Tag: christmas

Marley Was Dead, and the Church Needs a Haunting…

December 19th, 2025

Marley Was Dead…..I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE! that line.

Two of my favorite Christmas movies are The Muppet Christmas Carol and Scrooged with Bill Murray. Yes, I just put felt puppets and 1980s corporate nihilism on the same theological shelf. Stay with me.

One has singing rats and Michael Caine delivering Shakespearean gravitas to a frog. The other has a cynical TV executive getting punched in the soul by Christmas ghosts while being chased by a deranged fairy with a toaster. Both work because A Christmas Carol works.

It works because Dickens starts the story the way Scripture often starts reality: “Marley was dead.” Not sick. Not struggling. Not “going through a season.” Dead. Capital D. Toe-tagged. Buried. Pushing daisies. Dickens doesn’t ease us in with tinsel and cocoa. He drops a corpse on the table and says, Look at it. Because resurrection stories only matter if death is real.

Which makes it fitting, almost uncomfortable, that we treat this story like cozy Christmas wallpaper, when it’s actually a theological gut punch wrapped in chains and judgment. If we’re honest, that opening line sounds far more biblical than Hallmark ever dared.

Because the first Christmas didn’t happen in a snow globe. It happened under a paranoid king who murdered babies to protect his power. The Bible does not introduce joy gently. It introduces joy after darkness has had its say. And A Christmas Carol follows that same brutal honesty, because hospitality, real hospitality, doesn’t begin in comfort. It begins in confrontation.

Charles Dickens didn’t write A Christmas Carol because he loved Christmas lights or wanted to sell greeting-card sentiment. He didn’t sit down with a mug of wassail and think, You know what the world needs? More cozy. He wrote it because he was angry. He wrote it because England in 1843 was rotting from the inside out, and everyone with power was pretending the smell was progress.

This was the Industrial Revolution at full boil. Cities were swollen like infected wounds. Factories didn’t just make goods, they ate people. Men worked until their bodies quit. Women were replaceable. Children were cheap, small-fingered labor units. The poor weren’t seen as neighbors; they were obstacles, eyesores, inefficiencies in the march toward profit. And wealth, real wealth, had mastered the art of distance. Distance from suffering. Distance from consequence. Distance from responsibility.

Sound familiar? Yeah. Me too.

Christmas, in that world, hadn’t disappeared, it had been defanged. It existed either as stiff religious obligation, drained of life and neighbor-love, or as chaotic excess where people drank themselves into forgetfulness and called it celebration. It had lost its teeth. Lost its spine. Lost its ability to confront anyone about anything that actually mattered. It was holy on paper and hollow in practice.

Dickens saw debtors’ prisons with his own eyes. He watched families starve while factory owners congratulated themselves for “efficiency.” He lived in a culture that could quote Scripture fluently while stepping clean over the poor body lying in the road, careful not to wrinkle their coat. So Dickens did what prophets have always done when sermons stop working.

He wrote a story sharp enough to get past the guards. He didn’t stand on a street corner and yell. He didn’t write a theological treatise. He didn’t wag his finger. He told the truth sideways. And the truth he told was devastatingly simple: A society that refuses hospitality is already dead.

Because if we’re honest, painfully honest, the parallels aren’t subtle anymore. Many churches today look an awful lot like Dickens’ England with a cross slapped on the front.

They are bloated.

They are branded.

They are polished.

They are efficient. And they are quietly devouring bodies.

Not always physically, though spiritual burnout has a way of wrecking the nervous system just as effectively, but emotionally, spiritually, relationally. People are consumed for platform growth, volunteer numbers, giving goals, social media reach, and the never-ending hunger of more.

More campuses.

More influence.

More relevance.

More control. Meanwhile, the wounded are managed, not healed. The poor are discussed, not known. The broken are “discipled” right out the back door if they take too long to heal. And just like Dickens’ world, the most dangerous thing isn’t outright cruelty. It’s distance.

Distance disguised as leadership. Distance disguised as “healthy boundaries.” Distance disguised as “protecting the vision.” We’ve learned how to quote Scripture while stepping over people, very carefully, so as not to interrupt the service flow.

We’ve perfected systems that replace compassion. Policies that replace presence. Platforms that replace people. And when someone finally says, “Hey… something feels wrong here,” the answer is often the ecclesial version of Scrooge’s line: “Are there no programs? Are there no counselors? Are there no small groups?” Translation: Why are you bringing this to me? Isn’t there a system for that?

Just like in Dickens’ day, Christmas in much of the modern church has become either: Stiff religious obligation Show up. Sit down. Behave. Sing the song. Don’t ask hard questions. Drunken folk chaos (the sanctified version) Fog machines. Emotional manipulation. Spiritual sugar highs that wear off by December 26.

Neither requires hospitality.

Neither demands repentance.

Neither costs the institution anything.

And that’s the problem. Because Christmas, real Christmas, has always been a moral intervention. God did not enter the world gently. He entered it confrontationally. A baby born to poor parents. No room in the inn. A king panicking so hard about losing power that he slaughtered children.

That is not a backdrop for nostalgia. That is a judgment on systems that value power over people. And when the church forgets that, when it sanitizes Christmas into pageantry and playlists, it becomes complicit in the very thing Dickens was furious about.

The Church doesn’t need better marketing…It needs ghosts…well people Ghost. Dickens understood something we desperately avoid: Sometimes people don’t need encouragement. They need interruption. The church today loves to be the Cratchits, warm, smiling, inspirational. What it desperately lacks is: Marleys willing to warn. Ghosts willing to confront. Leaders willing to lose approval to save souls

We have too many Scrooges in leadership who are praised for efficiency and insulated from consequence. And worse, we canonize them. We excuse abuse because of “how many people it looks like are getting saved.” We overlook greed because “the mission is growing.” We silence whistleblowers in the name of unity, which is usually just comfort wearing a Bible verse. Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol because polite conversation had failed. Maybe that’s where we are again.

Here’s the part we don’t like: Calling a system to repentance is not being unloving. It is biblical hospitality. Hospitality doesn’t just set tables, it opens eyes. It doesn’t just welcome guests, it confronts hosts who have forgotten why the house exists. Dickens loved people too much to let them sleepwalk into damnation with clean hands and empty hearts. And if the church is honest, many of us need the same ghostly knock at the door. Not to shame us, but to save us.

Because the truth Dickens told still stands, sharper than ever: A society that refuses hospitality is already dead. And a church that consumes people in the name of Jesus, while ignoring the poor, silencing the wounded, and protecting its own wealth and platform, may still be breathing……but it’s rattling chains it doesn’t want to hear yet.

The question isn’t whether the church needs a moral intervention. The question is whether we’ll listen before Marley’s dead weight is all that’s left to speak.

Ebenezer Scrooge isn’t evil in the cartoon sense. He’s not twirling a mustache. He’s not burning villages. He’s worse. He’s efficient. He’s the kind of man who believes he’s done nothing wrong because he’s followed the rules, paid his taxes, and kept to himself. Scrooge doesn’t stab anyone. He just refuses to make room. And biblically speaking, that’s enough.

If hospitality is about making space, for God, for others, for interruption, then Scrooge is a man who has boarded up every window of his soul.

He hoards:

Warmth

Time

Money

Compassion

Joy

His fire is small. His office is cold. His heart is locked. When asked to give to the poor, his response isn’t ignorance, it’s theology: “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?” That is Romans 12:13 reversed and weaponized. “Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.”

Scrooge doesn’t practice hospitality. He practices distance. He believes systems replace compassion. That charity is optional. That responsibility ends at the edge of personal comfort. And here’s the uncomfortable truth: Scrooge is not an outlier. He is a mirror.

Jacob Marley doesn’t show up as a bad guy even most churches I have gone to in the south would label him as such if he came a spoke to the pastor. He shows up as a warning label. Bound in chains he forged himself, cash boxes, keys, ledgers, Marley is what happens when a man realizes too late that life was not meant to be lived alone. And this is where everyone gets it wrong. We’re always told: “Don’t be a Scrooge.” “Be generous like Scrooge after he changes.” “Have a Cratchit heart.” All true. All incomplete.

Because the unsung calling of the Church is not just to be redeemed Scrooges. It’s to be Marleys who warn while there’s still time. Marley’s tragedy isn’t that he’s punished. It’s that he can no longer act. He sees clearly now, but cannot practice hospitality anymore. And that should terrify us. Because Scripture is relentless on this point: Knowledge without action is judgment, not maturity. Marley’s ghost exists to say: “Do not wait until your chains are set.”

