Leftists wage the war on Christmas using their traditional

Host: The city was wrapped in cold light, a mixture of neon glare and early snow. The streets glistened under the lamps, reflecting the glow of a hundred Christmas displays — reindeers flickering in shop windows, LED angels that hummed faintly in the wind. Carols leaked from a nearby café, half-drowned by the growl of a bus engine and the chatter of people hurrying home.

Inside the café, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, their breath visible in the air that smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and tension. Between them, a small radio murmured Milo Yiannopoulos’s voice: “Leftists wage the war on Christmas using their traditional methods — government fiat and the court system. They never win voting, and they certainly don't win in the free market, so they bravely fight their battles through big government.”

Host: The words hung like a sharp draft, slicing the air that moments ago had been gentle. Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup. Jack, half-smiling, stirred his coffee with lazy precision, the spoon tapping against the ceramic like a metronome for conflict.

Jeeny: “That kind of talk makes me sick, Jack. Every year it’s the same — this so-called ‘war on Christmas.’ It’s not a war. It’s people asking for respect, for inclusion. You think saying ‘Happy Holidays’ is an attack?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Maybe not an attack. But it’s part of something bigger, Jeeny. A slow, deliberate erasure. One word at a time. First it’s ‘Happy Holidays,’ then it’s no nativity scenes, then no Christmas trees in public schools because someone might be offended. You call that inclusion? I call it sterilization.”

Host: The lights from the window cut across Jack’s face, catching the edges of his cheekbones like steel. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glinting, the reflection of a blinking Santa sign flickering across her pupils.

Jeeny: “Sterilization? Jack, nobody’s banning you from celebrating Christmas. You can fill your house with nativity scenes till it looks like Bethlehem, and nobody cares. But when the government’s involved — public schools, courthouses — it’s about neutrality. It’s not the government’s job to bless one religion over others.”

Jack: “Neutrality is a nice word for cowardice, Jeeny. You know what happens when everything becomes neutral? Nothing stands for anything anymore. You think people fought and built this country on neutrality?”

Jeeny: “No. They fought for freedom, Jack. Including the freedom not to be forced into someone else’s religion. Do you remember Jefferson’s letter to the Danbury Baptists? The ‘wall of separation between church and state’? That’s not cowardice. That’s protection.”

Host: Outside, a group of children ran through the snow, their laughter like bells cutting through the hum of traffic. Inside, the café’s warmth turned heavier, like air before a storm.

Jack: “Protection from what, Jeeny? From a holiday that says *‘peace on Earth and goodwill toward men’? From a story about a child born in poverty who changed history? If that’s offensive, maybe the problem isn’t the message — it’s the people too scared to hear it.”

Jeeny: “You’re twisting it. It’s not the story — it’s the power behind it. When that story becomes a political weapon, when it’s used to divide or dominate, that’s when people push back. You think it’s about the baby in the manger; half the time it’s about winning a culture war.”

Jack: (smirking) “Culture war’s already being fought — whether we like it or not. You can’t have universities canceling ‘Christmas parties’ for ‘Winter celebrations’ and then say there’s no agenda. It’s not about tolerance anymore; it’s about control.”

Host: His voice was low, but carried the weight of someone who’d watched too many traditions replaced by slogans, too many symbols turned to dust.

Jeeny: “Control goes both ways, Jack. Don’t you see? When one side shouts about keeping Christ in Christmas, they’re not talking about faith — they’re talking about domination. They want their version of America, their version of truth. And anyone who doesn’t fit that mold gets branded a threat.”

Jack: “So you’re saying tradition is tyranny now?”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying forcing tradition is. When something’s true, it doesn’t need laws to protect it. It survives because people love it — not because it’s mandated by city councils or carved into courthouse lawns.”

Host: The radio hissed softly as the voice of a commercial broke in — cheerful, artificial — “Buy two, get one free — holiday specials, all week!” The irony hung heavy in the air. Both turned toward the sound, then back to each other, the silence crackling with irony.

Jack: “You see that? That’s your free market. The one Milo talks about. It’s not banning Christmas — it’s hollowing it out. Turning it into discounts and advertisements. The left doesn’t have to fight the war; consumerism already won.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then maybe that’s where you and I agree. It’s not liberals destroying Christmas, Jack — it’s greed. It’s the same system Milo defends, the one that trades meaning for profit, ritual for branding. How can you talk about preserving something sacred when it’s wrapped in plastic and sold in bulk?”

Host: The words landed like snow that hides ice beneath it — soft at first, but sharp underneath. Jack stared into his coffee, the reflection of lights dancing like restless thoughts.

Jack: “So what? You’d rather have the government decide what’s sacred? They’re already censoring prayers, rewriting holidays, removing crosses. You call that balance? It’s more like slow erosion.”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather have people decide. Not bureaucrats, not corporations, not preachers with microphones. Real people, living out their values without pushing them down anyone’s throat. That’s what freedom looks like.”

Jack: “Freedom looks a lot like chaos to me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But chaos is where humanity breathes. Order without choice isn’t peace — it’s control. And every empire that tried to enforce moral purity ended up devouring itself. Rome. The Puritans. Even Stalin’s Russia — all crushed under their own certainty.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, falling in heavy flakes, blurring the edges of the street. Inside, the café lights turned amber, softer, almost forgiving.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, you sound like one of those revolutionaries now — the ones who believe if you just tear everything down, something better will rise.”

Jeeny: “Not tear down, Jack. Rebuild. Reimagine. Maybe Christmas — maybe any tradition — needs to be reborn, stripped of the noise and the politics. Maybe that’s how we find its heart again.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, slow and uncertain, the way a man looks at something he doesn’t want to see but can’t ignore.

Jack: “So you’re saying there’s still something sacred left? Underneath all the hypocrisy?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Yes. It’s not in the courts, not in the markets, not in the politicians. It’s in the act of giving, in the hope that refuses to die — even when everything around it’s corrupted.”

Jack: “Hope.” (he laughed softly) “That’s a dangerous word.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that’s ever changed anything.”

Host: A long silence settled. Outside, the children had gone; the street was empty except for the slow drift of snow. The neon sign above the café flickered, its red light washing their faces — half light, half shadow.

Jack reached into his coat, pulled out a small, worn book — the kind that looked passed down, not bought. He slid it across the table.

Jack: “My mother used to read this to me every Christmas Eve. I haven’t opened it in years. Maybe you’re right — maybe I forgot what it was really about.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then maybe tonight’s not about sides, Jack. Maybe it’s about remembering.”

Host: The snow fell harder now, a slow, endless curtain that softened the city’s edges and swallowed the noise. Inside, two figures sat in the dim light, no longer arguing, just listening to the quiet — the way peace sometimes begins not with victory, but with understanding.

Host: Outside, the cross on the church across the street flickered on, faint but steady, glowing through the storm — not as a symbol of conquest, but as a reminder that even light, to be seen, must first pass through darkness.