I beg people not to accept the seasonal ritual of well-timed

Host: The church basement was filled with the scent of coffee, wet coats, and cardboard boxes — the kind stamped with words like Donations, Warm Clothes, and Charity Drive. Outside, snow drifted under the orange hum of a streetlight, coating the empty city in fragile silence. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed like tired halos.

Jack stood by a folding table, sleeves rolled, sorting cans of soup into neat little pyramids. His movements were efficient but distracted — the kind of rhythm that comes when the hands are busy but the heart isn’t.

Across the room, Jeeny was tying scarves around a stack of coats. Her hair was loose, her cheeks pink from the cold. She glanced at Jack, her eyes both warm and sharp — the way someone looks at a truth she’s about to say aloud, knowing it will hurt.

Host: The clock above the church door ticked toward midnight. It was Christmas Eve, but the air didn’t feel holy. It felt... rehearsed.

Jeeny: “Jonathan Kozol once said, ‘I beg people not to accept the seasonal ritual of well-timed charity on Christmas Eve. It’s blasphemy.’”

Jack: (pauses, hands stilling on the cans) “Blasphemy? That’s a strong word for soup and sweaters.”

Jeeny: “It’s a strong world we live in, Jack. He meant that compassion isn’t supposed to have a calendar.”

Jack: “Tell that to the donors who vanish on December 26th.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly his point.”

Host: The radiator hissed in the corner, letting out a long, weary sigh, as though even the heat was tired of temporary goodness.

Jack: “You really think it’s blasphemy — to help, even if it’s late? Even if it’s brief?”

Jeeny: “Not to help. To time it. To turn generosity into theater.”

Jack: “So we’re all actors in a Christmas morality play?”

Jeeny: “A seasonal illusion. We love the idea of goodness more than the practice of it.”

Host: The church bell outside struck twelve — each note heavy, echoing through the walls, the sound of faith measured by the clock.

Jack: “You know, I used to come here with my mom when I was a kid. We’d hand out blankets, pour hot chocolate, smile for pictures. I thought we were saving the world.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think we were saving ourselves — from guilt, from truth, from having to ask why the same people were always back the next year.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Charity without justice is just a performance.”

Jack: “So what, we stop giving?”

Jeeny: “No. We start caring when no one’s watching.”

Host: The wind howled against the stained glass upstairs. A faint light flickered from the sanctuary above, painting the walls below with fractured color — blue, red, gold — fragments of heaven leaking into the basement of earth.

Jack: “You know, Kozol worked with children in the Bronx — schools falling apart, no heat, no books, no one caring. He saw how people remembered them only when it was convenient. Maybe he’s right — maybe kindness that’s seasonal is just hypocrisy with tinsel.”

Jeeny: “It’s not kindness if it needs a reminder.”

Jack: “But isn’t that better than nothing?”

Jeeny: “Nothing honest is better than something false.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s cruel.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s costly. That’s the difference. Real compassion costs you. Time, safety, comfort. Ritual charity just buys you redemption.”

Host: Jack leaned against the table, rubbing his hands together, staring at the neat towers of cans — their metallic reflections dull under the fluorescent light.

Jack: “You ever notice how people give just enough to feel good, but not enough to change anything?”

Jeeny: “That’s the design. If charity fixed the system, the system would lose its excuse.”

Jack: “So, blasphemy. That’s what he called it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it mocks what it pretends to serve. It turns compassion into currency.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly — not with anger, but grief. The kind of grief that comes from still believing the world could be better, and watching it refuse.

Jack: “You sound like you hate Christmas.”

Jeeny: “No. I hate the parts of it that make us feel generous for one night and indifferent for the rest of the year.”

Jack: “Then what does real giving look like?”

Jeeny: “It looks like attention. It looks like asking why the soup line exists in the first place.”

Jack: “And when the answer’s ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep looking. That’s love.”

Host: A man at the far end of the room — one of the shelter’s regulars — raised his hand for another blanket. Jack walked over, handing it to him. Their hands brushed briefly. No words passed between them, but something unspoken did — recognition, maybe, or apology.

Jack came back, eyes softer now.

Jack: “You know, maybe Kozol wasn’t just talking about Christmas. Maybe he meant every time we use kindness to hide from truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Goodness isn’t seasonal. It’s structural. If it only blooms in December, it’s counterfeit.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — playing our part.”

Jeeny: “Because playing is easier than rebuilding.”

Host: The lights flickered once, then steadied. The boxes were nearly empty now. The room felt heavier, though it was cleaner.

Jack: “You think it’s wrong that we’re here?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s wrong if we only show up tonight.”

Jack: “Then maybe tomorrow too.”

Jeeny: “And the day after that.”

Host: She smiled then — small, quiet, but real. The kind of smile that carried both weariness and resolve.

Jack: “You know, when Kozol said it was blasphemy, maybe he meant something deeper — that pretending to love humanity one day a year insults the idea of love itself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Charity isn’t about events. It’s about endurance.”

Jack: “So we don’t just give.”

Jeeny: “We stay.”

Host: The camera panned slowly up — past the shelves, the dim lights, the faces fading into the background — up through the ceiling, where the church above glowed faintly under the weight of snow.

Outside, the streets were silent, but the city still breathed — millions of small lives crossing in the dark, waiting not for pity, but for presence.

And over that silent world, Jonathan Kozol’s words hung in the air — not accusation, but plea:

“I beg people not to accept the seasonal ritual of well-timed charity on Christmas Eve. It’s blasphemy.”

Host: Because love that comes on schedule
isn’t love — it’s rehearsal.

And mercy, to mean anything,
must live in the ordinary days,
in the quiet hunger,
in the hands that don’t stop giving
when the carols end.