Now the Ghosts. They are not gentle….But… They’re hospitable in the hard way. The ghosts don’t knock. They don’t RSVP. They don’t care about Scrooge’s sleep schedule or emotional readiness. They force entry. Which, frankly, is biblical. God rarely waits until we feel ready to change.

He shows up to Abraham unannounced. Jesus invites Himself to Zacchaeus’ house. The risen Christ walks through locked doors. Hospitality in Scripture is not about comfort. It’s about interruption.

The Ghosts of Christmas are not sentimental guides. They are active participants in another man’s redemption. And that’s the model we’ve forgotten. We want changed people, but not involvement. We want testimony but not process. We want miracles but not mess. The Ghosts do not stand at a distance and hope Scrooge figures it out.

They walk him through memory. They confront him with consequence. They show him suffering with faces attached. They practice the hospitality of truth.

Look at the Cratchits. They do not have enough of… well anything. That’s the point. Their table is small. Their meal is modest. Their future is uncertain. And yet they practice hospitality instinctively. They don’t debate generosity. They don’t form committees. They don’t wait for financial security. They live Romans 12:13 because they have to. “Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.” Hospitality, here, is not an event. It’s a reflex.

Their home is warm because love lives there. Not money. Scrooge has abundance and eats alone. The Cratchits have little and feast together. That is biblical economics. Tiny Tim Is Not Cute, He’s Christological. Tiny Tim is not Dickens being sentimental. He is Dickens being theological. Tim is the vulnerable neighbor Scripture will not let us ignore.

He is:

Sick

Dependent

Powerless

Unable to repay kindness

Which makes him dangerous. Because how we treat the vulnerable reveals who we are actually welcoming. Jesus doesn’t say: “Whatever you did for the deserving…” He says: “Whatever you did for the least of these…” Tiny Tim is Matthew 25 with a limp. And Scrooge’s soul is measured by whether Tim lives or dies. Because hospitality is never abstract. It always has a face.

When Scrooge wakes up changed, notice what he doesn’t do. He doesn’t journal his feelings. He doesn’t issue a carefully worded apology. He doesn’t sign up for a seminar or “start the work.” He opens his life.

He gives.

He feeds.

He goes.

He joins.

He restores.

That’s Luke 19 repentance. “I will give back four times the amount.” Scrooge and Zacchaeus are spiritual twins. Repentance that doesn’t cost you anything isn’t repentance, it’s regret. Hospitality is repentance with proof.

Here’s the unavoidable end of all this: Christmas itself is the ultimate act of hospitality. “Though He was rich, yet for your sake He became poor…” (2 Corinthians 8:9) God didn’t save us from a distance. He came near. He entered our poverty. He slept in our mess. He knocked, and waited to be welcomed. And the backdrop was brutal. A king murdered babies to protect his power.

Christmas was born in blood, fear, and political violence. Which means joy has always been an act of resistance. Hospitality has always been defiance. Be dangerous with love.

So no! Don’t just be a Cratchit. And don’t just be post-redemption Scrooge. Be Marley while there’s still time. Be the Ghosts who refuse to stay distant. Be the kind of people who take responsibility for the souls around them. Practice the hospitality of interruption. The hospitality of truth. The hospitality of walking with someone through change. Because the end goal isn’t better Christmas vibes. The end goal is ultimate Joy.

A table wide enough for repentance. A door open enough for grace. A life that points, relentlessly, to the One who came near. Jesus Christ. The reason for the season. The Host who became the Guest, so we could finally come home. And if Christ has truly been welcomed into your house, your house will never stay closed.

Stay Salty & Burn Bright
The Moravian Way: Stillness, Firelight, and Faith

December 18th, 2025

Last night, my family and I went to our church’s Christmas bonfire. No stage. No program. No carefully choreographed emotional arc that crescendos right on time with the bridge of a worship song written sometime after 2016. Just fire. Cold air. A few folding chairs that have definitely survived a couple potlucks. People standing around with coffee in their hands, my kids running in that feral-but-safe way children only do when adults have decided to relax instead of manage outcomes.

It was quiet. Not awkward quiet. Not someone-should-say-something quiet. But the kind of quiet where nobody feels the need to fill the space because the space itself is doing the work. We talked. We laughed. We stood and stared into the fire like people have done since God first figured out how to strike a spark in the dark. And it was… nice.

Which sounds like the weakest theological endorsement imaginable. But maybe that’s the point. Because somewhere along the way, the Church decided that nice wasn’t enough. That stillness was suspicious. That quiet fellowship needed a hook, a lesson, a takeaway, a QR code. Last night didn’t have any of that.

And somehow, it felt closer to Bethlehem than most Christmas services I’ve sat through.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good Christmas program. I’ll cry at a kids’ choir faster than a Hallmark movie gets a snow budget. Live nativities? Fine. Let the camel spit. It’s tradition. But we’ve reached a point where the Church treats December like it’s competing with Radio City Music Hall.

More lights.

More songs.

More rehearsals.

More exhaustion. And less… togetherness.

We cram our calendars so full of celebrating the incarnation that we forget to actually sit with the fact that God showed up quietly. No drum roll. No angelic overture audible to the whole city. Just a handful of shepherds keeping the night watch, wondering if they were hallucinating.

Which brings us to the uncomfortable reality Scripture keeps whispering while we’re busy shouting. “Be still, and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10 Not be productive. Not be impressive. Not be booked solid from Thanksgiving to Epiphany. Just “Be still.”

Stillness makes us nervous because it removes our illusion of control. In stillness, you can’t curate the moment. You can’t steer the emotional temperature. You can’t distract people from themselves. Stillness is risky hospitality. Because when you invite people to slow down, you invite them to feel, grief, joy, doubt, longing, exhaustion. All the things we usually try to drown out with noise and movement.

The Moravians understood this long before we had production teams and worship countdown timers. They understood that hospitality isn’t just about opening your home, it’s about opening time.

Time to sit.

Time to breathe.

Time to be human in the presence of God without rushing toward resolution.

That’s not weakness. That’s discipleship with its shoes off.

Luke’s Gospel gives us one of the clearest pictures of holy stillness in all of Scripture. “And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them… And all who heard it wondered.” Luke 2:17–18

Notice the order. They see. They sit in it. Then they speak. Wonder precedes witness. The shepherds don’t burst into Bethlehem with a marketing plan. They don’t organize a symposium on angelic encounters. They don’t monetize the moment.

They stand there.

They look.

They absorb.

Only then do words come. Hospitality doesn’t rush people to testimony. It allows time for awe. And awe, when it’s real, cannot be microwaved.

Then there’s Mary. Poor, young, pregnant Mary blessed above all, carrying God in her body and chaos in her life. “But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” Luke 2:19

This is one of the most Moravian verses in the entire Bible. Mary doesn’t clarify. She doesn’t preach. She doesn’t defend herself to the comment section. She holds.

The Greek word for pondering, symballousa, means to throw together, to turn over slowly. This is contemplative hospitality. Making room inside yourself for what God is doing without forcing it to make sense yet. Mary hosts mystery. And we would rather solve it, label it, or rush past it than sit in the weight of it.

The Moravians weren’t born out of comfort. They trace their roots back to Jan Hus, burned at the stake a century before Luther. His followers were hunted, displaced, scattered. By the early 1700s, they were refugees in every sense of the word:

Spiritually bruised.

Politically unwanted.

Traumatized and tired.

In 1722, a group of them found shelter on the estate of Count Nikolaus von Zinzendorf in Herrnhut, Germany. Different dialects. Different backgrounds. Different theological nitpicks. Translation: a church plant from hell. Infighting. Suspicion. Doctrinal hair-splitting that could make a Baptist convention blush. Zinzendorf didn’t fix it with a sermon series. He fixed it with a table.

The Lovefeast: Holy, simple, and intentionally unimpressive, the Moravian Lovefeast wasn’t communion, but it brushed shoulders with it. No bread-and-wine sacramental language. No clergy-centered hierarchy.

Just:

• Simple food (bread and coffee)

• Hymn singing

• Scripture read plainly

• Prayer

• Long stretches of silence

Everyone ate the same thing. Everyone sat together. No one was rushed. It was deliberately unimpressive. Because the point wasn’t transcendence. The point was togetherness under Christ.

This makes my New England heart happy living in the South, the land or sweet tea people don’t understand the importance of Coffee for the soul. And it was so important to the Lovefeast. Coffee wasn’t a luxury in 18th-century Europe.

