My youngest loves The Grinch.

And I don’t mean seasonal, December-only, “cute cartoon while we wrap presents” love. I mean year-round devotion. July Grinch. Easter Grinch. Random Tuesday in August when it’s 94 degrees, the AC is barely hanging on, and she’s asking, again, to watch a green rage monster spiral over Christmas for the 400th time.

She loves the Grinch more than my oldest loves the Peanuts gang. And that’s saying something, because Charlie Brown is basically canonized in our house. Linus has preached more sermons in my living room than most pulpits I’ve sat under.

But the Grinch? He owns her heart. And the more I’ve been forced, against my will and better judgment, to watch this story on repeat, the more I’ve realized something deeply uncomfortable: The Grinch is not a children’s story. It’s a church story. And we don’t come out looking great. At its core, The Grinch is a hospitality story.

Not Pinterest hospitality. Not “matching napkins and a candle called Evergreen Blessings.” But the kind of hospitality that risks rejection, gets mocked by religious systems, and still sets an extra plate at the table after being violated. The kind Scripture actually talks about.

Let’s clear something up before we baptize Whoville and excommunicate Mount Crumpit. The Grinch doesn’t hate Christmas because he’s evil. He hates Christmas because he’s been excluded. He lives on the margins, literally. Above the town. Isolated. Alone. Watching joy happen without him. Whoville is loud, bright, communal… and none of it has room for him.

That kind of bitterness doesn’t grow in a vacuum. It grows where invitations stop coming. Scripture names this dynamic without soft language: “Whoever isolates himself seeks his own desire; he breaks out against all sound judgment.” Proverbs 18:1

Isolation corrodes the soul. Not immediately. Slowly. Quietly. Like rust on rebar. And here’s the uncomfortable part for the Church: sometimes isolation is chosen… and sometimes it’s enforced.

The Grinch didn’t wake up one day and say, “You know what sounds fun? Exile.” He was pushed upward, outward, and eventually inward. And we do this all the time.

We build Whovilles full of noise, programs, insider language, unspoken rules, and theological gatekeeping, then act shocked when the people on the hill grow bitter. We call them hostile. Scripture calls them wounded.

The Bible is stacked with people living on the edges: lepers, tax collectors, widows, foreigners, sinners with names whispered instead of spoken. And God’s response is never build a better fence. It’s always make a longer table.

Isolation is not neutral. It’s fertile soil for lies. The enemy doesn’t need to destroy you if he can just separate you.

Look at the pattern:

Adam isolated, shame multiplies

Elijah isolated, suicidal despair

David isolated, moral collapse

Judas isolated, betrayal and death

Isolation is where joy goes to starve. The Grinch isn’t just grumpy. He’s malnourished, spiritually, emotionally, and communally. And Mount Crumpit is crowded for a reason. A lot of people didn’t leave the Church because they hated God. They left because the door closed quietly behind them, and no one noticed.

Enter Cindy Lou Who. Tiny. Curious. Armed with zero theology and absolutely no sense of social self-preservation. She doesn’t see a monster. She sees a person. She invites the Grinch, not after he changes, not after he repents, not after he promises to behave, but as he is. Green. Grumpy. Socially radioactive. That’s hospitality.

Biblical hospitality is not “come once you’re safe.” It’s “come because you’re not.” Paul doesn’t dress it up: “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you.” Romans 15:7 Christ didn’t wait for anyone to get their act together. He ate first. Changed hearts later.

We’ve reversed that order and called it discipleship. Cindy Lou doesn’t preach. She doesn’t argue. She makes room. And that’s the first crack in the Grinch’s armor.

Now here’s where the story stops being cute and starts being dangerous. The Grinch steals everything. Not some things. Everything. Presents. Decorations. Food. The works. And what do the Whos do? They gather anyway. No gifts. No lights. No curated Instagram moment.

They sing.

They share.

They stay together.

