You can separate the church and state all you like, but Christmas

Host: The night was a canvas of frosted glass and streetlight halos, the air alive with the distant hum of carols leaking through shop windows. The city shimmered in holiday fever — lights strung across balconies, tinsel tangled in the wind, and the faint smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from a corner vendor.

In a small pub, tucked between a bookstore and a church, the windows glowed with that particular kind of warmth that only exists in December. The fireplace crackled, coats steamed, and glasses clinked like tiny bells.

Jack sat at the end of the bar, a half-empty pint before him, his collar unbuttoned, his grey eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Jeeny walked in, shaking the cold from her scarf, her cheeks flushed with winter. She spotted him instantly.

Jeeny: “Hiding from the festivities again?”

Jack: “Avoiding them, more like.”

Jeeny: “It’s Christmas, Jack. You can’t avoid Christmas. Robert Rinder said it perfectly — ‘You can separate the church and state all you like, but Christmas is inescapable, and it’s marvellous, and it’s not going away.’”

Jack: “He clearly hasn’t seen the supermarket queues.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, the kind of laugh that melts the edge off a winter night. She sat beside him, ordered a mulled wine, and turned toward the fire. The room buzzed with low chatter, a choir of ordinary joy.

Jeeny: “You always do this — retreat into your cynicism every December. What is it about Christmas that makes you so… allergic?”

Jack: “The hypocrisy. The commercial gloss. People who can’t stand each other all year suddenly pretending they’re a Hallmark movie. Charity wrapped in guilt, consumerism dressed up as grace.”

Jeeny: “You mistake the noise for the meaning. Christmas isn’t the ads or the wrapping paper. It’s the pause — that one time the world tries, however awkwardly, to remember it still has a heart.”

Jack: “A heart that needs receipts to prove it?”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Host: The firelight flickered across their faces, catching the tension in Jack’s jaw, the softness behind Jeeny’s smile. Outside, the snow began to fall — not in a cinematic flurry, but in small, patient flakes, like thoughts drifting down through quiet air.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, Christmas meant arguments. My parents — fighting over money, over who drank too much, over who forgot what. The only light was the tree, and even that looked tired. So yeah, forgive me if I don’t find it ‘marvellous.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you should. Because it’s not about the perfect Christmas — it’s about trying anyway. About keeping the light even when everything around it feels dark.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, but it’s naïve. You can’t just ‘feel better’ because it’s December.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can remember to hope again.”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio, and the soft chords of an old Bing Crosby tune filled the pub. The melody hung in the air, fragile, nostalgic.

Jack stared into his beer, the foam gone thin, his reflection warped by the glass.

Jack: “You ever think it’s strange how this one holiday — born from faith — manages to survive in a world that’s mostly stopped believing?”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it beautiful. You can strip it of religion, of politics, of all its contradictions — but you can’t strip it of its humanity. It’s the one time people let themselves be soft again.”

Jack: “Softness doesn’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “No, but it changes people. And people change the world.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Jack flinched slightly, lost in thought, the light catching the faint scars time had left in the corners of his expression.

Jeeny: “Think of it this way — the Romans had Saturnalia, the Nordic tribes had Yule. Every culture has some moment of light in the darkest season. We’ve always needed it. Christmas isn’t going anywhere because it speaks to something deeper than belief — it speaks to belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging…” He said it slowly, like the word itself hurt. “That’s the one thing most people don’t have anymore. They chase it through parties, through screens, through gifts. But belonging’s just another myth, Jeeny. Another holiday story.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you here, in a bar full of people instead of home alone?”

Jack: “Because the heating’s broken.”

Jeeny: “Liar.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, that small, knowing smile that slipped under Jack’s defenses. The firelight glowed behind her like a halo, the kind that doesn’t promise sainthood, just understanding.

Jack: “You really think it’s marvellous, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s stubborn. It keeps showing up every year — no matter the wars, the heartbreak, the chaos. It reminds us that we still know how to gather, how to give, how to try.”

Jack: “Even when we don’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, blanketing the street, softening the sharp edges of the city. Through the window, you could see a man in a Santa hat giving a homeless boy a paper cup of hot chocolate. No one noticed but them.

Jack followed Jeeny’s gaze.

Jack: “You think that matters?”

Jeeny: “Everything that’s kind matters. Even if it’s small. Especially if it’s small.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his eyes still on the scene outside. Something in his chest shifted — not a change, not yet, but the first crack in a long-frozen wall.

Jack: “You know, Rinder’s right. You can’t escape it. No matter how much you try, Christmas finds a way in.”

Jeeny: “It’s not trying to trap you, Jack. It’s trying to remind you.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “That you’re still capable of joy. Of forgiveness. Of starting over.”

Host: The firelight danced across their faces, and for a fleeting moment, the room felt holy — not in a religious sense, but in the quiet sanctity of two people remembering what it means to feel.

Jeeny raised her glass, her eyes glimmering with mischief and warmth.

Jeeny: “To Christmas — inescapable, marvellous, and not going away.”

Jack: “To the madness of it all.”

Jeeny: “To the meaning behind it.”

Jack: “And to the people who still believe.”

Host: Their glasses clinked softly, a small sound swallowed by the crackle of the fire. Outside, the church bell chimed in the distance, and for a heartbeat, even the city seemed to pause — caught between cynicism and wonder, between darkness and light.

Jack leaned back, a faint smile ghosting across his face.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.”

Jeeny: “It never was.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the pub, glowing like a lantern in the frozen street, laughter spilling from its doors, music twining through the snow.

And in that glow, you could almost believe what Robert Rinder said was true — that no matter how far we drift from faith or reason, Christmas will always find us again, warm, persistent, and wonderfully human.