It was:

• Affordable

• Communal

• Warm

• Stimulating without intoxication

Wine divides. Coffee gathers. That wasn’t accidental. Hospitality shapes theology. What you serve, how you serve it, and who you sit with says more than a doctrinal statement ever will.

Picture this, it was Herrnhut, Germany, August 13, 1727: You can’t program this. After months of shared meals, confession, prayer, and reconciliation, the Moravians gathered for communion. Something broke open. They described: Deep repentance. Reconciled hearts. Overwhelming awareness of Christ’s presence. Unity without uniformity.

This birthed a 100-year, 24/7 prayer watch. And from that stillness came one of the greatest missionary movements in church history. All of it traced back to tables before pulpits.

Stillness isn’t passive, it’s trust. “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” Exodus 14:14 Stillness is not apathy. It’s faith that God is working even when you stop performing. We don’t like that. We’d rather stay busy than admit how badly we need Him to move without our help.

Watch White Christmas again. Yes, the singing and dancing are great, but the most powerful moments are the quiet ones. Two people talking. Regret. Longing. Grace. It’s a Wonderful Life isn’t remembered for its chaos, it’s remembered for George Bailey standing still, realizing he was never alone. Even Miracle on 34th Street understands that belief isn’t born in noise, it’s born in quiet conviction. The Church should know this better than anyone.

Bethlehem wasn’t l oud, Bethlehem wasn’t a stage. It was a shared space. God didn’t arrive with fireworks, even though millions of angels in the sky may make a few megachurch pastors jealous. He arrived as a baby who needed to be held. That’s hospitality from heaven.

So let me say this clearly: Thank you, Pastor Tom. Thank you to everyone at Cornerstone Church in Rincon, Georgia. Last night mattered. You modeled something ancient and holy. Something Moravian. Something desperately needed for everyone. You made space.

What would happen if churches stopped asking: “How do we get people to come?” And started asking: “How do we make space for them to stay?” The Moravians answered that with bread, coffee, silence, and songs sung shoulder to shoulder.

No hype.

No branding.

No pageant or living nativity. Just presence.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what the world is still waiting for.

Stay still Church, Stay still and welcome for your community, and as always…

Stay Salty & Burn Bright
Where are you Christmas: Why Can’t I Find You? Why Have You Gone Away…..

December 17th, 2025

This year, Christmas hit my house a little different.

My oldest is struggling with it. Not in a dramatic, doors-slammed, “I hate Christmas” kind of way, but in that quieter, heavier way that’s worse because you can’t fix it with cocoa and a movie night. Between work shifts, school deadlines, homework that never ends, and trying to balance a boyfriend with family time, the season has started to feel less like magic and more like another obligation stacked on an already full plate. One night she finally said it out loud. “I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel like Christmas this year.” So I did the thing every parent hates doing. I apologized.

I told her I was sorry she was feeling it. Sorry that the weight of growing up had landed squarely on December. Sorry that the season that once felt effortless now required energy she wasn’t sure she had. And then I apologized for something else, something worse.

I told her it wasn’t going to get any easier. Because this is the moment we don’t warn our kids about. This is the invisible line you cross where Christmas stops happening to you and starts demanding something from you. The older you get, the more the world pulls at you. Responsibilities multiply. Schedules collide. And the magic that once chased you down now waits quietly to see if you’ll bother looking for it.

I told her the truth, spoken gently, but without sugarcoating it: This doesn’t get easier. You have to purpose to find it. And that’s when it hit me, this isn’t just a Christmas problem. This is a faith problem. This is a church problem. This is a human problem.

Because the same thing that steals Christmas wonder as we grow older is the same thing that slowly pulls us away from God. Not rebellion. Not anger. Just life. Just busyness. Just drifting far enough that one day you look up and realize the joy feels distant, but you can’t remember when it happened. And that’s where this story really begins.

There’s a moment most of us hit, usually somewhere between paying bills, raising kids, burning dinner, and realizing it’s already December again, where we quietly say, “Something feels… off.” Something feels distant. Christmas feels flat. Wonder feels like something we used to have, back when life didn’t hurt as much and the calendar didn’t own us.

We don’t say it out loud. We whisper it to ourselves while standing in a Target aisle at 9:47 p.m., staring at empty shelves where joy was supposed to be. We mutter it under our breath while untangling Christmas lights that have somehow become more knotted than our theology. We feel it when the songs come on, songs that used to make us cry, and now just sound like background noise while we scroll.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth we don’t like to admit, personally or corporately: Christmas didn’t lose its magic, and God didn’t move. We just got busy, and drifted. That’s not an accusation. That’s a diagnosis.

Malachi doesn’t mince words. “Return to Me, and I will return to you,” says the Lord of hosts. (Malachi 3:7) Notice what God doesn’t say. He doesn’t say, “I wandered off.” He doesn’t say, “I got distracted.” He doesn’t say, “I needed space.” “Return” implies movement. It implies distance. It implies someone left; and, let’s be honest, it wasn’t Him.

God names the direction plainly because He loves us too much to gaslight us. The drift wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rebellion with a soundtrack. It was subtle. Respectable. Busy. Ministry-approved. It was one skipped prayer that turned into a habit. One rushed devotion that turned into silence. One “this season is just crazy” that quietly became a year. We didn’t run from God. We just stopped walking toward Him. And then one day we looked up and said, “Why does He feel so far away?”

Scripture never paints God as the one who wanders off. He’s not the distracted Father who forgot where He put us. He’s not the emotionally unavailable deity who needs space to “work on Himself.” Over and over again, the pattern is painfully consistent: God stays. We stray. James says it with brutal simplicity: “Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you.”

Not chase Him down.

Not perform better.

Not clean yourself up first. Just… draw near.

When God feels far, it’s rarely because He stepped back. It’s because we slowly stepped away, one obligation at a time, one notification at a time, one ministry task that replaced actual intimacy. And the wild part? We often do this in His name.

We confuse activity for proximity.

We confuse service for relationship.

We confuse talking about God with actually being with Him. And then we’re shocked when our souls feel hollow.

Now let’s talk about Christmas, because we’ve done the exact same thing to it. Think about Christmas when you were a kid. It wasn’t magical because the lights were better. Half of us grew up with decorations that looked like they survived a house fire and a theological debate. The ornaments were mismatched. The tree leaned slightly left. Someone always wrapped gifts like they were fleeing the law. And yet, it was magic.

Why? Because we leaned into it.

We waited.

We watched.

We wondered.

Advent felt like forever. Christmas Eve might as well have been a biblical famine. Wonder was thick in the air because we were present enough to notice it.

Now we’re adults. And Christmas becomes a checklist:

Buy the gifts

Cook the food

Survive the family

Don’t snap at anyone in public

Pretend you’re not tired

Show up to everything

Smile through the burnout. And then, after reducing Christmas to a logistical nightmare, we have the audacity to say: “It just doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

No kidding. You don’t feel wonder when you’re sprinting through holy ground like it’s an airport terminal.

Luke tells us something quietly profound about the first Christmas: “All who heard it wondered…” (Luke 2:17–18) Wonder followed obedience and proximity, not announcement alone.

The shepherds didn’t wonder because an angel shouted louder. They wondered because they went closer. They moved toward the message. They leaned in. They left their fields. They disrupted their routine. They didn’t consume Christmas. They encountered it.

Here’s where this gets uncomfortably personal for the Church: We’ve replaced proximity with programming. We stack services. We add events. We schedule wonder like it can be mass-produced. We assume if we announce it loudly enough, people will feel something.

But wonder doesn’t come from amplification. It comes from attention. You can’t manufacture awe while rushing past Presence.

Matthew hands us the entire Christmas thesis in one verse: “They shall call His name Immanuel (which means, God with us).” (Matthew 1:23) Not God yelling from heaven. Not God waiting at the top of a ladder. Not God saying, “Figure it out and get back to Me.”

God with us.

Near.

Present.

Embodied.

Christmas isn’t about God demanding we climb higher, it’s about God choosing to come lower. And somehow, every year, we manage to turn God with us into God scheduled between other obligations. We celebrate nearness by staying distracted. We honor incarnation by staying distant. We proclaim Emmanuel while living like God only shows up if we pencil Him in.

Here’s the part we really don’t like to talk about: Churches drift too. Not into heresy… most of the time… but into habit. Into efficiency. Into seasonal autopilot. We know how to do Christmas.