That’s not optimism. That’s theology. That’s Habakkuk-level faith wearing a Dr. Seuss costume: “Though the fig tree should not blossom… yet I will rejoice in the LORD.” Habakkuk 3:17–18 Joy that survives loss is a sermon louder than any pulpit.

Without realizing it, the Whos preach the gospel without a single sermon point: Joy isn’t stored in boxes. Love isn’t locked behind doors. Hospitality isn’t dependent on abundance. That’s when the Grinch’s heart grows. Not because he was shamed. Not because he was corrected. But because he saw a community that refused to close ranks when things got hard.

Let’s be honest, hospitality is dangerous. It risks theft. It risks awkward conversations. It risks betrayal. It risks being hurt. But in The Grinch, hospitality is the very thing that resurrects him. The table becomes the altar. The meal becomes the sermon. The invitation becomes the miracle.

Jesus didn’t overthrow Rome with force. He overthrew hearts with fish, bread, and wine. We keep trying to convert people with arguments. Jesus used dinner.

Here’s something we forget far too easily: God is relentlessly bad at staying where it’s comfortable. He walks in the garden after the fall. He sends angels to shepherds, not palaces. He eats with tax collectors and prostitutes. He touches lepers instead of healing from a distance. He dies outside the city gates. Hebrews makes the implication unavoidable: “Jesus suffered outside the gate… therefore let us go to him outside the camp.” Hebrews 13:12–13 Outside the camp is Mount Crumpit territory. The gospel doesn’t wait for people to clean up and come down. It climbs.

Jesus didn’t just invite outsiders. He became one. Isaiah calls Him “despised and rejected. John says, “He came to His own, and His own did not receive Him.” Jesus didn’t save the world from the center of Whoville. He saved it from the margins.

Which means if we’re serious about following Him, our hospitality will be: interruptive, inconvenient, misunderstood, and risky. Anything else is just event planning.

The Grinch is: the person who stopped coming but still believes, the volunteer who burned out and disappeared quietly, the divorced dad who sits in the back once a year, the addict who’s “doing better” but doesn’t trust Christians, the family who lost a child and can’t sing the songs anymore, the church kid who knows every verse and feels nothing… the list could go on.   They’re not angry at Christmas. They’re grieving something Christmas didn’t fix the way they were promised it would.

Let’s get painfully practical. Stop inviting people to services. Invite them to tables. Jesus rarely said, “Come hear Me preach.” He said, “Come eat.” Hospitality starts with a chair, not a stage. Let joy exist without correction. Some people don’t need answers. They need permission to feel what they feel without being hit with Scripture grenades. God included the Psalms for a reason.

Show joy that isn’t performative. If your joy evaporates under pressure, it’s not joy, it’s adrenaline. Let people see faith survive loss. That paradox smells like gospel. Go first. Always. Text first. Apologize first. Forgive first. Invite again. Jesus moved toward us long before we moved toward Him. Leave room for them to become hosts.

The Grinch doesn’t just attend the feast, he carves the roast beast. The Kingdom doesn’t create mascots. It creates servants.

If this story offends you, it might be because you recognize yourself in it.

We’ve all stood on the hill.

We’ve all crossed our arms.

We’ve all doubted joy. And someone, God or otherwise, came climbing for us. That’s the miracle. Not that hearts grow. But that someone refused to stop inviting.

So this Christmas, and every day after, don’t just decorate Whoville. Don’t just sing louder. Don’t just protect the vibe. Go tell it on the mountain. And then keep going. Knock on cave doors. Bring meals that don’t preach. Bring joy that survives theft. Bring tables that stay open even when they’ve been flipped. And to those already doing this, the ones climbing quietly, inviting faithfully, loving stubbornly when it costs you more than you’d like, thank you.

You are the reason hearts still grow. You are the reason the Grinch comes down the mountain. You are proof the gospel still works.

Leave the chair empty. Go out and don’t come back until you bring someone with you.

And as always,

Stay Salty and Burn Bright.