Songs that aren't even remotely connected to Christmas are now

Host: The city was a blur of lights and noise, a symphony of December chaos. Snow fell like powdered glass beneath the yellow streetlamps, catching on coats, faces, and the steam of passing cars. Somewhere, a radio played “Jingle Bells,” its cheerful melody dissolving into the hum of traffic.

Inside a small bar tucked between two shuttered shops, the world seemed slower — softer. The wooden counter glistened under warm amber light, and a faint scent of whiskey mixed with pine.

Jack sat on a stool near the window, coat still damp from the snow, his grey eyes following the way the flakes melted against the glass. Jeeny sat beside him, hands cupped around a mug of hot chocolate, her dark hair falling like ink down her shoulders.

It was the week before Christmas. And the music wouldn’t stop playing.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You notice how every place you go, they’re playing the same ten songs? It’s like the season hypnotizes the whole planet.”

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah. Songs that have nothing to do with Christmas, half the time. ‘Winter Wonderland’? That’s just about snow and flirting in a park. Matisyahu nailed it — they’ve all been canonized into the cult of Christmas.”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio. “Frosty the Snowman” filled the room, chirpy and relentless. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the beauty of it. Those songs — they’re not about religion. They’re about feeling. Togetherness. The season’s warmth.”

Jack: “Warmth? It’s marketing genius, that’s what it is. You take something secular, wrap it in nostalgia, and suddenly it sells. Christmas isn’t a holiday anymore — it’s a brand.”

Host: His voice carried the bitterness of someone who’d seen too much of the machinery behind joy.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even brands can’t fake what people feel. You ever seen a child dancing to ‘Jingle Bells’? There’s no capitalism in that laugh, Jack.”

Jack: (leaning in) “That’s innocence. Not holiness. You’re mistaking purity for faith.”

Jeeny: “And you’re mistaking cynicism for truth.”

Host: Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, the air between them thickened with unspoken tension. The bar’s light caught on her fingers, trembling slightly against the mug.

Jack: “You think people are connecting to some deeper spirit through this commercial snowstorm? Come on. These songs — they’re like sugar. Sweet, addictive, empty.”

Jeeny: “Then why do they still make people cry, Jack?”

Host: The question landed like a whisper inside a church. Jack didn’t answer immediately. Outside, a car horn blared; inside, the radio changed songs — “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Jack: (softly) “Because they remember something they’ve lost.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that remembering — that ache — isn’t that what faith feels like? Not religion, not dogma. Just... longing for light in the dark.”

Host: The bar’s window fogged over from their breath, blurring the neon signs outside. The whole scene seemed to melt into memory — soft, cinematic, timeless.

Jack: “So you’re saying these secular songs are spiritual now? Because people want them to be?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying they became sacred because they carried the feeling — even without the name. That’s what Matisyahu meant. The songs aren’t about Christmas, but they belong to it because people made them sacred.”

Jack: “You mean sentimentality made them sacred.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Maybe. But isn’t sentimentality just emotion refusing to apologize?”

Host: Jack gave a low, reluctant chuckle. He sipped his drink, staring into the amber liquid as though trying to find proof of her words at the bottom of the glass.

Jack: “So Frosty’s a prophet now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not a prophet. But maybe he’s part of the story. People build their mythologies where they can. Some in scripture. Some in songs about snowmen who melt.”

Jack: “And then come back next year for the sequel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Rebirth. Isn’t that what all holy stories are about?”

Host: The music swelled — “Let It Snow.” The irony was thick enough to taste. The bartender laughed with another patron at the far end, the sound carrying like a bell through smoke.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “I’m afraid to ask.”

Jeeny: “I think the season survives because it’s always evolving. It took old pagan festivals, Christian rituals, pop music, Coca-Cola ads — and still, somehow, people find meaning in it. That adaptability is sacred.”

Jack: “So capitalism’s your new theology.”

Jeeny: “No. Humanity is. We take what we have and we sing it into meaning. That’s what we do. Even if it starts with jingles.”

Host: Her voice was soft now, but it carried the conviction of something old — older than religion, older than ritual — the simple human need to make beauty out of repetition.

Jack: (after a pause) “You sound like you forgive it all. The plastic Santas, the fake snow, the endless ads for perfume and phones.”

Jeeny: “I don’t forgive it. I see through it. But underneath it — I still see people trying to feel something real. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: A moment passed. The snow outside had grown thicker, swirling like ghosts over the pavement.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to hum ‘Winter Wonderland’ while she baked. We weren’t religious. She didn’t talk about Christ or miracles. But every time she sang that song, the room felt... whole. Like the world stopped arguing for a while.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s it, Jack. That’s the sacred you keep pretending doesn’t exist.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked. The bar’s light caught in her eyes, and for a heartbeat, the weight in his shoulders lifted.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe holiness doesn’t need a name. Maybe it’s just the warmth that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe it hides in the ordinary. In music. In laughter. Even in bad radio playlists.”

Host: They both laughed then, quietly, the sound mixing with the song still playing through the static: “Walking in a Winter Wonderland.”

Jeeny: “You see? Even the radio knows what we’re talking about.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just mocking us.”

Jeeny: “Either way — it’s working.”

Host: The bar had emptied. The clock ticked past midnight. The snow outside glowed under the flickering streetlight, and for a moment, it looked like time itself had paused — holding its breath for them.

Jeeny: “You ever think that maybe Christmas isn’t about what we believe, but about what we choose to remember?”

Jack: (after a long silence) “Maybe that’s why it hurts and heals at the same time.”

Host: He looked up. Somewhere, distant church bells began to ring — not loud, not solemn, just gentle. The sound drifted through the cold air like a memory trying to find its way home.

Jeeny: (whispers) “See? Even silence can carry a song.”

Jack: “Then maybe even cynics can carry Christmas.”

Host: The snow thickened once more, cloaking the city in light and stillness. Inside, their two cups sat empty, the warmth gone, but something invisible — something unnamed — lingered in the space between them.

The camera might have lingered too, catching their faint smiles reflected in the window, while the faint strains of “Silent Night” began to play — another song that somehow, impossibly, belonged to everyone.

Host: In a world that keeps remixing its miracles, maybe the real miracle is that we still keep singing.