I am Jewish, but I love Christmas, as most Jews with any taste

Host: The bar was dim and cluttered with half-empty glasses, soft laughter, and the lazy croon of a Frank Sinatra record spinning somewhere in the back. Outside, snow drifted down onto New York’s streets, coating the city in silver exhaustion and half-forgotten dreams. Inside, the lighting was the color of whiskey and nostalgia — warm, defiant, forgiving.

Jack sat at the counter, coat unbuttoned, his grey eyes reflecting the flicker of the TV above the bar — some old Christmas movie looping endlessly, full of tinsel and sentiment. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, shaking snow from her hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jeeny: “Billy Eichner once said, ‘I am Jewish, but I love Christmas, as most Jews with any taste do, because Hanukkah is lame.’”

Host: Jack chuckled, swirling the ice in his glass.

Jack: “Trust Eichner to offend half the internet with a single line.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t being cruel. He was being honest. And funny. Hanukkah’s sweet, but Christmas — Christmas is theater.”

Jack: “And you love theater.”

Jeeny: “Everyone does, deep down. Even cynics like you.”

Host: Jack smiled, that small, sideways one that carried equal parts charm and resignation.

Jack: “You’re right about that. But Eichner’s quote — it’s not about holidays. It’s about belonging to something you weren’t born into. Wanting to taste a tradition that doesn’t technically belong to you.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s envy?”

Jack: “Not envy. Curiosity. Maybe even admiration. Christmas is... excess. It’s humanity saying, ‘For one month, let’s pretend everything is golden.’”

Jeeny: “And Hanukkah’s quieter. It’s about endurance. About light that refuses to die.”

Jack: “Beautiful. But it doesn’t have Mariah Carey.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Exactly. Hanukkah is soul; Christmas is spectacle. And Billy’s line — it’s that tension. The Jewish soul admiring the Christian spectacle.”

Host: The bartender slid another drink toward Jack, nodding. The record skipped, then caught again. “Let It Snow” floated lazily through the air.

Jack: “You ever notice how December turns everyone into a cultural mix of contradictions? Jews with trees, atheists singing carols, exhausted Christians hiding behind eggnog.”

Jeeny: “Because Christmas stopped being religion. It became myth. And myths belong to everyone.”

Host: Jack turned, studying her.

Jack: “You think that’s good?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human. We borrow joy wherever we find it. Doesn’t matter if it comes from Bethlehem or Broadway.”

Host: Outside, a taxi passed, its headlights catching the falling snow in golden motion. Inside, the room glowed like a memory wrapped in neon.

Jack: “You know, Eichner’s sarcasm hides something tender. He’s saying — even if you’re an outsider, you can still love the show.”

Jeeny: “He’s also poking fun at his own tribe. That’s what good humor does — it breaks the tension without breaking the truth.”

Jack: “And the truth is?”

Jeeny: “That faith and culture aren’t always the same. You can love the art of a thing without needing its altar.”

Host: Jack nodded, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the counter.

Jack: “So Christmas is art.”

Jeeny: “Yes — collective art. The whole world decorates, sings, eats, forgives. For a few weeks, we become a chorus pretending everything’s okay.”

Jack: “And we need that pretense.”

Jeeny: “Of course. It’s the rehearsal for hope.”

Host: The music shifted to a slower tune, something smoky and old. Jeeny took a sip of her drink, her eyes glinting.

Jeeny: “You ever have a tree?”

Jack: “Once. When I was ten. My mom bought one of those sad plastic ones from the corner store. It smelled like chemicals and regret. But when she plugged in the lights — God, Jeeny — it felt like we’d made magic out of nothing.”

Jeeny: “That’s Christmas. The illusion that maybe the light you strung together can fix everything broken.”

Jack: “Even if it’s only for one night.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile softened.

Jeeny: “Eichner’s joke — it’s more than a jab at Hanukkah. It’s the ache of people who stand outside a glowing window and still smile. The ones who know it’s not theirs, but they love it anyway.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox of December, isn’t it? The loneliest people celebrating the loudest joy.”

Jeeny: “Because joy is a rebellion. Even borrowed joy.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights slightly; the bar glowed softer now, as if the whole world was holding its breath before midnight.

Jack: “You know, faith divides, but celebration unites. We might not all believe the story, but we all believe in the feeling.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t trademark wonder.”

Host: A couple near the jukebox started dancing — awkward, tipsy, sincere. Their laughter rippled through the room. Jack and Jeeny watched them, quietly smiling.

Jeeny: “You think Billy was wrong to call Hanukkah lame?”

Jack: “No. He was saying what every comedian says — that honesty is funniest when it’s dangerous. But underneath that, he’s honoring both. The miracle of oil, and the miracle of spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Faith and glitter.”

Jack: “Hope and absurdity.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the kind of laughter that knows it’s masking something deeper.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange it is? All these traditions — candles, trees, stars — all different languages for the same thing.”

Jeeny: “For light.”

Jack: “Yeah. For light.”

Host: Outside, the snow was falling thicker now — the world disappearing under its own quiet grace. Inside, the bar felt timeless, a tiny universe where irony and sincerity could sit at the same table.

Jeeny reached into her bag, pulled out a small ornament — a glass star — and set it gently on the counter.

Jeeny: “Here. Merry Christmas.”

Jack: “You know I don’t do Christmas.”

Jeeny: “Then call it Hanukkah.”

Jack: (smiling) “Hanukkah’s lame, remember?”

Jeeny: “Not when you steal the lights.”

Host: The two of them sat there, the star between them catching the bar’s golden glow, reflecting fragments of warmth across their faces.

The music swelled, Sinatra crooning, “The world is your snowball, see how it grows…”

And for a moment — just a fleeting, flickering moment — irony gave way to something real.

Because beneath every joke about faith lies the same human hunger: to belong to the light, no matter where it’s shining.

Host: The camera pulled back, through the frosted glass, leaving them in that little oasis of laughter and glow. The city outside kept snowing, unaware that inside, two strangers had just built a holiday of their own — equal parts humor, heresy, and heart.