We’ve got the services planned before Thanksgiving. We’ve got the series titles locked in. We’ve got the graphics polished. We’ve got the candles ready. And somehow, despite all of that, we end up offering people a beautifully wrapped box that feels strangely empty.

Why?

Because we can celebrate the story without sitting in the Presence. Because we can preach incarnation while avoiding intimacy. Because we can fill calendars while neglecting closeness. And the people feel it.

They don’t leave saying, “That was wrong.” They leave saying, “That was… nice.” And “nice” has killed more wonder than heresy ever has.

Let’s say this plainly:

Busyness is not spiritual maturity.

Exhaustion is not faithfulness.

Full calendars are not full hearts.

We wear burnout like a badge of honor and then wonder why joy won’t show up. We fill every square inch of December and call it devotion. And then we’re shocked when God feels quiet. He’s not quiet. We’re just loud.

Here’s the grace we forget, both personally and corporately: The distance is an illusion. God didn’t pack up and leave when you got tired. He didn’t withdraw when your prayers got shorter. He didn’t step back when wonder faded. He’s been right where He’s always been. Waiting, not angrily, not impatiently, but faithfully.

The moment you turn your face toward Him, He’s there. The moment you slow down enough to feel Christmas again, it shows up. Not because you recreated something. But because you returned.

Malachi wasn’t threatening. He was inviting. “Return to Me.”

Not fix everything.

Not prove yourself.

Not rebuild the magic from scratch.

Return.

Return to silence.

Return to Scripture.

Return to sitting instead of sprinting.

Return to presence over performance.

Wonder isn’t lost, it’s neglected. And neglected things don’t need replacement. They need attention.

We don’t need a new faith. We don’t need a more “magical” Christmas. We don’t need better circumstances. We need proximity. Sit with Him again. Open the story again. Let the silence speak. Let awe catch up.

Because whether it’s God or Christmas, the truth is the same:

The wonder never left.

The Presence never moved.

We just stopped drawing near, and when we do, He’s already there.

Arms open.

Unmoved.

Unchanged.

Waiting like He always has been.

Hospitality, at its core, is an act of nearness. It’s choosing to close the distance instead of guarding it. It’s opening the door when it would be easier to stay busy. It’s making space, on purpose, for presence.

That’s what God did first.

Christmas is the ultimate act of hospitality. God didn’t shout instructions from heaven. He stepped into the room. Immanuel, God with us. He crossed the distance we created and invited us back into relationship, back into wonder, back into the table fellowship of grace.

Here’s the uncomfortable mirror: if we are willing to receive that nearness from God, we are also called to offer it to others. In a season obsessed with speed, hospitality looks like slowing down. In a culture addicted to noise, hospitality looks like attention. In a world trained to keep its distance, hospitality looks like drawing near.

This Christmas, wonder won’t be found in better decorations, fuller calendars, or louder celebrations. It will be found in proximity, in choosing to sit, to listen, to be present with God and with one another.

Because when we draw near, doors open. Tables fill. Hearts soften. God has already stepped toward us. The only question left this season is simple, and painfully honest:

Will we draw near too?

Stay Salty & Burn Bright
Go Tell It on The Mountain We Created: Mount Crumpit

December 16th, 2025

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.
Home Alone Before Christmas: Preparing the House, Forgetting the Heart

December 15th, 2025

This past Saturday, I found myself home alone. Not “the house is quiet, I’ll read a book” home alone. I mean Kevin McCallister home alone. No wife. No kids. No schedule. No one to stop me from making objectively poor decisions. The kind of freedom that should honestly come with a warning label.

I briefly considered the obvious route: eating an entire cheese pizza by myself, setting elaborate booby traps throughout the house, and waging psychological warfare on imaginary burglars. You know, classic spiritual disciplines. But instead, in a shocking display of maturity that surprised even me, I decided to do the most adult thing possible: hang Christmas lights.

I threw on some music, grabbed the ladder, and went to war with extension cords that were absolutely tangled by demons last January so I did the responsible adult thing, I sat down… in my car and went and got new ones. I hung lights. I adjusted them. I stepped back. I adjusted them again. I climbed up the later and on to my roof to get the highest peak on my house got half way done and realized I was almost 40 on my roof with no equipment but some converse all star sneakers and the Holy Spirit and decided that the high peak was not worth becoming the ghost of Christmas present; and climb back down off the roof praying the whole time.

Then I did something even better, I took a break after I had another near death experience on the ladder, and went for a quick visit to see my friend Stoner. Yes, that Stoner. The one and only king of Dad Jokes, The one whose writing you can find over at Stoner’s Simple Thoughts on WordPress. Good words. Honest words. The kind of writing that doesn’t pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn’t.

We talked. We laughed. We probably solved some of the world’s problems and then immediately forgot how.

I came home finished the lights and the blowups in the yard with the couple of new ones that I picked up while I was out and capped the night with Pad Thai. because nothing says “reflective Advent preparation” like noodles at the end of a long day, and by the time I was done, I was wrecked and actively being reminded that I am not as young as I used to be.

Physically tired. Mentally spent. Spiritually…quiet. I stood in my front yard and looked at the house. The outside looked great. Honestly? It looked ready. Lights glowing. Warm. Inviting. The kind of house that silently says, “Good things happen in here.” And then I thought about inside, glancing in one of the windows with a mouth full of noodles

Christmas was half up. Half unpacked. Totes everywhere like Amazon had lost a bet. Ornaments sitting in boxes next to ornaments already hung. Stockings not yet filled. Dishes stacked on the counter like a Jenga tower of guilt. Wrapping paper remnants from some previous battle still lurking in corners. The house looked ready. The house was not ready. And that’s when it hit me. This is Advent.

We are incredible at preparing for Christmas. We string lights. We decorate trees. We dig out the “good plates” like relics from a sacred vault. We cook like we’re feeding the Roman Empire. We spend hours, no, days, making our homes look beautiful for the holidays.

But the harder question is this: Are we actually ready for the holidays? Not the aesthetic. Not the vibe. The hospitality. Have we prepared our hearts for what this season demands. Have we made our homes merely impressive, or genuinely welcoming? Because those are not the same thing.

You can have a Pinterest-perfect living room and still panic when someone knocks on the door. You can have lights visible from space and still pray no one actually comes inside. And if that sounds familiar, congratulations, you’re human.

Now if you know me or paid any attention to my holiday writing. I am a huge fan of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. It is the perfect Christ movie. It is to the point that I sent a quick video to my sister of the lights up on the house and my sister responded with “Good Job Clark” Now stay with me because I am going to make a statement that will have a few Baptist ladies clutching their pearls. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation remains the most theologically accurate Christmas movie ever made.

Clark Griswold is ready. The house is perfect. The tree is enormous. The gifts are wrapped. The lights, oh, the lights, are visible from low-earth orbit, which is exactly how God intended Christmas lights to be. Clark has prepared for Christmas. What he has not prepared for…is Cousin Eddie.

Eddie shows up unannounced, RV blazing, dog in tow, social awareness nowhere to be found. And you can see it on Clark’s face, the panic. That tight smile. That internal scream. That realization that all the preparation in the world does not mean you’re ready for people.

Because hospitality isn’t tested by the guests you planned for. It’s tested by the ones you didn’t.

And Advent, inconveniently, is not about controlled environments. It’s about incarnation. God showing up in the mess. God entering without asking permission. God arriving in a way that disrupts your plans and rearranges your furniture. We laugh at Clark, but we do the same thing.

We prepare for the idea of Christmas. We are often unprepared for the reality of it. Here’s the thing Scripture is painfully consistent about: Biblical hospitality always starts before anyone shows up. You don’t wait for the knock to clean the house You don’t scramble when the doorbell rings. You prepare because someone matters. Advent is the Church standing in the doorway of history saying, “Someone important is coming. Clear the table.” Not add to the table. Clear it.

That’s the heartbeat of Advent, not just remembering that Christ once came, but reckoning with the terrifying, hope-filled truth that He is coming again. And here’s where it gets uncomfortable: Most of us are fully booked.

Our hearts are Airbnb’d out to: Busyness that masquerades as importance Resentment we swear we’ll deal with “after the holidays” Nostalgia that worships what was instead of trusting what is Exhaustion that becomes an excuse That low-grade anxiety humming beneath every Christmas playlist “No Vacancy.” And yet Advent dares us to flip the sign anyway: Room Available.

Scripture never treats preparation like a spa day. Isaiah doesn’t say, “Light a candle and reflect quietly.” He says: “Prepare the way of the Lord.” That’s road construction language. Tear things up. Fill potholes. Remove obstacles. Anyone who’s ever driven through construction knows this is not a peaceful process.

