There are a lot of Grinches out there that would like nothing

Host: The snow fell softly outside the small-town train station, the flakes drifting like silent ash under the glow of the old yellow lights. The evening air was crisp, thick with the scent of pine and distant chimney smoke. Inside the station, everything felt paused in time — the ticking of the station clock, the hum of the radiator, the faint echo of Christmas carols playing from a nearby diner’s radio.

At the far bench sat Jack, bundled in an old wool coat, his breath misting in the cold air as he held a paper cup of black coffee between his hands. Jeeny, sitting across from him, watched the snow through the frosted glass, her gloved fingers tracing small circles on the condensation.

Pinned to the bulletin board behind them, just above the old timetables, was a weathered clipping — its title barely legible under the thumbtack and the years. Jeeny turned her head and read it aloud, her voice cutting softly through the quiet.

“There are a lot of Grinches out there that would like nothing better than to take any references to religion out of the holiday season.”
— Ernest Istook

Host: The words lingered in the air — part warning, part lament, part confession. The kind of sentence that stirs more than it explains.

Jack: “Ah, the war on Christmas,” he said dryly, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “The eternal debate — holy night or holiday season.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a war. Maybe it’s just forgetting.”

Jack: “Forgetting what?”

Jeeny: “That the point wasn’t religion, or branding, or even ritual. It was remembrance — of something bigger than us. The light in the dark, the hope after the cold.”

Host: A train horn sounded far in the distance, low and lonely. The station windows shook faintly, the world beyond them disappearing into a blur of snow and sound.

Jack: “You think that’s what Istook meant? Not defending dogma — but defending meaning?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. We’ve commercialized faith until it’s unrecognizable. Everything sacred has a price tag now.”

Jack: “And every prayer comes with an ad.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People aren’t trying to erase religion. They’ve just replaced it with convenience.”

Jack: “But convenience doesn’t comfort.”

Jeeny: “No. It distracts.”

Host: Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still fixed on the snowfall outside. The white flakes caught in the station lights like sparks of memory.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mom used to make us sit by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. No presents yet, no noise. She’d read from the Gospel of Luke — ‘Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.’ I didn’t get it then. Thought it was just her thing. Now I think she was trying to teach us how to be still long enough to feel wonder.”

Jeeny: “That’s what the season was supposed to be — stillness wrapped in light.”

Jack: “Now it’s noise wrapped in glitter.”

Jeeny: “We mistake brightness for illumination.”

Host: The radiator hissed, and the smell of burnt dust rose faintly in the warmth. Jeeny shifted in her seat, her eyes reflective.

Jeeny: “I think Istook’s quote scares people because it sounds like nostalgia for dogma. But maybe he was mourning something purer — the loss of reverence. The holidays used to have a pulse. You could feel it — in the songs, the streets, the gatherings. Even if you didn’t believe in God, you believed in goodwill.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now belief feels optional. Not in the divine — but in each other.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as if in thought or prayer — hard to tell which.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We’ve built an entire season to celebrate generosity, and somehow we’ve turned it into competition. Who decorates better. Who buys more. Who posts first.”

Jeeny: “And all the while, the Grinches aren’t out there taking away religion. They’re inside us, stealing meaning piece by piece.”

Jack: “You’re saying the Grinch isn’t a villain. It’s a symptom.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The disease of forgetting.”

Host: The door creaked open briefly as a gust of cold air swept through, bringing in a stranger who shook off his coat and disappeared into a seat by the corner. The snow outside thickened. The world felt wrapped in quiet reflection.

Jack: “You think the holidays can still mean what they used to? Or are we too far gone?”

Jeeny: “Meaning doesn’t vanish. It just waits. Every year it shows up again, like the first snowfall — fresh, forgiving, ready to start over. But we have to slow down enough to notice.”

Jack: “You think slowing down’s a kind of faith?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the purest kind. The belief that silence still speaks.”

Host: The clock above the ticket booth struck seven, its bell echoing through the nearly empty room. Jack glanced up, then smiled faintly.

Jack: “You know what my grandfather used to say? ‘Faith isn’t believing in angels. It’s acting like one when no one’s watching.’”

Jeeny: “That’s the gospel right there.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Zinke meant by his grandparents’ values. And what Istook meant by defending faith — not the rituals, but the reminders.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The small miracles we keep recreating — family, forgiveness, kindness — even if we don’t call them holy anymore.”

Host: The train finally arrived, a low roar of metal and air, light spilling across the platform. Passengers stirred, gathering their bags, adjusting scarves, moving with that quiet anticipation that only comes from journeys taken in winter.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “We don’t need to put religion back into the holidays. We just need to put heart back into them.”

Jack: “And humility.”

Jeeny: “And silence. The kind that listens.”

Host: The two rose, gathering their things. The camera followed as they stepped out into the snow, the train’s light bathing them in silver and warmth. The world felt softer there — still chaotic, still flawed, but somehow forgiven under the snow’s gentle cover.

And as they disappeared into the night, Ernest Istook’s words echoed through the stillness — no longer about politics, but about preservation:

That there are always Grinches in the world —
not the kind who hate Christmas,
but the kind who forget what it means.

That the true battle of the season
isn’t about religion versus secular,
but meaning versus noise.

And that if we can still pause long enough
to light a candle, share a table,
or offer a quiet kindness —
then faith, in whatever name we call it,
still burns in the heart of the world.