I come from a line of people who are stubborn, loud, sentimental, and, because God has a sense of humor, Celtic. My proud Scot/Irish heritage means I am genetically predisposed to melancholy poetry, fierce loyalty, potatoes, and an almost prophetic ability to find “just one more seat” at the table even when the house is already full. We Celts carry this strange cocktail of fierceness and hospitality. We’re warriors who cry at the sound of bagpipes. We’ll fight you at the pub and feed you after.

And around Advent, this hospitality rises to the surface with a quiet, haunting beauty.

Because for generations in Ireland, families honored a very old tradition: lighting a candle in the window at Christmastime. Not just for decoration. Not just because it looks nice and makes you feel like you’re inside a Thomas Kinkade painting. But because that candle said something.

It announced: “There is room in this house for Mary, Joseph, and the Christ Child. And there is room for you too.” A candle in the window meant more than a nice aesthetic. It was a symbol, a promise, to any traveler, wanderer, stranger, prodigal, or worn-out shepherd walking past that cold Atlantic wind:

If you knock, we will open.

If you enter, you will find warmth.

If you sit, you will be fed.

If you rest, you will be safe.

In other words, it wasn’t just a candle. It was an invitation.

And in the Advent season, especially in a world that feels darker and lonelier every year, that invitation matters more than we think.

This little flame in the window echoes the whole Christmas story. Because if you think about it… the entire nativity is one long tale of doors closing and one tiny crack of mercy opening.

Luke 2:7 hits like a gut punch: “And she gave birth to her firstborn son … and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” There’s no place for God. Think about that. The One who spun galaxies is told, “Sorry, we’re full.” Jesus is not born into a world that was ready. He was born into a world that had no room. No room in the guest houses. No room in the city. No room in the hearts of those too busy to notice heaven entering earth.

And yet, in the middle of all that “no,” a single “yes” opens.

A cave.

A stable.

A feeding trough.

Not glamorous, not ideal, not Instagram-ready. But it was room, and it was enough.

We always talk about “making room for Jesus,” but the truth is: God made room for us first. He stepped into our world, into our poverty, into our chaos, not because we were prepared, but because He is merciful. And because of that, Advent becomes the season where God whispers: “I made room for you in My heart. Now make room for others in yours.”

 Isaiah 9:2 says: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.”

That’s not metaphorical poetry. That’s prophecy. That’s Advent. And it might as well be commentary on the modern holiday season. Because let’s be honest: December can be the loneliest month of the year.

It’s the month where families argue harder, bank accounts stretch thinner, grief sits heavier, and everyone pretends they’re happy while they’re quietly falling apart. It’s the month where people eat cookies shaped like reindeer but feel like the reindeer trampled them emotionally. And Scripture doesn’t ignore that darkness. Isaiah doesn’t pretend it isn’t real. He says plainly: “Comfort, comfort my people…” (Isaiah 40:1)

Not judge them.

Not lecture them.

Not guilt them into a Christmas spirit. Comfort.

Speak tenderly.

Make room.

He describes a voice crying in the wilderness, clearing a way for God, straightening what’s crooked, raising what’s low. It’s a picture of preparation, but not decoration. God isn’t asking Israel to hang garland; He’s asking them to prepare their hearts to receive hope, and to prepare their homes to extend hope. This is the Celtic candle again, a light that both welcomes God in and welcomes weary people home.

Then Isaiah 58:6–7 comes in hot, swinging like a prophet who didn’t have time for our watered-down sentimentality: “Share your bread with the hungry, Bring the homeless poor into your house; When you see the naked, cover them…” “Hospitality is not a spiritual gift for extroverts, it’s obedience.”

Biblical hospitality is more than food. More than decorations. More than a polite “let me know if you need anything” we say but never mean.

It is physical, practical, sacrificial care.

It is noticing the person on the margins.

It is lighting the window and opening the door.

It is making room where there was no room.

It is Advent. And if we Christians are serious about this season, then our homes, and our churches, should be glowing like Irish windows with the warmth of welcome.

God has a soft spot for the weary. He has a special tenderness for the prodigal. Not because they’ve earned it, but because of Jesus, He knows what wilderness feels like. He knows what it feels like to have no room. He knows what it is to be rejected, overlooked, dismissed. And we are never more like Him than when we open the door to the people the world avoids.

Some folks will walk into our lives this season carrying burdens we cannot see.

Some will show up awkward, messy, overwhelmed.

Some will carry shame like a second coat.

Some will be prodigals too afraid to admit they want to come home.

Some will be like Eddie from Christmas Vacation, bless his heart and all his fashion decisions.

 YES, LET’S TALK ABOUT CLARK GRISWOLD FOR A SECOND Clark Griswold is the unsung prophet of modern Christmas hospitality. No, seriously, hear me out. Clark had one goal: Give his family the perfect Christmas. We laugh at him, because he is the embodiment of holiday chaos. He is the patron saint of over-ambitious decorators and emotionally exhausted dads everywhere. But buried under the slapstick humor is a man who did something profoundly biblical: He made room.

He opened his home to his entire family. Cousins, in-laws, nieces and nephews, people who weren’t even invited, Clark said yes… to even cousin Eddie when he rolled in.

Eddie… with his RV, and his wardrobe choices that violate several federal statutes, his dog that hobbies included getting in the trash and as Eddie put it “gett’en hold of your leg” and his kids who had nothing for Christmas.

