There's been a concerted effort to steal Christmas.

Host: The town square was drowning in lights, a glittering theater of color and noise. Plastic reindeer posed proudly beside giant candy canes; speakers hidden in garlands blasted "Jingle Bell Rock" into the crisp December air. Children laughed, vendors sold cocoa in paper cups, and a Santa with a polyester beard waved from a sleigh that creaked like an old lie.

But beyond the brightness, near the edge of the square, a small café sat in quiet defiance of the noise. Its windows fogged with warmth, candles flickering on every table, a soft jazz carol whispering through the speakers. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other by the window, watching the crowd outside like observers of some strange ritual that had forgotten its script.

Jeeny stirred her tea slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of the mug, while Jack leaned back in his chair, coat draped over the back, his eyes heavy but sharp.

Jeeny: reading softly from her phone, her tone reflective but tinged with irony
“Jerry Falwell once said, ‘There’s been a concerted effort to steal Christmas.’”

Jack: snorts, taking a sip of his coffee
“Steal Christmas. You’d think it was a bank heist, the way people talk about it.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Maybe that’s exactly how it feels to some. Like someone broke into their sacred space and took the meaning, left the glitter.”

Jack: leaning forward, eyes on the window
“Or maybe they just sold it instead of protecting it.”

Host: Outside, a family posed for a picture in front of an inflatable Santa. The father smiled through gritted teeth, the mother adjusted the children’s hats, and the camera flash lit the snow like artificial lightning. Inside, the café’s warmth seemed almost too human — honest, fragile, fleeting.

Jeeny: gently
“What do you think he meant, Jack — Falwell? Do you think he was talking about consumerism, or something deeper?”

Jack: pausing before answering
“Both, maybe. But for him, it was about religion. About how the world traded ‘Christ’ for commerce. He saw Christmas as a battlefield.”

Jeeny: softly, thinking
“A war on wonder.”

Jack: nodding slowly
“Exactly. But here’s the irony — everyone keeps fighting over who owns it, and in the process, they’re all losing the very thing they’re defending.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Like two kids tugging at the same toy till it breaks.”

Host: The candle between them flickered, its light reflecting off the glass window — beyond it, the carnival of consumer faith went on, relentless, glittering, loud.

Jack: sighing
“I don’t know, Jeeny. Maybe Christmas didn’t get stolen. Maybe it just wandered off — couldn’t recognize itself anymore.”

Jeeny: quietly, her voice warm and wistful
“Maybe it’s hiding in the small things — a letter, a candle, a pause in the noise. You can’t steal something that’s made of stillness.”

Jack: smirking, but with softness
“Stillness doesn’t sell well.”

Jeeny: laughing lightly
“No, but it saves well.”

Host: The wind pressed against the window, and for a moment, the lights outside blurred — a smear of red and green reflected in their eyes, like a fading memory of something sacred.

Jack: after a pause
“You know what’s funny? We act like Christmas was ever pure. Even the nativity story’s full of politics — census, taxes, poverty. The first Christmas wasn’t safe or sanitized. It was desperate. But we dressed it up in tinsel so we could stand to look at it.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly, her gaze softening
“Maybe that’s what Falwell missed — that Christmas doesn’t need to be defended, it needs to be remembered. Its holiness was never in control. It was in vulnerability.”

Jack: leaning forward, his voice low
“‘A concerted effort to steal Christmas’… maybe it’s not atheists or corporations or anyone out there. Maybe the real thief is comfort — the part of us that can’t handle raw truth, so we trade it for decoration.”

Jeeny: smiling gently
“Comfort over compassion. Noise over meaning.”

Host: A child ran past the window, clutching a toy light-up sword, its neon blade slicing through the snow. The sound of laughter carried faintly through the glass, unfiltered and genuine — the kind that reminds even cynics what joy sounds like before it’s branded.

Jeeny: quietly
“I think Christmas still exists — it’s just quieter now. You find it in the people who give without needing to post it, who forgive without announcing it, who light candles just to make the dark bearable.”

Jack: smiling faintly
“So it’s not stolen — just misplaced. Buried under noise and receipts.”

Jeeny: nodding
“And waiting for us to notice.”

Host: The candle flame steadied, as though agreeing with her. Outside, the loudspeaker blared another pop carol, but somehow it felt far away — like an echo of a world trying too hard to feel joy it had forgotten how to mean.

Jack: softly
“Maybe the real Christmas can’t be stolen because it was never ours to own. It was an act — of giving, of faith, of surrender. You can’t package that.”

Jeeny: gazing into the firelight of her candle
“No, but you can practice it. Quietly. Patiently. In the way you treat the person sitting across from you.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The lights outside flickered; the world continued its noisy imitation of joy. But inside that small café, peace felt real — humble, imperfect, human.

And in that stillness, Jerry Falwell’s words echoed — reframed, softened, stripped of battle and fear:

That Christmas cannot be stolen, only surrendered.
That its meaning survives not in policy or protest, but in the hearts that choose kindness over spectacle.
And that the truest defense of faith is not outrage, but tenderness.

Jeeny: smiling softly, lifting her mug toward him
“To finding what was never lost.”

Jack: raising his glass, with quiet warmth
“To Christmas — the kind you can’t steal.”

Host: The candle burned steady,
the wind subsided,
and beyond the glass — amid lights, noise, and glitter —
something holy passed quietly through the night, unseen but unmistakably alive.