In the minds of a Liberal, someone who isn't Christian might be

Host: The afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows of a downtown coffeehouse, carving golden stripes across the wooden floor. The air carried the faint scent of roasted beans, rain-soaked streets, and quiet argument. Outside, the city pulsed with early winter traffic — red lights flickering like restless hearts. Inside, it was quieter, save for two voices that would soon disturb that peace.

Jack sat by the window, his coat unbuttoned, a half-drunk espresso before him. His grey eyes reflected the street like cold mirrors. His fingers drummed on the table with the precision of a man who preferred control over comfort.

Jeeny entered, her hair still wet from the drizzle, her scarf bright against the muted tones of the café. She smiled politely to the barista, then crossed the room toward Jack — each step a quiet protest against the world’s noise.

Host: The barista switched on the radio. A Christmas song — soft, sentimental — filled the air. Bing Crosby’s voice crooned “White Christmas.” The irony was heavy, almost cinematic.

Jeeny: (sitting down) “I can tell by your face, you’ve been reading something controversial again.”

Jack: (grins faintly) “You could say that.” He turns his phone toward her. “Milo Yiannopoulos. ‘In the minds of a Liberal, someone who isn’t Christian might be offended if we say Merry Christmas to them, so we shouldn’t say Merry Christmas to anyone. The logic is bizarre.’”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “Ah. That old fight.”

Jack: “Not old — recurring. Every year the same dance. People afraid to offend others by being themselves. It’s absurd. If I say ‘Merry Christmas,’ it’s not an attack; it’s a greeting. But we’ve made courtesy into cowardice.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s cup curled upward, ghostly, like a fragile argument forming in air. She stared at it before speaking — calm, deliberate.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not cowardice, Jack. Maybe it’s awareness. We live in a world with thousands of traditions, thousands of beliefs. Sometimes silence is respect.”

Jack: “Respect?” He scoffed. “Or erasure? You start by not saying Merry Christmas, and soon you’re afraid to say anything that might reveal who you are. That’s not inclusion — it’s sterilization.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of cold air, the scent of wet asphalt, and the distant sound of a car horn. The moment trembled, then settled again.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? The intent isn’t to erase anyone. It’s to make room. To acknowledge that not everyone celebrates what you celebrate.”

Jack: “And how far does that go, Jeeny? Should I stop saying ‘Happy Diwali’ in case a Christian feels left out? Should Muslims stop saying ‘Eid Mubarak’? Diversity isn’t about walking on eggshells. It’s about being different without fear.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, her eyes dark and steady) “But there’s a difference between freedom and insensitivity. You know that. There’s a history behind every word we use. For some, ‘Merry Christmas’ carries centuries of Christian dominance — colonialism, forced conversion. You can’t just wash that away with goodwill.”

Jack: (sharply) “History isn’t a reason to be mute forever. If we all carry the sins of our pasts, then no culture can ever speak again.”

Host: The light shifted as clouds passed, dimming the room. The debate had sharpened — like knives polished by belief.

Jeeny: “I’m not asking for silence. I’m asking for mindfulness. To know your words can mean more than you intend. You call it bizarre, but maybe the real bizarre thing is how people defend their right to speak, but not their responsibility to understand.”

Jack: (his voice low, cutting) “So what, then? We censor joy to prove empathy? That’s not understanding — that’s self-sabotage. The world doesn’t need more fear disguised as virtue.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, punctuating the rising tension. The barista glanced over, sensing the shift — but the conversation continued like a storm confined to a single table.

Jeeny: “You always make it sound like caring about others is weakness. It’s not. It’s civilization. When we stopped saying certain slurs, we didn’t lose freedom; we gained decency. Maybe this is the same evolution.”

Jack: “You’re comparing slurs to holiday greetings?” He shook his head, almost laughing. “Come on, Jeeny. We’re talking about wishing someone happiness. If that offends, maybe the problem isn’t the greeting — it’s the listener.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the problem is assuming the world revolves around what makes you comfortable.”

Host: Her words hit like cold water. Jack stared at her, then away — out the window, where a man sold fake Santa hats to hurried strangers.

Jack: “You know, I used to love this season. The lights, the music, the chaos. It made the world feel human again. Now, everything feels… negotiated.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what being human is now — negotiation. We’ve grown more aware, more global. The same word can mean blessing to one person, insult to another. You can’t ignore that.”

Jack: “I’m not ignoring it. I’m saying we should own our identity instead of shrinking it. If I greet you in my language, from my tradition, and you greet me in yours — that’s beauty, not harm. That’s coexistence.”

Host: A pause stretched between them. The café seemed to lean in, waiting.

Jeeny: “But what if someone doesn’t greet you back? What if they stay silent — not out of anger, but discomfort?”

Jack: “Then I respect their silence. But I won’t silence myself preemptively to spare a discomfort that may not even exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s pride.”

Jack: “That’s authenticity.”

Host: The rain began again, softly tapping on the window, as if echoing their rhythm — argument, retreat, repeat.

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Pride and authenticity are siblings. But sometimes one talks louder than the other.”

Jack: “And sometimes politeness drowns honesty. I’d rather offend with sincerity than comfort with emptiness.”

Host: Her eyes softened, though her voice remained firm.

Jeeny: “You always see things in terms of strength or weakness. But it’s not that binary. Think of Desmond Tutu — he once said, ‘My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.’ Maybe saying or not saying something isn’t about who’s right — it’s about who’s aware.”

Jack: (sighs) “You quote saints. I quote cynics. Maybe that’s our eternal divide.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s balance.”

Host: The barista brought a plate of fresh pastries, the smell filling the air with warmth. The two of them sat in silence, the tension softening into something reflective.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe intention alone isn’t enough. Maybe awareness is part of freedom.”

Jeeny: “And maybe expression, even when clumsy, deserves space. We can’t evolve if everyone whispers.”

Host: Their eyes met — the kind of look that happens when two worlds collide not to destroy, but to understand.

Jeeny: “So what would you say to me, right now, if I were someone who didn’t celebrate Christmas?”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “I’d say Merry Christmas — and mean it as peace, not conversion.”

Jeeny: (returning the smile) “Then I’d say, thank you — and wish you peace too.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, leaving the streets shining like silver. A child’s laughter floated through the open door, chasing the gloom away. Inside, two souls sat amid cooling cups, the faint echo of their debate dissolving into something like mutual respect.

The song on the radio changed — Nat King Cole now, warm and steady. The light through the window glowed soft against their faces.

And as the city moved forward — uncertain, divided, hopeful — two words remained suspended between them, neither political nor polite, but simply human:

“Merry Christmas.”

Host: The camera pulls back. The rain has stopped. The streetlights shimmer. And the world, for one brief, impossible moment, looks almost at peace.