It's funny how we 'do' Christmas. Christmas is not something that

Host: The church was nearly empty, its vast arches stretching upward like hands reaching for the heavens. Candles flickered along the altar, casting trembling light on stone walls lined with faded paintings of saints and sorrow. Outside, the world was muffled by snow, the kind that silences everything but thought.

Jack sat alone in the back pew, his coat damp, his hair disheveled, his eyes fixed on the great cross hanging above the altar. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps soft against the old wooden floor. She carried a small Bible, its edges worn smooth by years of touch.

Between them, in the air itself, hung Monica Johnson’s words — invisible yet echoing in spirit:

“It’s funny how we ‘do’ Christmas. Christmas is not something that we do, it is something that was done. It celebrates the long awaited arrival of the Messiah, Jesus Christ. We had nothing to do with it, but what we can do is praise God for the coming of the Lord, who washed away the sins of the world by dying on the cross.”

Host: The light from the candles shimmered against the old wood, painting their faces with a soft, reverent glow. Jack looked up as Jeeny approached, a faint smile tugging at her lips, though her eyes were full of something deeper — not joy, but awe.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people come to churches like this on Christmas Eve? They sit in silence, they pray, they cry. It’s like they’re looking for something they lost a long time ago.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not looking for something lost, Jack. Maybe they’re remembering something given.”

Jack: leaning forward “Given? You mean faith?”

Jeeny: “No. Grace.”

Host: The word lingered in the air, gentle yet weighted. Jack’s hands gripped the edge of the pew, his knuckles pale against the wood.

Jack: “Grace is a dangerous word, Jeeny. It sounds beautiful, but it comes with debt. Someone had to pay for it. That’s what the cross is, isn’t it? A payment.”

Jeeny: “A gift, not a transaction. We didn’t earn it. We can’t.”

Jack: “That’s what bothers me. If we can’t earn it, if it was all ‘done,’ like Monica Johnson said — then what’s the point of us? What’s the point of trying to be good, to do good?”

Host: A faint draft swept through the aisle, making the candles flicker. Jeeny reached out and steadied one with her hand, the flame dancing inches from her fingers.

Jeeny: “Because doing good isn’t how we buy salvation, Jack. It’s how we thank God for it.”

Jack: “But people twist that. They turn Christmas into a checklist — gifts, church, charity drives. They make it something we do, when she’s right — it’s something that was done. We pretend to be holy for a season and forget the meaning the rest of the year.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But maybe even that pretending is part of our longing. Maybe deep down, we’re all aching to remember the miracle — that it wasn’t about us, that it never was.”

Host: Jeeny sat beside him, her hands folded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Christmas is the story of a world that couldn’t save itself. A world that had given up. And then — light. That’s what Monica meant. The doing was divine, not human. Our part is wonder.”

Jack: “Wonder.” He repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. But simple things are the hardest to believe.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to the cross — the figure of Christ suspended in stillness, arms open as if to embrace the entire ache of humanity. The flickering candlelight made the face seem almost alive — sorrowful, forgiving.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me the story of Christmas like it was magic. Angels, shepherds, starlight. But when she died, all of it felt like… fairytales. I stopped believing in miracles.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you were looking for magic, not grace. Magic is about control. Grace is about surrender.”

Jack: “Surrender to what?”

Jeeny: “To love. To the idea that we are loved — not for what we do, but because He chose to love us first.”

Host: Jack turned to her, his eyes sharp with disbelief — yet trembling with something unspoken.

Jack: “That sounds… unfair.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Host: A long silence followed. Outside, the wind howled, brushing against the stained-glass windows, setting faint colors dancing across the pews. The reds, the blues, the deep golden hues seemed to move like divine breath.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always thought of Christmas as the world’s biggest distraction — food, family, lights. We pile noise on top of silence because we’re afraid of hearing what’s underneath.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think is underneath?”

Jack: “Loneliness. Guilt. Maybe even fear.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But underneath all that — if you’re brave enough to listen — there’s also mercy.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, her eyes lifted toward the altar.

Jeeny: “You said earlier that grace comes with debt. But it’s the only debt that ends in freedom. The cross wasn’t about guilt — it was about release. That’s what Christmas leads to, Jack — not just a cradle, but a cross.”

Jack: quietly “So you’re saying the baby in the manger was born to die?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And in dying, He made life mean something again.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to the Bible in her lap. His voice dropped low, almost reverent.

Jack: “And all we can do is praise Him, huh? Like she said.”

Jeeny: “Not ‘all’ we can do. The best we can do. Praise isn’t weakness — it’s recognition. It’s saying, ‘I couldn’t, but You did.’”

Host: The candles burned lower, their light deepening into a warm, golden glow. Jack’s shoulders eased; he sat back, his expression less burdened, more still.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe Christmas isn’t about what we make of it. Maybe it’s just about remembering what’s already been made.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the one day the world pauses — even the unbelievers — to remember something divine happened here. Something we had nothing to do with, but everything to receive.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips. He looked up, his eyes tracing the candlelight that danced along the cross.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t found in the noise of celebration, but in the silence that follows it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That silence — that’s where God still speaks.”

Host: The church bells began to ring, soft and distant, rolling across the night like a prayer spoken by the earth itself. The light of dawn slipped through the stained glass, spilling color across their faces — red for sacrifice, blue for mercy, gold for glory.

Jeeny closed her Bible, stood, and turned toward the door. Jack remained seated, his gaze still fixed on the altar, his heart caught between disbelief and awakening.

Jack: softly, almost to himself “It’s not something we do… it’s something that was done.”

Host: Jeeny smiled from the doorway, her voice quiet, certain.

Jeeny: “And that, Jack, is the miracle of it all.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the small figures bathed in dawn’s light, the cross towering above them, eternal and still. Outside, the world began to stir — children laughing in the snow, bells ringing, the hum of life returning.

And beneath it all, in the sacred hush of morning, one truth remained —
that Christmas is not a task or a tradition,
but a divine act of love already complete,
waiting only for hearts to remember.