John the Baptist shows up and makes it worse: Repent. Reorder. Get honest. Advent preparation is not decorative, it’s disruptive. Hospitality in Scripture always costs something. Abraham interrupts his day for strangers. The widow of Zarephath gives Elijah her last meal. Mary’s entire life plan is obliterated by an angel and a yes. Preparation that doesn’t cost anything is just décor.

We love to villainize the innkeeper. Every Christmas pageant needs a bad guy, and apparently it’s him. But Scripture never says he was cruel. It never says he slammed the door. It never says he hated God. It just says there was no room. That’s the warning.

He didn’t refuse Jesus out of hostility. He refused Him out of crowdedness. And that should terrify us. Because Advent asks a brutal question: If Christ came knocking today, not as a baby, but as King, would there be space…or just excuses?

Biblical hospitality is not about perfection. It’s about availability. God does not ask for a spotless heart. He asks for a cleared one. You don’t prepare your heart like a museum: “Don’t touch. Don’t sit. Don’t disrupt.” You prepare it like a table. A table that gets used. A table that gets messy. A table where things spill and conversations linger too long.

Advent preparation looks like: Setting down bitterness like an extra chair you don’t need anymore. Clearing old grief instead of calling it “tradition” Making peace where possible and surrender where it’s not. This is not tidy work. It’s necessary work.

Mary didn’t have a nursery. She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have control. What she had was space. “Let it be to me according to your word.” No staging. No conditions. No backup plan. She made space in her body, her future, her reputation, her entire life, for God to dwell. And Christ still enters the world the same way. Not through polished hearts. Through surrendered ones.

We treat Advent like a spiritual to-do list. More services. More songs. More posts. More noise. And not that any of those things are bad in of themselves.

But biblical hospitality says the opposite. You don’t make room by adding furniture. You make room by removing it.

Advent invites us to fast, not just from food, but from:

Control.

Noise.

The need to be right.

The need to be nostalgic instead of present.

It is a season of holy subtraction.

Here’s the final twist: Christ doesn’t come for a weekend. Biblical hospitality assumes presence, not performance. You don’t prep for a guest you plan to ignore. Advent prepares us not just to receive Christ—but to host Him. To live as if He actually dwells with us. Eats at our table. Walks through our mess. That requires more than lights on the house. It requires space in the heart.

Advent whispers something wildly dangerous, God still desires to dwell with His people. Not just in sanctuaries. Not just in nostalgia. But in homes, hearts, and lives that have made room, however imperfectly.

So maybe this season, the most faithful act of hospitality isn’t throwing a better party. Maybe it’s standing in the quiet of a half-decorated house, looking at the mess, and praying: “Lord, what’s taking up space that belongs to You?”

Because when room is made, He comes. And He never arrives empty-handed.

Stay Salty
“Butter, Chaos, and the Second Coming: A Gantt Family Guide to Advent Preparation”

December 11th, 2025

When you grow up in the Gantt family, Christmas dinner isn’t a meal, it’s a military operation disguised as hospitality. And by “hospitality,” I mean the kind where the kitchen hits 96 degrees before noon, everyone’s yelling across the house about butter temperatures, and some poor soul is crying in the pantry because the rolls didn’t rise and now the entire legacy of the family name hangs in the balance.

This is the kind of meal that starts with a group chat in October and ends with the entire family in Vermont needing to repent of gluttony by December 26. If the angels in heaven keep records, there’s a whole chapter somewhere titled, “The Gantt Family: Lessons in Overdoing It.”

Most folks know I’m a chef.

What they don’t realize is that my whole family is basically the culinary equivalent of a biker gang. My younger brother Tim is a chef too, confident, probably knife-fighting a roast as we speak…. taught him everything he knows…. well some of what he knows. My baby sister? The master baker at the deli where I first learned how to not cut my fingers off. (A skill I still struggle with when I get excited.) Add a swarm of nieces and nephews who bake bread, decorate cakes, and create pastries like they’re auditioning for The Hunger Games: Buttercream Edition, and you start to understand the scale of what I’m working with.

So when we were all still living in Vermont together, Christmas dinner was… different.

I’m talking handmade rolls glazed so beautifully they could have been used as reflective beacons for stranded hikers. Some kind of roast so legendary we still bring it up years later like it was a spiritual encounter. And the sides, good grief, the sides, more dishes than any table had a right to hold. A sinful blend of butter, carbs, and ancestral pride. A feast of absolute edible excess. And yes, thank God for mercy. Because if gluttony had a leaderboard, my family at Christmas would be top five every single year.

But here’s the thing: Meals like that don’t just happen. Not with my crew. We prepared. We strategized. We curated and hunted and kneaded and argued and tasted and debated. We had planning meetings, for crying out loud. Who does meal planning like NFL coaches reviewing film? Us. We do.

Tim and I would handle the overly-inventive, unnecessarily-technical dishes that made the family question our need for culinary drama. My sister and the younger crew would craft the bread and desserts so delicate I was afraid to breathe near them.

But you know what we never did?

We never once said, “Eh, let’s just slap it together the day before.” Because that would’ve been disrespect. Dishonor. Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow…… never mind. It would be an insult to the family and the table.

And yet, that’s exactly how the Church handles Advent. We’ll plan Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, and even our dog’s groomer appointments months ahead… but the return of Jesus? The Second Coming? The wedding supper of the Lamb? We treat it like a casserole we forgot in the fridge until it grew legs and asked for a raise.

Most people think Advent is a countdown to Christmas: Four candles. A wreath. Some purple. Some pink. A devotional you printed from Pinterest because your pastor mentioned the word “anticipation” and you felt guilty or maybe you got my advent book “The Christmas table” because you wanted to know what kind of food we cooked along with some great lessons……… just saying.

But Advent, real Advent, is not a soft countdown. It is a leaning forward. A bracing. A call to preparation drenched in urgency. It says: “Yes, He came once. But He’s coming again. So get your house in order.” Advent is the subtle spiritual threat of heaven: “Straighten up. The King is on His way.” Not in fear, but in expectation.

Let’s talk about the elves.

I don’t care if it’s The Santa Clause, Elf, Polar Express, or any of the classics, every Christmas movie portrays Santa’s workshop as the most chaotic-yet-efficient sweatshop in the North Pole. Those pointy-shoed maniacs are working year-round. Twelve months of toy manufacturing. Twelve months of prepping for the same day every year. Twelve months of singing, hammering, wrapping, and questionable OSHA compliance. All of the elves understand that this work needs to be done… well all but the one that wants to be a dentist.

Those elves take Advent more seriously than the Church does. Why? Because they know their deadline. December 25. No surprises. No sudden calendar rearrangements. No “Elves, we’re bumping it up three days this year.” But for us? Jesus says: “You won’t know the day. You won’t know the hour. Just be ready.” Translation: “You don’t get a countdown, so don’t wait for one.” If the elves can prep all year for a morning of stockings and sugar cookies… why can’t we prep our whole lives for the return of the King?

Every December, humanity loses its collective mind. We prep the house like royalty is visiting. We clean places no human soul will ever look. We dust the top of the fridge, as if a guest might scale the counters like a raccoon. We shop like the world ends on the 26th.We drag out the “good plates”, the ones protected like museum artifacts because Aunt Linda broke one in 2012 and we’re still in therapy.

And we cook, oh, do we cook. We make nostalgic dishes soaked in butter, memory, and enough salt to preserve a mammoth. Dishes that remind us of home, heritage, childhood, Mama, Nana, and all the faces we miss at the table. All this work. All this effort. All this intentionality, for one day. For one celebration we can’t even see yet but fully believe is coming.

That’s Advent. That’s the point. Except our celebration isn’t one morning with presents under a tree. It’s the wedding supper of the Lamb. The great feast. The eternal table. The moment when every promise God ever made grows flesh and sits down beside us. Christmas morning is cute. The Second Coming is cosmic. But we treat the former with more preparation than the latter.

At Christmas, we send invitations, texts, cards, group chats, passive-aggressive reminders, whatever. But Heaven already sent its invitation. Jesus’ birth was the invitation. The manger was God’s engraved card: “You are invited to My table. Come hungry. Come needy. Come willing.”

His first coming opened the door. His second coming sets the table. Christmas is not the finish line. It’s the starting line. The birth of Jesus wasn’t God saying, “Look how cute My Son is.” It was God saying, “Get ready. The King is on His way back, and the feast is almost prepared.”

