouth curving into something between a smirk and a sigh.

Jack: “So what are we really celebrating then? Faith? Family? Or our ability to pretend we’re not divided?”

Jeeny: “All of it. Because that’s the miracle, Jack — not the oil, not the virgin birth — but the fact that we keep lighting candles even when we know the darkness will come again.”

Host: The café clock ticked softly. The snow fell harder now, erasing the lines between streets, rooftops, religions. Through the window, the world looked cleaner, simpler — all boundaries buried under the same white hush.

Jeeny: (whispering) “Maybe the Hanukkah bush isn’t a compromise at all. Maybe it’s a symbol of how far we’ve come — from division to dialogue, from pride to peace.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Or maybe it’s just a bush.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. But look how much it makes us talk.”

Host: The camera pulled back, showing the café from the street. Two figures by the window, framed by a single glowing tree — or perhaps a bush, depending on who you asked. The snow kept falling, soft and endless, blurring faith and laughter into the same quiet light.

Host: In the end, it didn’t matter what you called it. What mattered was that it was lit — and that, for one winter’s night, both of them sat beneath its glow.