When Clark found out Eddie’s family wasn’t going to have a Christmas, he didn’t say: “Well Eddie, I’ll pray about that. Thoughts and prayers, buddy.”

No.

He opened his house wider.

He opened his heart deeper.

He said, “They’re going to have Christmas, with us.”

That is Isaiah 58 hospitality with a Chicago accent. That is Advent warmth wrapped in 1980s comedy. That is a man lighting his Celtic candle, metaphorically speaking, and saying: “There’s room here for you too.”

BUT HOSPITALITY ISN’T ALWAYS PRETTY

Let’s be honest, extending shelter can feel like inviting chaos into your living room. People track mud on floors. They bring their issues, their trauma, their quirks, their opinions about casseroles. They disrupt your peace. They interrupt your quiet. They test your patience. Some of them will, like Cousin Eddie, dump metaphorical sewage in your metaphorical storm drain because… forgive the quote… Their “shitter was full.”

And yet, Jesus did not say, ‘When you did it to the neat, the well-behaved, the emotionally balanced, you did it to Me.’ No. He said: “When you did it to the least of these…”

The least.

The overlooked.

The messy.

The ones who feel like the spiritual version of Eddie’s RV. Those are the ones Advent hospitality is for.

Isaiah 9:6–7 is the verse that hangs in the air like the sound of a Christmas choir: “For to us a child is born…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” And every year we read it and think, “Wow, that’s beautiful.” But the beauty gets sharper when you realize who heard this promise:

A people living under oppression. A nation in darkness. A community drowning in despair. And God says: “A child.” Not an army. Not a strategy. Not a political movement or a military revolt. A child. The smallest thing. The most vulnerable thing. The thing that requires the most room and the most care.

This is God’s way.

He works through the small.

Through the overlooked.

Through the manger.

Through the stranger.

Through the Eddie of the family.

Through the candle in the window.

And He calls us to do the same. Advent hospitality isn’t about being impressive.

It’s about being available. God doesn’t need your house to be spotless,  He needs your heart to be open.

Picture it: A Celtic cottage, battered by winter winds. A window. A single candle glowing softly against the night.

That candle says:

“This house has room.

This table has food.

This fire has warmth.

This family has space.

This heart is open.”

Now translate that to modern life:

Your home becomes a haven.

Your table becomes a refuge.

Your presence becomes a beacon.

Your church becomes a shelter.

Your compassion becomes a candle in the window of someone’s December.

This is why Isaiah 40 says, “Prepare the way of the Lord.” Not by cleaning the house, but by comforting the broken. Not by clearing clutter, but by clearing space in our schedules for souls who are hurting.

This is why Isaiah 58 says, “Bring the homeless poor into your house.” Not just literally, though that applies, but spiritually: Make room in your life for the people who have no room anywhere else. This is why Luke 2 reminds us, “There was no room for them in the inn.” A reminder to not repeat Bethlehem’s mistake. Because the Jesus who found no room at His birth now commands His people to create room for others.

If there’s any place on earth where the weary, the prodigal, and the stranger should find welcome, it is the house of the Lord.

Not judgment.

Not performance.

Not suspicion.

Not a cold foyer filled with people pretending everything’s fine.

But welcome.

Warmth.

Shelter.

Light.

A good church, a biblical church, should feel like an Irish cottage during Advent:

Candle burning.

Fire crackling.

Table ready.

Door open.

Space waiting.

Because here’s the truth: People are not looking for perfection this Christmas. They’re looking for a place to breathe. A place to belong. A place to be seen. A place to be safe. A place to be loved back to life. And that only happens when we embody Advent hospitality—

when we let the light in our window declare: “There is room for you,

in my home, in my life, in my church, and in the heart of God.”

Every time we open our tables, every time we invite someone in from the cold, every time we share bread with the hungry, every time we welcome someone the world has pushed aside, we are declaring the gospel again.

We are reenacting the nativity. We are preaching Christ’s coming with casseroles and conversation. We are joining the long line of Celtic families who put candles in windows saying: “Messiah, You are welcome here. And anyone You bring with You is welcome too.”

Advent is the season where heaven leaned down and touched the earth. So why shouldn’t our homes be places where heaven touches earth too?

This Christmas, not the commercial one with inflatable snowmen, but the real Advent one,

you and I are called to light the candle again.

Light it for the grieving.

Light it for the lonely.

Light it for the traveler.

Light it for the prodigal.

Light it for the addict trying to get clean.

Light it for the single mom trying to hold it together.

Light it for the elderly neighbor who hasn’t had a hug in months.

Light it for the broken, the tired, the unseen.

Light it for the “Eddies” of this world.

Light it because God once put His own light into the darkness of a Bethlehem night,

and the darkness did not overcome it.

This is Advent hospitality: Making room where there has been no room. Extending shelter without reservation. Turning strangers into guests, and guests into family. Lighting the window of your life so weary travelers know where to come home.

May we be people whose windows glow. Whose tables stretch. Whose hearts open wide.

May we be the ones who say, like my Celtic ancestors: “There is room here. For Christ. For you. For all who wander. For all who need shelter. For all who crave hope.”

And may we, like Clark Griswold (minus the electrical hazard cats and oversized dried out tree), throw open our doors this Christmas, not because it’s easy, not because it’s convenient, but because it looks like Jesus.

Stay Salty

P.S. If this hit home, you’ll love my book The Christmas Table—where faith, food, and a little holy chaos meet. found on amazon