You know why we clean for company? Because presence matters. Because honor matters. Because love matters. When someone important is coming over, you make things ready. Not out of fear but out of respect. That’s Advent. Advent asks: “If Jesus showed up today, would your spiritual house look like you expected Him?” Not perfect, but prepared. Not spotless, but welcoming. Not flawless, but faithful.

Advent is the season where we wake up and say: “I need to get ready, not out of dread, but out of devotion.” The Church hasn’t just been saved. We’ve been invited.

Invitations come with responsibility:

• Prepare.

• Watch.

• Be ready.

• Live like the feast is real.

• Act like the Guest is on His way.

Because He is.

One day we’ll sit at a table not carved by human hands. A table where every tear dries.

A table where wounds lose their sting. A table where the Host Himself serves. A table where every story is healed. A table where our hunger finally ends. Christmas dinner, as glorious as the Gantt family made it, was only ever a shadow of that table.

Every year we:

• cook the roast

• set the table

• light the candles

• wrap the gifts

• sweep the floors

• simmer the sauces

• decorate the house

• stack the plates

• fill the home with hope

All these acts are rehearsals. Rehearsals for the feast that never ends. Rehearsals for the Kingdom. Rehearsals for the moment when the King says, “Welcome home.”

The elves prepare all year because they know their deadline. We prepare all life long because we don’t. But the Feast is coming. The King is coming. The table is nearly set. And Advent, real Advent, whispers: “Get ready.” Not with panic, but with purpose. Not with fear, but with anticipation. Not with dread, But with hope.

Because the One who came as a baby in Bethlehem is the same One coming back as King. And when He does, every preparation, every act of faithfulness, every moment of watching and waiting, will be worth it.

Until then, we prepare like my family prepared Christmas dinner: fully, fiercely, wholeheartedly, and with an unapologetic amount of butter. The feast is worth the wait. And the King is worth the preparation.

Stay Salty
“Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and the Dangerous Joy of Showing Up”

December 10th, 2025

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
Holy Nostalgia and the Faith to Pass It On

December 9th, 2025

Here I sit in this Advent season missing home — but more than that, missing the version of home that only exists in memory now. Running as hard as I can with 40 hot on my trail like a debt collector with a crowbar. 2026 is staring me down, and with this year almost closed, I’m staring at something that hits harder than hangovers and harder than cheap theology: I’ve lived through 38 Christmases. And my math ain’t wrong. My memory just is.

I used to say most of my Christmases were spent at my Mama and Papa’s house in North Carolina. In my head, that house is permanent. It still smells like biscuits and wood smoke. It still sounds like old gospel humming through thin walls. It still has a front porch that bends slightly under your feet because good porches should feel like they’ve lived a life.

But the truth has teeth. We stopped going down there when I was around 11 or 12. At this age, the numbers blur together like melted wax. Time doesn’t disappear, it just gets meaner.

I still remember waking up in the dark, being loaded into a station wagon like cargo that squealed too much. The rumble seat in the back wasn’t made for safety. It was made for kids who didn’t mind smelling exhaust and fighting over who got the window that actually opened.

My younger siblings piled around me like feral raccoons in pajamas. I remember crossing state lines like they were sacred ground. I remember the first snow I ever saw in North Carolina. Tim and I were out there with brooms, playing broom-hockey on Mama’s front deck in our t-shirts like idiots in a survival documentary. Mama leaned out the door and told us we were going to catch our death like death was standing in the bushes sharpening a blade. She wasn’t wrong. She was just dramatic.

Or maybe she wasn’t.

Christmas Eve at my great-grandmother’s house wasn’t a party, it was a spiritual event. It had noise like thunder and hugs that knocked the wind out of you. I can still hear the way Aunt Lois used to laugh. Not a polite laugh. A laugh that sounded like she had survived things and still chose joy as revenge.

Bill and Lois come over that night every year. There are voices you grow up with that don’t leave, even when the people do. Hers still lives inside my memory like a song that won’t stop.

I remember the first Christmas in Vermont before my grandmothers moved to live closer to us. My grandfather was sick in his bones kind of sick, the kind of sick that changes the temperature in a room. That Christmas sits heavy in my chest. Not because it was bad. Because it was sacred in a way only pain can make things sacred.

Someone dropped a Sega Genesis on the front stoop during the party. No name. No tag. Just pure Christmas chaos wrapped in cardboard. We stared at it thinking Santa Himself had a delivered it.

The cooking. The visits. The noise. The slow, creeping realization that nothing was normal, but everything was holy anyway. Those aren’t just memories. They’re architectural blueprints.

Here’s the thing nobody warns you about with memories like that: They don’t just comfort you. They haunt you. Not in a bad way, more like a holy haunting.

Those moments carved promises into me that my kids don’t even know exist yet. They were snapshots of what Christmas should feel like long before I understood I’d one day be responsible for making it happen.

That ache I feel for those moments? That longing to be back there? That’s not weakness. That’s mission fuel. That’s the reason we kill ourselves trying to make Christmas feel warm. That’s why we stress about tables, food, lights, people, laughter, traditions, even when the bank account is crying and the calendar is trying to strangle us.

We’re not obsessed with perfection. We’re trying to recreate promise. We’re trying to take what was poured into us and pour it forward without losing anything along the way. And that is exactly what Advent runs on. Everyone sells Christmas like it’s magic. Lights. Gifts. Cocoa. Kids vibrating off the walls like ferrets on espresso and wrapping paper.

But Advent? Advent isn’t soft. Advent isn’t clean. Advent isn’t about vibes. Advent is brutal in the best way. It forces you to sit with silence. It makes you count the years. It won’t let you forget how long humanity waited in the dark for a promise to grow a heartbeat.

It drags your nose through the space between what was said and what showed up. And that’s where Jeremiah walks in.

Jeremiah 33:14–15, God Doesn’t Lose Receipts “Behold, the days are coming…”

That line isn’t gentle. It’s a fist through the air. God’s talking to people who feel buried alive. Jerusalem is wrecked. The lights are off. The future looks condemned, boarded up, and spray-painted with regret. And God doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t negotiate.

He declares: The days are coming. Not “maybe.”

Not “if.” Not “once you people get your act together.” I will fulfill what I promised. That verse is not poetry. It’s court-level language. That’s Heaven signing its name in permanent ink.

Advent only survives because of this truth: God’s memory doesn’t leak. God’s word doesn’t rot. God doesn’t forget what He said when your world turns into a junkyard fire.

We forget.

We edit things.

We rewrite history to protect ourselves. God doesn’t.

Matthew 1:22–23 — Fulfillment has skin on it “All this took place to fulfill…” Matthew doesn’t write that like a pastor. He writes it like a lawyer. Here’s the proof. Here’s the evidence. Here’s the sealed file. Jesus isn’t sentimental. He’s the living receipt.

God put skin on His promises and walked them into the world. He didn’t dodge suffering. He didn’t avoid mess. Fulfillment didn’t show up in gold. It came bloody, painfully and wrapped in cloth. It slept in a feeding trough. That’s not weakness. That’s terrifyingly strong. That’s a God who would rather bleed than break His word.

And Advent sits right there, in the tension of waiting and the shock of delivery. Psalm 130:5.

“I wait for the Lord… and in His word I hope.”

That’s not a soft verse. That’s not a mug verse. That’s not a Pinterest verse. That’s a man waiting with his jaw locked and his hands shaking. This kind of waiting is violent in the spirit. You don’t see the answer. You don’t feel the presence. You don’t hear the voice. But you refuse to let go. That’s Advent waiting.

Not pretty.

Not tidy.

Not aesthetic…. Just stubborn. Faith that refuses to keel over.

Here’s where I get a little mean, because it’s deserved. The Church has gotten real bad at memory. We talk about Christmas like it’s a decoration. We package Jesus like He’s seasonal. We skip the ache and light the candles like they’re scented products. We’ve forgotten that Advent is about passing promises forward.

The world doesn’t need a polished performance. It needs a memory handed down. Someone once made Christmas feel real to you. Someone gave you a glimpse of wonder. Someone showed you worship before you understood the word. And now we’re responsible to pass it on. Not with perfection. Not with fluff.

With honesty.

With tables.

With space.

With sacred mess.

That’s how people latch on. That’s how promises survive generations.

There’s a scene in Christmas Vacation that hits harder the older you get.

