My daughter’s obsession with Snoopy is not cute. I need you to understand that.

This isn’t a “haha, she likes a cartoon” situation. This is not “she owns a T-shirt.” This is do we need to build a shrine levels of devotion. Year-round. Aggressive. And by Christmas, it’s borderline liturgical.

Snoopy mugs. Snoopy socks. Snoopy blankets. Snoopy ornaments. If there’s a limited edition anything with that stupid little dog, she finds it like a heat-seeking missile with a credit card.

I like Peanuts. I do.

But my relationship with it is sane. Hers? It feels… magical. Because the older she gets, almost seventeen, the more I watch her stare at Snoopy on top of that doghouse, scarf blowing, goggles on, jazz in his head, fighting the Red Baron.

Every time he climbs up, every time he lifts off… she leans in. Wide-eyed. Breath caught. Like she’s watching a miracle happen. He doesn’t win. He spirals. He crashes. Every single time. But still, he climbs.

Snoopy flies. Snoopy lives. He gets knocked flat. Climbs back up. And my daughter? She watches. Quiet. A little awe-struck. A little heart-stopped. A small smile on her face.

I stand in the doorway, a giant grown man, watching her lean in like Snoopy’s doghouse is the most sacred thing she’s ever seen. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t talk. She just watches, and smiles. And somehow, that is enough to make the world feel a little bigger, a little stranger, and a little more holy.

And then there’s Charlie Brown. Poor kid. The human embodiment of a Monday morning and a heart that’s been stepped on one too many times. He lines up for the football, and Lucy rips it away. Again. Every single time. Flat on the ground, head spinning, pride shredded. And somehow, he keeps showing up.

The truth is, most of us aren’t that brave. Most of us become the grown-up versions of Charlie Brown, cynical, jaded, slow to hope, hiding under the weight of disappointment. And yes, that includes the church. We sit in pews, hearts bruised by unmet expectations, ministries that feel like battles we’re losing, promises that feel like they’ve been broken. We keep expecting joy to fall into our laps instead of showing up for it ourselves.

Yet the hope of Christ is different. It refuses to leave us flat on the ground. It whispers that even when the football is yanked from under us, even when life and ministry and heartbreak collide, there is a way to keep standing. There is a way to keep showing up. There is a way to press on in joy, even when the evidence screams otherwise.

There is a special kind of darkness that only shows up in December. Not the cozy, candlelit kind. Not the romantic “Silent Night” kind. I’m talking about the kind of darkness that sits quietly in the corner of the room while everyone pretends to be cheerful. The kind that waits until the tree lights turn off and the relatives go home and the casserole dishes are soaking in the sink. The kind that whispers, You should be happier than this.

Christmas, for a lot of people, isn’t merry. It’s memory-heavy. It’s grief with tinsel. It’s loneliness wrapped in ribbon. It’s empty chairs at full tables. It’s first holidays without someone. It’s debt disguised as generosity. It’s forced smiles and cracked hearts singing carols like nothing hurts. And the Bible doesn’t lie about that.

It doesn’t paint a picture of soft snow and cocoa. It drops us into Rome’s booted oppression. It gives us shepherds working night shift on the wrong side of town. It gives us a teenage girl with a scandal on her future and a young man trying not to lose his mind over it. It gives us joy announced in the middle of fear, not after it.

“Fear not,” the angel says. Not because fear isn’t real. But because God just stepped into it. That’s the difference. We don’t find joy when things get better. We find joy when we decide darkness doesn’t get to be our master.

Habakkuk understood this long before Christmas lights ever flickered. “Though the fig tree should not blossom… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” No figs. No grapes. No cattle. No paycheck. No proof. No evidence. Just a decision.

That’s not Hallmark joy. That’s war-time joy. That’s the joy of someone who looked at their circumstances and said, “You don’t get to vote.”

That’s Advent. Joy without evidence. And if you think that sounds insane, good. It is. That’s the point. It’s supernatural. It isn’t rooted in outcomes, it’s rooted in God.

Most of us don’t like that kind of joy because it can’t be controlled. We’d rather have circumstantial happiness. The kind that shows up when the bank account behaves and the family behaves and the world behaves.

But Christmas doesn’t work like that. Christmas dragged God into a world that wasn’t behaving at all. And that’s why this season hits harder than we want it to. Because real joy is offensive to suffering. Not because it ignores it, but because it refuses to bow to it.

Let’s talk about Snoopy. And before you roll your eyes, understand this: that little white dog gets it more than most church people.

Snoopy climbs onto his doghouse, throws on some goggles, and convinces himself he’s flying a Sopwith Camel in World War I. He’s not fighting for glory. He’s not fighting for medals. He’s fighting the Red Baron. An enemy he can’t see, can’t touch, and can’t beat.

And every single time, he loses.

Every dogfight ends with him getting shot down in flames that don’t exist, crashing into snow that isn’t really there, licking wounds nobody can see. And what does he do? He climbs back up. Not because he’s delusional. But because he refuses to be defined by defeat.

That’s Romans 5 joy. “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing…” Knowing what? That it builds something. Pain makes calluses. Loss makes muscle. Failure makes roots. Suffering makes someone solid. Snoopy doesn’t stop flying because he knows he’ll lose. He flies because he knows he will. That’s the secret.

