The tradition of putting candles on Christmas trees actually

Host: The snow had been falling all afternoon, soft, slow, and relentless — blanketing the street outside in a hushed white that seemed to swallow every sound. Inside the old brick apartment, the fireplace crackled, casting golden light across a small Christmas tree standing near the window. Its branches shimmered with tiny candles, their flames dancing in fragile rhythms, mirroring the flicker of memory in Jeeny’s eyes.

Jack sat on the floor, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his gaze fixed on the flames, his grey eyes cold, yet haunted. Jeeny was by the window, tracing a pattern on the frosted glass, her reflection softened by the light.

Host: On the mantle, Christopher Buckley’s words were written on a scrap of paper, tucked beside a candle:
“The tradition of putting candles on Christmas trees actually began in Germany. The person who came up with the idea is thought to have been Martin Luther, father of the Reformation.”

The quote seemed to hover between them, illuminated by the flames, both simple and profound — like an invitation to remember something the world had almost forgotten.

Jeeny: “Isn’t it beautiful, Jack? That something as fragile as a flame could become a symbol of hope? Luther looked at the stars, and when he came home, he lit a tree to recreate that heaven for his children. It’s… almost holy, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Or dangerous. You’re talking about setting a tree on fire indoors and calling it faith.”

Jeeny: “You always find a way to reduce the sacred to risk assessment, don’t you?”

Jack: “I just see the truth behind the romance. Luther might’ve been inspired, but it was still a reckless gesture. The flame could’ve burned the house down.”

Jeeny: “Or it could’ve warmed it. Faith always starts as a risk.”

Host: The firelight flared, casting long shadows across the room. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes reflecting the candles — light and dark fused, like the conflict inside him.

Jack: “Faith is a beautiful word for blindness. You see Luther as a visionary; I see a man who challenged a system and unleashed centuries of division.”

Jeeny: “And yet, because he dared, people began to think. To question. Isn’t that the point of light, Jack — to dispel the darkness?”

Jack: “Or to create new shadows. Every light casts one.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, and one of the candles flickered, its flame bowing but not dying. Jeeny watched, her eyes bright with reflection, her voice softening.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I love this story? Because it’s about humanity trying to bring the stars closer. Luther wasn’t just decorating a tree — he was translating wonder into touch. He wanted his children to see the divine right there, in their living room.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but maybe he was just lonely. Maybe the candles were a way to fill the darkness around him. We always invent meaning when we can’t bear the silence.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? If meaning is invented, then so is beauty — and still, both save us.”

Jack: “Save us? Or distract us? People cling to tradition because they’re afraid of what’s outside the window — the cold, the unknown.”

Jeeny: “No. They light the candles because they still believe something good can shine through the dark.”

Host: The room glowed now, the tree alive with tiny flames. The fire crackled, whispering as though it listened. The snow outside had thickened, the world beyond muted — a hushed cathedral of white and memory.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? We’ve forgotten how to honor light. We’ve replaced the candles with LEDs — safer, brighter, but soulless. Luther’s candles could burn, but they also breathed.”

Jack: “Or maybe we’ve just evolved. You call it soulless, I call it progress. Fire is romantic, but electricity keeps us alive.”

Jeeny: “You think safety is the same as living? Progress isn’t just invention, Jack. It’s remembering what the invention was for. Candles weren’t just light — they were meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t flicker, Jeeny. It shifts with time. The candles were symbols of hope once. Now hope has Wi-Fi and a smart bulb.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, we’re still in the dark.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, almost sacred. The candles burned, their flames steady, defiant. The fire murmured as if telling an ancient story — of light and fear, of faith and doubt.

Jack leaned forward, watching the wax drip, pool, and harden on the wooden table. His voice came low, tired but truthful.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my mother used to light a candle every Christmas Eve. Said it was for the souls that wandered. I never understood it — until now.”

Jeeny: “What changed?”

Jack: “I realized it wasn’t about the souls. It was about the act — the belief that light mattered, even when no one was watching.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Luther saw too. The light didn’t need a crowd. It just needed a heart that still looked for the stars.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the fire reflected in his eyes — gold, fragile, alive. The cynicism softened, replaced by something quiet, raw, and human.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what this season was meant to remind us. That tradition isn’t chains — it’s memory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s how we talk to the past — not to stay there, but to remember how to move forward without forgetting.”

Jack: “So the candles are just echoes.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They’re conversations — between what we were, what we are, and what we still hope to be.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, sending up a spark that vanished in the air like a ghost. The tree glowed, its candles swaying, casting gold across their faces. Outside, the snow slowed, falling now like ash, soft, silent, forgiving.

Jack rose, walked to the window, and stood beside Jeeny. They watched the world, the city’s lights flickering like distant stars.

Host: He lifted one of the candles from the tree, its flame quivering but steady, and placed it on the windowsill.

Jack: “For your Luther. For the stars.”

Jeeny: “And for the dark that lets us see them.”

Host: The two stood in silence, the flame between them glowing, breathing, alive — not as a symbol, not as tradition, but as a reminder.

Host: That every light, no matter how small, begins with a spark of faith — and every faith, even if fragile, can become a tradition that outlives its fear.

Host: Outside, the night deepened, vast and infinite, and yet within that darkness, one tiny flame refused to go out.