Clark Griswold, patron saint of good intentions and emotional breakdowns, gets locked in the attic. He’s surrounded by dusty boxes, moth-eaten sweaters, and a lifetime of things no one has looked at in years. He flips on an old projector and starts watching home movies of his childhood Christmases. Grainy footage. Crooked trees. Laugh tracks that look more like gasps for air. But he isn’t laughing at them.

He’s remembering.

And suddenly you understand why Clark loses his mind every December. Why he needs the lights perfect. Why he needs the bonus. Why he needs the family around the table. Not because he’s insane (though the jury is still out), but because someone gave him a childhood so loud with love and chaos and tradition that he can’t imagine Christmas without it.

Those memories weren’t just moments. They were promises. And I feel that scene deep in my bones this year. Clark’s sitting in the attic, crying over home movies because he understood something most people don’t:

The magic wasn’t the lights.

The magic wasn’t the presents.

The magic was that someone tried.

Someone made space. Someone built memory. Someone protected wonder. And now he’s trying to give that gift forward. That’s not foolish. That’s holy.

Here is the real heart of it, if you couldn’t tell from my last couple of post.

I miss home. I miss noise. I miss wood smoke and thin walls and front decks and death threats over no coats. I miss a version of Christmas that only exists in my memory now. But those memories aren’t dead. They’re marching forward through my hands.

Through my table.

Through my kids.

Through my stubbornness to not let wonder die.

Advent isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about remembering hard enough that you refuse to let the promise stop with you. God promised. God fulfilled. God will do it again.

And My/Our job? To remember so well that my kids don’t need to ache the way I do to believe it.

Somewhere underneath it all, we don’t wait because we have nothing better to do. We wait because we remember Someone who kept His word when the world was dark. We wait because we believe the silence, the silence has purpose. We wait because memory is faith’s oxygen. And Advent is this stubborn, sacred whisper in the dark saying: “God remembers. So do I. And I’m not letting go.”

Stay Salty
Called Home for Christmas

December 8th, 2025

There was a time when Christmas in Vermont didn’t just sound like a small riot, it was a riot. Not a cute, hallmark kind of chaos. The kind of chaos that probably had an insurance policy rethinking its life choices.
Almost thirty of us crammed into my parents’ living room like the world’s most aggressive family reunion. If OSHA or the fire department had walked in, they wouldn’t have shut us down… they would have written a book about us and used it in training seminars.
My older brother would roll in with his wife and their seven kids,( two of them already married with their spouses) and the house would instantly lose all structural integrity. You could feel the temperature rise and the oxygen drop within seconds; what wasn’t hard because as my brother in-law would say she kept that house hot enough to breed sheep. You didn’t need a weather app, you just counted how many of his kids were screaming and guessed the humidity.
My older sister and her husband would show up with their three kids, bringing just enough calm to make things worse. They tried to act like the reasonable ones, which only made us brothers pick on her harder.
Then there was me, wife and three kids, full volume, no indoor voice, dragging bags of gifts like I’d looted a store.
My younger brother would show up with his wife and my niece…who now has two more boys added, matching my energy perfectly, which is a dangerous thing when you put us in the same room. Conversations stopped being conversations and started sounding like a fight scene from a low-budget comedy roast/action movie.
My younger sister would walk in with her two kids… three if you count her husband, and honestly, for legal reasons we should probably count him. At least that’s how the insults went.
We didn’t talk. We yelled with love. We insulted each other like it was an Olympic sport.
That kind of love confuses people who grew up in quiet families. If you walked into that room without context, you’d think we were about to throw hands, not throw casseroles.
My mother would stand in the kitchen, arms crossed, looking like she was one bad comment away from sanctifying us with holy oil. Her favorite line every single year?
“You all spent to much money and bought too many gifts!”
But the tone said something else: I’m glad you all are home.
My dad? He never said much in those moments. He would sit back in his chair like a king on a throne made of hand-me-downs and Walmart furniture, just soaking it all in. Quiet smile. Soft eyes. Watching kids trip over each other. Watching grown children turn back into the loud, feral versions of themselves.
And then came the holy moment. Every year. No matter how loud it got. No matter how crazy the kids got. No matter who was mid-argument over batteries or someone stealing someone else’s seat. My dad would grab my great-grandfather’s Bible. Not a replica. Not a display piece.
The real one.
The one that had been read from in North Carolina at my great-grandmother’s Christmas Eve parties. The same pages turned by hands that are in heaven now. Same worn leather. Same soft, fragile pages that sounded like whispers when they moved. And we would all shut up. Not because he demanded it. But because it mattered.
He would read the Christmas story. Same words. Same rhythm. Same Spirit. And something holy would settle over the room like fog. Kids stopped running. Adults stopped shouting. Nobody mocked. Nobody interrupted.
That Bible carried history. It carried voices. It carried prayers that outlived the people who prayed them. That wasn’t religion. That was inheritance. That was home.
And when I think of Hosea 11:1, that’s what I hear. “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” Not a polished choir. Not a spotlight.
A family.
A noise.
A mess.
A Father remembering the sound of His children in the house. That’s what God sounds like to me now. Not quiet. Not sterile. But warm. But loud. But alive.
Christmas wasn’t held together by perfection. It was held together by people. People who talked over each other. People who laughed too hard. People who loved without needing it to look pretty. That’s what I miss. That’s what we all miss when we talk about “home.” Not the decorations. Not the presents.
The noise.
The presence.
The chaos that felt safe.
That living room in Vermont didn’t just hold people, it held history. And nothing feels more like God than a house that’s on the verge of collapse but still full of love. That’s the sound I still hear when I read Hosea 11:1. “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” That verse isn’t delicate. It’s God sitting in His living room talking to Himself like, “Man… I remember when they were little.”
That’s not theology. That’s a dad staring at an empty recliner. And the wild part? He didn’t just miss them. He called them back. That’s the Father-heart of God: He doesn’t sit around waiting for people to figure it out.
He dials.
He texts.
He leaves the porch light on and the door cracked.
Israel wasn’t just enslaved. They were homesick. They missed dirt that felt familiar. Wind that smelled right. A horizon that didn’t feel like a cage. And God didn’t say, “Toughen up.” He said, “Come home.” That’s Advent before Advent ever had candles.
Now fast forward to Joseph. The government drops a census and suddenly he’s got to walk back to Bethlehem. For Rome? It was paperwork. For Joseph? It was roots. Home.
And look, I know we make Christmas cards about “the long journey.” But let’s be honest, the man was probably thinking: “Why didn’t they send an email?” Pregnant fiancée. No donkey with seat warmers. No snacks. No Google Maps. But still… there had to be something in him that wanted the road.
Because Bethlehem wasn’t just a compliance form. It was identity. And in that road, you see longing again. The kind of longing my family lives inside. We’re in Georgia now, and we love it. But the holidays hit and suddenly my brain is in Vermont.
I can hear the boots hitting the old floors. I can smell the coffee that had been microwaved so many times it achieved legal adulthood. I can hear someone shouting from the kitchen, “Who touched the cookies??” And the crazy thing? The people back there miss us too. They’re not mad we’re gone. They’re just sad we’re not there. And honestly? That hurts in the cleanest possible way. They want us in that living room again. We want to be there too.
There’s no drama.
There’s no guilt.
Just longing. And longing isn’t weakness. Longing is proof of love.
Here’s where it flips on us spiritually. God didn’t just miss Israel. He went after them. That’s what we’re supposed to imitate. Not sit around with spiritual crossed arms like, “Well, if they really wanted to be here, they would come.” That’s not fatherhood. That’s petty. God didn’t whisper longing to Himself. He called.
Church, hear me: If God chased runaway slaves with fire and cloud, you can send a text. We don’t get to pretend we’re godly while we ghost people. If we claim the Father’s heart, then we act like Him. We make the call first. We open the door first. We say, “You’re wanted,” before they ever brace for rejection. And sometimes, let’s be honest, there’s no way to make it physical. Life is complicated. Money is real. Schedules are cruel little tyrants. You can’t always get everybody in the same room.
But you can still make people feel seen. You can still make people feel desired. You can still make people feel like their absence registered. And that’s hospitality. Not Martha Stewart hospitality. Real hospitality. The kind that doesn’t care if the couch is clean, it just wants the person on it. Even if they can’t come, they should know:
There’s a chair with their name on it.
There’s a plate we would’ve filled for them.
There’s a laugh we saved for them.
This is where churches need to repent, gently, lovingly, and with a little side-eye. We’re way too good at advertising events and terrible at calling sons home. You don’t need a better Christmas program…You need better phone etiquette. We get pumped about packed services and forget people who vanished quietly.
They didn’t rebel.
They just faded.
They didn’t hate God.
They just got tired….. And nobody called.
That’s not Advent, that’s abandonment dressed up in tinsel. The Father’s heart says: “I miss you.” “I noticed.” “I care.” Not because of what you bring. But because of who you are.
And here’s the funny part of all this deep theology: It doesn’t take much. It’s a phone call. A text. A private message. It’s awkward It’s imperfect. Sometimes it autocorrects to nonsense. But it lands. And people don’t forget being wanted.
So this season, don’t just decorate. Imitate. If God can call a nation out of Egypt, you can call your cousin. If God can part a sea, you can send a card. If God can put on flesh and show up, you can show up to Facebook Messenger instead of just stalking their posts.
Low bar. High impact.
And if you’re reading this and you’re the one far from home? You’re not forgotten. Someone should’ve called. But God already did. And He’s loud about it.
Out of Egypt.
Out of isolation.
Out of silence….Home.
So be like the Father. Not just missing people quietly. But calling them. Wanting them. Making space for them. Because nothing feels more like Christmas, than a house that gets louder when people walk back in the door. And if they can’t make it?
We still leave the light on.
We still save them a seat.
We still love them hard.
That’s hospitality.
That’s Advent.
That’s home.
Stay Salty.
National Lampoon’s Advent: Opening the Door to Strangers, Prodigals, and RVs

