During the first 13 centuries after the birth of Jesus in

Host: The wind howled through the narrow stone streets of the old European quarter, where snow drifted softly against lamp posts and cobblestone. The cathedral bells echoed from afar, slow and solemn, as if the night itself were remembering something ancient. Inside a small bookshop café, nestled between a shuttered bakery and a forgotten chapel, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of old paper and coffee.

Jack sat near the fireplace, a book open before him — its pages yellowed, its spine cracked. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her cup absently, the silver spoon making a soft clinking sound. A faint carol played on the radio, muffled and slow, almost reverent.

On the small table between them lay a printed line, underlined in blue ink:
"During the first 13 centuries after the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, no one thought of setting up a crèche to celebrate Christmas. The pre-eminent Christian holiday was Easter, not Christmas." — Nancy Pearcey

Jeeny: “It’s strange to think about, isn’t it? That for over a thousand years, Christmas was almost forgotten — or at least, secondary. The world back then didn’t need the idea of a baby in a manger. They needed resurrection. They needed hope that conquered death.”

Jack: “Or they needed control. Religion wasn’t born from hope, Jeeny. It was engineered — to manage fear, to organize power. Easter had utility: it reinforced suffering, sacrifice, obedience. Christmas — that was too human. Too soft.”

Host: The flames flickered, casting long shadows on the walls filled with dusty books and framed icons. Snowflakes gathered on the windowpane, melting into tiny, trembling drops.

Jeeny: “You think tenderness is weakness? Maybe that’s why the world’s forgotten how to heal. Easter teaches triumph over death, yes — but Christmas teaches compassion before it. The idea that divinity could be small, fragile, human. Isn’t that more powerful?”

Jack: “Powerful? No. Comforting, maybe. But power has never belonged to comfort. It’s struggle that defines history, not gentleness. When the early church shaped its traditions, they were building fortresses, not cradles.”

Jeeny: “But the cradle became the fortress. Think about it — when Francis of Assisi created the first crèche in the 13th century, he wasn’t glorifying power. He was bringing the divine down to earth, saying ‘Look, God is touchable. Vulnerable. Near.’ That’s not control. That’s revolution.”

Jack: “Revolution wrapped in sentiment. You romanticize it. Francis wasn’t changing theology — he was changing marketing. The Church had learned to make the people feel close to what they couldn’t question. A baby is easier to worship than a crucifix.”

Host: The fire crackled, a single log splitting with a low snap. Jeeny’s eyes lifted, sharp now — her calm replaced with something fierce, luminous.

Jeeny: “You think faith is manipulation, Jack. But maybe it’s memory. Maybe Christmas grew because people needed to remember why they believed — not in power, but in presence. In something tender enough to be loved, not just feared.”

Jack: “And yet, the moment you build the image of that tenderness — the creche, the tree, the carols — it becomes ritual. And ritual feeds the institution. Look at what Christmas is now: commerce, decorations, hollow nostalgia. The child in the manger turned into a shopping mascot.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But isn’t that our fault, not the holiday’s? The symbol doesn’t lose its meaning just because we’ve forgotten how to see it. The world keeps commodifying love, but love keeps surviving it.”

Host: The wind outside rose again, brushing softly against the window, as if the world were listening in on their quarrel. The firelight glowed against their faces — his angular, shadowed; hers soft, alive with defiance.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny — why do you think Easter mattered more back then? Because it spoke to something primal. Life and death. Fear and victory. Christmas, in contrast, is about innocence — and innocence never lasts. Humanity needed redemption, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: “But maybe redemption begins with sentiment. With empathy. Easter without Christmas is like resurrection without birth — power without tenderness. You can’t rise again unless you’ve first lived, suffered, and been loved. Even God, in the story, had to start small.”

Jack: “You talk like a poet. But the world doesn’t change through poetry — it changes through necessity. Easter answered fear. Christmas answered longing. And fear always wins.”

Jeeny: “Does it? Then how do you explain the millions who still light candles on Christmas Eve? Or the families who, even in war zones, set up small wooden mangers in the rubble? Fear doesn’t win, Jack. Hope does — quietly, stubbornly, every year.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and resonant. A burst of laughter from a distant table faded into silence. The fire’s glow pulsed against the low ceiling, painting the room in gold and shadow.

Jack: “Maybe what people love isn’t the birth of Christ, but the illusion of a beginning. We crave restarts, clean slates, do-overs. It’s less about Bethlehem and more about ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly what faith is — the human will to begin again, even when history says it’s futile.”

Jack: “But beginnings are lies. Every beginning hides a repetition. Humanity doesn’t change — it just decorates its cycles.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Humanity remembers. The first creche wasn’t built to invent a new faith. It was built to remember the tenderness that had been buried under centuries of fear. We keep building them because we keep forgetting.”

Host: A gust of wind slammed against the window, rattling the glass. The candles on their table flickered, then steadied. Jeeny’s voice softened, her eyes shining — not with certainty, but with compassion.

Jeeny: “You think the world doesn’t change. But you’re sitting here, reading a quote from a woman who saw through history’s layers — who reminded us that the story began not with conquest, but with a birth. That’s change enough.”

Jack: “And yet, here we are — still arguing, still reaching for meaning in myths we outgrew.”

Jeeny: “Maybe myths don’t die because we don’t outgrow them — we grow into them.”

Jack: “You mean we reinterpret them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what staying alive means. Every generation rediscovers its own manger — some in religion, some in art, some in love. What matters isn’t what’s true historically, but what awakens us spiritually.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, swirling in silver spirals under the streetlight. Inside, the fire burned low, and a soft silence settled between them. The kind that doesn’t end arguments — it absorbs them.

Jack leaned back, his expression softening.

Jack: “You always manage to turn skepticism into confession.”

Jeeny: “Maybe skepticism is just faith wearing a disguise.”

Jack: “Then what’s faith?”

Jeeny: “The courage to love what reason can’t prove.”

Host: The bells from the cathedral tolled midnight — twelve slow, resonant notes, each one lingering in the cold air like an echo of time itself.

Jack closed the old book, his hand resting on its cover. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the flicker of the firelight.

For a moment, neither spoke. There was only the soft hum of the radio, the crackle of the logs, and the quiet awareness that both were right — and both were wrong.

The world outside would keep forgetting and remembering, building and breaking, killing and healing — and somewhere in that eternal motion, both Easter and Christmas would find their place.

The snow slowed, and through the window, the first hint of dawn touched the spire of the cathedral — pale, golden, merciful.

And in that fragile light, faith and doubt, reason and hope — all felt, for one brief heartbeat, reconciled.