You are not practicing Judaism if you celebrate Christmas.

Host: The winter air was crisp and biting, carrying the smell of pine, roasted chestnuts, and faint cinnamon drifting from a nearby bakery. Snow fell gently over the streets of Brooklyn, softening the edges of old brownstones adorned with holiday lights. A Christmas tree glowed in the café window, its golden bulbs reflecting off the frosted glass, while a menorah flickered quietly beside it — two symbols, side by side, trembling in the same light.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the mingling reflections — cross and star, flame and fir. Jeeny arrived moments later, her coat dusted with snow, her cheeks flushed by the cold. She carried with her that warm, unguarded energy that always seemed to melt whatever wall he built.

Jeeny: “You’re early.”

Jack: “Couldn’t sleep. Too many carols in the street. Too many contradictions in the air.” (He gestured toward the window.) “That tree and that menorah — they’re like neighbors who tolerate each other but never truly speak.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, pulling off her gloves, her eyes glimmering with curiosity.

Jeeny: “You saw the quote, didn’t you? Elliott Abrams — ‘You are not practicing Judaism if you celebrate Christmas.’”

Jack: “Yeah. And he’s right, isn’t he? Faith has boundaries. You can’t mix wine and water and still call it either.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s still wine, Jack — just shared.”

Host: The sound of laughter drifted in from outside, children chasing each other through the snow, their voices rising like sparks against the cold. Inside, the café hummed with quiet warmth — the soft murmur of conversations, the clink of cups, the steady beat of jazz from an old radio.

Jack: “You can’t have it both ways, Jeeny. Religion isn’t a buffet. If Judaism means anything, it’s a structure — law, identity, tradition. You can’t light the menorah one night and hang stockings the next without hollowing both.”

Jeeny: “But what if it’s not about law? What if it’s about longing? About connection? People celebrate things not just for belief, but for belonging. Maybe it’s not betrayal — maybe it’s bridge-building.”

Jack: “Bridge-building?” (He scoffed, his voice low, cutting.) “That’s what everyone says when they want comfort without commitment. Religion’s not about comfort. It’s about distinction. That’s what gives it meaning.”

Jeeny: “Distinction doesn’t have to mean division. Maybe some traditions can stand side by side without losing themselves — like that tree and menorah in the window.”

Host: The light from both symbols blended across their table, casting a strange, almost sacred glow over their faces — one half golden, one half blue.

Jack: “You think you can mix theology like coffee flavors? Judaism has survived precisely because it resisted assimilation. The Maccabees fought against it. If every generation blurs the line a little more, eventually the line disappears.”

Jeeny: “But those same Maccabees were fighting for freedom — the freedom to worship differently. Doesn’t that mean that rigid boundaries were meant to protect meaning, not imprison it? What if celebrating Christmas for some Jews isn’t surrender, but connection — to neighbors, to shared humanity?”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, his fingers curling around his cup, the steam fogging the air between them.

Jack: “Connection built on compromise always ends in confusion. When faith becomes fashion, it loses its soul.”

Jeeny: “You think love of beauty, or joy, or music is compromise? Maybe it’s expression. Maybe someone lights a Christmas tree not to become Christian, but because the light itself means something — the warmth in the dark. Isn’t that universal?”

Jack: “You sound like you want to erase difference, Jeeny. But difference is what keeps meaning alive. If everything is universal, then nothing is sacred.”

Jeeny: “No. I think the sacred lives because it’s shared. Look — religion isn’t a fortress. It’s a language. You can learn more than one and still have a native tongue.”

Host: A moment passed. The snow outside thickened, swirling beneath the streetlights like falling dust from the heavens. Jack’s eyes softened, the rigid lines of argument bending toward reflection.

Jack: “When I was a kid,” he said quietly, “my mother forbade Christmas lights. Said they were a temptation — a softness we couldn’t afford. But every year, I’d sneak out and walk through the neighborhood, just to look at them. It wasn’t about Jesus. It was about wonder. Still… I always felt guilty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that guilt was misplaced. Maybe you were just human, Jack — drawn to the light. That’s what all of us are. Light has no religion.”

Host: The candle on their table flickered, as if agreeing.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But the world isn’t built on universals. It’s built on borders — beliefs, names, histories written in blood. We don’t get to casually transcend that because we like the aesthetics of another culture.”

Jeeny: “It’s not casual. It’s courageous. Every time someone steps beyond the line of fear, it’s an act of faith — not faith in a religion, but in humanity itself.”

Jack: “So now humanity is your religion?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s always been. Maybe that’s what all the prophets were really talking about before we turned their words into walls.”

Host: The barista turned the radio dial, and faint Christmas music floated through the air — Bing Crosby’s old voice, soft, weary, filled with nostalgia. The song bled into silence, leaving a fragile peace in its wake.

Jack: “If Abrams were here, he’d say you’ve missed the point entirely. That faith without boundary is sentimentality. That Judaism without its lines isn’t Judaism — it’s longing for acceptance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s right in theory. But life doesn’t live in theory. It lives in messy kitchens and mixed families. In interfaith homes where a menorah sits beside a tree because two people loved each other enough to make it work. That’s not dilution, Jack — that’s evolution.”

Host: The light from outside shifted as a bus passed, scattering reflections across the table like fragments of color.

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher on a Hallmark card.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And you sound like a priest guarding a door no one’s knocking on anymore.”

Host: The tension broke — not with anger, but with something softer, more human. A shared laugh, small and tired.

Jack: “Maybe both of us are wrong. Maybe religion’s supposed to make us uncomfortable — to remind us that faith isn’t easy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And yet — if a Jewish child looks at a Christmas tree and feels joy, that joy doesn’t make them less Jewish. It just makes them alive.”

Host: The café grew quieter, the snow outside falling heavier, muffling the world into a kind of fragile stillness.

Jack: “So what are you saying — that belief should bend to feeling?”

Jeeny: “No. That belief should remember it was born from feeling. Every faith began as a story told beside a fire — about love, light, and loss. Maybe we’ve just forgotten that they were all trying to say the same thing in different languages.”

Host: Jack looked out the window again — the tree glowing bright beside the menorah, their lights merging, neither overpowering the other. His breath fogged the glass, and he drew a small circle on it with his finger.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not betrayal after all. Maybe it’s… conversation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faiths don’t have to agree, Jack. They just have to listen.”

Host: A moment of quiet understanding hung between them — delicate, like snow balanced on a branch. Outside, the streetlights shimmered, and the bells of a nearby church chimed softly, answered faintly by laughter from a Jewish deli across the street.

Two traditions — two melodies — echoing in harmony.

Jeeny reached across, touching Jack’s hand.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Maybe celebrating another’s holiday doesn’t make you less of what you are. It just means you see beauty beyond yourself.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the closest any of us ever get to God.”

Host: The snow fell harder, blanketing the city in quiet unity. Inside the café, the lights from the tree and the menorah shimmered together, two different flames illuminating the same winter night.

And for that single, tender moment — faith, culture, and humanity were not at odds. They were one trembling light in the dark.