If you think joy only exists after victory, you’ve misunderstood it. Joy exists in the decision to fight again. That’s why that silly Christmas song slaps harder than people want to admit: “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron…”It’s playful, yeah. But it’s also tragic as hell.

Because he cannot win. And he doesn’t care. That’s faith. That’s prayer. That’s you waking up in December with grief still in your chest and choosing Joy anyway. That’s you lighting a candle when the power is still out. That’s you setting the table when your forehead is resting on the edge of it. That’s you refusing to drown.

He didn’t beat the Baron. He just refused to stop flying.And that is joy as warfare.

Now let’s talk about the grumpy saint of Christmas.

Charles Schulz. The man wasn’t some jolly genius. He was melancholy personified. He understood silence, loneliness, and the sound the soul makes when it cracks slowly. And CBS wanted him to make a cute Christmas cartoon.

 They wanted:

– Snow.
– Laughs.
– Jingles.
– Safe.

They got:

– A bald depressed kid.
– Existential dread in jazz form.
– Silence so loud it could break glass.
– And a child preaching Scripture on prime-time television.

The network hated it. No laugh track? Kids who sounded like kids? Jazz that sounded like therapy? A plot about spiritual emptiness instead of toys? They were horrified. And then Linus was scheduled to read Luke 2. Out loud. On national television.

The executives tried to cut it. They said it wasn’t safe. That it wouldn’t test well. That Bible talk didn’t belong in prime time. Schulz said if they cut Luke 2, there was no show. Not negotiating. Not adjusting. Refusing. That’s not rebellion. That’s worship through stubbornness. They aired it thinking it would fail. It didn’t.

26 million people watched. Not because it was shiny. But because it was honest. Schulz didn’t defeat the darkness. He lit a candle and dared someone to blow it out. And that candle turned into a bonfire. That’s what happens when you choose joy that isn’t based on outcome.

That’s what Advent looks like. Not loud victory. Quiet persistence. Not dazzling hope. Stubborn light.

Now we get to the part that should ruin people, I know is does me.

Linus. The kid who cannot exist without his blanket. That wasn’t a cartoon joke. That was trauma drawn in ink. That blanket is his safety. His anchor. His medication. His wall between him and chaos.

He walks onto a dark stage holding it like a lifeline. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t perform. He remembers. “And there were in the same country shepherds…” No sound. No distractions. Just truth. And then he says:

“Fear not…” I will say it one more time for those in the back pay attention here FEAR NOT…… and at that moment. That exact moment. As soon as he says the words fear not he drops the blanket. This sacred item that he can not live without. He drops.  Not by accident. On purpose. Because when the Word of God hit his lips, fear lost its grip on his fingers.

He didn’t become hype. He didn’t become loud. He became still. And most of us don’t know that kind of stillness.

 We know chaos. We know coping. We know noise. But peace? The kind that loosens your grip on survival? That’s rare. That’s dangerous. That’s holy. That’s joy. Not screaming. Not fake. Not loud. But real.

Linus didn’t smile bigger. He stood safer. And that’s what we’re called to give people. Not motivational noise. Not forced cheer. But the hospitality of peace and joy.

Looking at my favorite Christmas story. With my favorite have Michale Cane and a bunch of Muppets. Scrooge didn’t change because someone yelled at him. He changed because someone showed him joy. Not the fake kind. The kind that existed while poor people were still poor and cold people were still cold and hungry people were still hungry.

The Ghost of Christmas Present didn’t erase suffering. He exposed how joy could live inside it. That’s the calling. Not pretending darkness doesn’t exist. But refusing to worship it.

You are not called to be a motivational speaker in December. You are called to be a candle in the room. Not loud. Not performative. But steady. Warm. Present.

Because people don’t need your advice when they’re hurting. They need your light. They need your table. They need your presence. They need to sit near someone who isn’t panicking in the storm.

That’s hospitality. Not perfect hosting. But spiritual warmth. Not Pinterest tables. But souls that feel safe. You don’t have to fix anyone. You just have to refuse to become dark with them. That’s ministry.

That’s Christmas.

Habakkuk didn’t rejoice because the figs grew. He rejoiced because God was still God. The angels didn’t announce peace when Rome left. They announced it while Rome stayed. Paul didn’t celebrate suffering because he loved pain. He celebrated because it made him unshakeable.

Schulz didn’t win by being safe. He won by being faithful. Linus didn’t drop the blanket because fear disappeared. He dropped it because something stronger appeared. Snoopy didn’t beat the Baron. He flew anyway.

And you?

You don’t wait for things to get better to be joyful. You become a place where better can breathe. That’s the assignment. Not perfect. Not loud. Not polished. But present.

So this Christmas, with all your cracks and grief and exhaustion: Set the table anyway. Light the candle anyway. Tell the story anyway. Love anyway. Forgive anyway. Show up anyway.

Because joy that waits for permission isn’t joy. It’s fear in festive clothing. But joy that exists in darkness? That’s warfare. That’s worship. That’s revolt. That’s Advent. And the world doesn’t need more noise.

It needs more people brave enough to glow.

That’s Christmas.

Stay Salty