December 4th, 2025

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
“The House of Bread and the Harpers’ Pot”

December 3rd, 2025

There once was a large family named the Harpers. Good people. The kind of family that took up an entire pew every Sunday and half the fellowship hall afterward. They had seven kids, two dogs, one cat that hated everyone equally, and a van that made a noise like it was trying to cough out a demon.

Their budget? Picture a rubber band stretched across the Grand Canyon. And then someone hands you one more bill and says, “Good luck.”

Dad worked long shifts at the milling plant, coming home looking like a sawdust-covered snowman from the Appalachian Alps. Mom took every odd job that didn’t involve hiding a body, babysitting, cleaning, sewing. She once did three jobs in one day and still came home asking, “Okay, what’s next?”

They were good, generous people. But Christmas… Christmas was always tight.

Not because they wanted mountains of gifts. They just wanted the kids to taste something that felt like hope. A dinner that wasn’t made of “whatever’s left” and a holiday memory that didn’t smell like stress.

Then came the church announcement: “Neighborhood Christmas Potluck! Bring a dish for the community!” The Harpers looked at the flyer. Then looked at each other. Then looked back at the flyer like it had personally offended them. A dish? They barely had dinner. But the Harpers had a rule: If you have breath in your lungs, you have something to offer.

So on Christmas Eve morning, while the frost clung to the windows like it was afraid of commitment, Mom gathered everyone around the pantry. “Let’s see what the Lord has given us,” she said. “God can do more with a faithful spoonful than we can do with a full table.” The pantry door creaked open like a horror movie reveal.

Inside waited:

One dented can of navy beans

Half a bag of rice

Three carrots that looked like they been smoking cigarettes behind the barn since birth

An onion that had clearly survived warfare

A handful of confused spices

And a can of coconut milk dropped off months ago by a youth pastor who promised it would “transform your culinary worldview.” It did not.

It looked less like ingredients and more like the contestants of a cooking show where everyone’s destined to fail. Still, the Harpers rolled up their sleeves. Mom chopped the weary vegetables. Dad stirred like the pot owed him money. The kids washed carrots with surgical precision. And something began to happen. Slowly, the kitchen filled with a warm, savory aroma that didn’t match the ingredients. Something rich. Something hopeful. Something that smelled like Christmas should smell when you’ve got nothing left but faith and a few questionable carrots.

They poured the soup into their one pot big enough for a crowd, a pot so scratched and scorched it looked like it had been through the Exodus. “Is it enough?” one child asked.

Dad laid a hand on the pot. “It’s what we have. And that’s enough for God.”

The Harpers carried that humble pot into the fellowship hall, praying it wouldn’t run dry in the first ten minutes. The room was full, single parents, elderly widows, families in between paychecks, folks spending their first Christmas alone. People who weren’t looking for fancy. People who just wanted to belong somewhere for a night.

The Harpers placed their pot between a sad plate of grocery-store cookies and a fruitcake that looked like it had survived the Civil War. Mom whispered, “Lord, stretch it.” And then what happened next would make the Mississippi squirl revival pale in comparison as far as modern church miracles.

No matter how many ladles dipped… No matter how many bowls were filled… The pot never emptied. People came back for seconds. Someone said, “This tastes like Christmas feels.” Even the pastor cried into his third bowl, claiming “it’s my allergies.”

The Harpers knew. They knew what they started with. And it wasn’t enough for this. But God… God was enough. When all the tables were cleared and the final car pulled away, the Harpers went back to the pot. There was still enough left for them to take home. Dad chuckled, “Looks like God wanted a bowl too.” Mom wiped her eyes. “He already had one. Every person we fed was Him in disguise.”

And that night, in that small fellowship hall with a pot that refused to quit, the Harpers learned the Christmas truth Bethlehem taught long before: When you give God your little, He multiplies it into much. When you offer hospitality with what you have, He creates abundance out of emptiness.

Bethlehem: The World’s Most Unlikely Hospitality Center…

Bethlehem: “House of Bread.”

Population: barely worth mentioning.

Tourist attractions: a shepherd field and… uh… that’s pretty much it.

Micah 5:2 calls Bethlehem: “too little to be among the clans of Judah.” In other words, the ancient equivalent of that one town on I-95 with a gas station, a Waffle House, and a billboard that says “Turn around. You missed it.”

But God says: “That’s My spot.” Because God has a habit of doing ridiculous things in ridiculous places with ridiculous people who don’t look like much. A barren couple becomes a nation. A stuttering shepherd becomes a liberator. A teenage girl becomes the ark of the Messiah. A manger becomes a throne room. A cross becomes a doorway. And a tiny, overlooked town becomes the entry point of the King of Kings.

Bethlehem didn’t have wealth.

Bethlehem didn’t have prestige.

Bethlehem didn’t have a palace.

But Bethlehem had availability.

Bethlehem made room, even when the room wasn’t pretty. That’s biblical hospitality. Hospitality is not about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about saying: “What I have, I give. It’s not much, but it’s Yours.”

We love to imagine Advent as soft, warm, glowing, and serene… like a Hallmark movie with better theology. But the first Advent was chaotic.

A government census.

A forced road trip.

A crowded village.

A barn that doubled as a motel.

A feeding trough masquerading as a crib.

This wasn’t “silent night.” This was “noisy, unsanitary, inconvenient, frustrating, ‘why is this happening now?’ night.” But God came anyway.

But Why?

So no one could ever say: “God only works when life is perfect.” The whole Christmas story is God whispering:

“Your lack is not a barrier to Me.

Your inconvenience is not an obstacle.

Your mess is not too messy.

Your smallness is not a problem.”

God doesn’t wait for palaces. He moves into stables. He comes through the side door, not the red carpet. And He still does.

Let’s be honest: Most of us don’t feel like walking spiritual Waffle Houses of hospitality during Advent.

We feel tired.

Stretched.

Broke.

Behind.

Bracing for relatives.

Or grieving the ones we’re missing.

But Scripture teaches this over and over: God’s miracles usually set up shop in the parking lot of our lack. Elijah and the widow with the last bit of flour. Elisha and the woman with nothing but a jar of oil. The disciples staring at 5 loaves and 2 fish. A dying thief with nothing but a sentence begging Jesus to remember him. The early church sharing “as anyone had need” even when they weren’t wealthy.

And of course… Bethlehem, too small, too insignificant, too overlooked, but just right for God. God doesn’t need your abundance. He just needs your yes.

Your willingness.

Your open chair.

Your scratched-up pot of almost-nothing.

Some people think hospitality is Martha Stewart’s spiritual gift. Matching plates, perfect centerpieces, holiday charcuterie boards shaped like wreaths, candles that smell like pine forests and your childhood healing simultaneously.

But biblical hospitality? It’s so different.

Biblical hospitality is:

“I don’t have much, but I have room for you.”

“I’m tired, but I’ll listen.”

“I’m hurting, but I’ll still share my table.”

“My house is messy, but my heart is open.”

“I can’t fix everything, but I can sit with you in it.”

Hospitality is simply presence. Availability. Compassion in motion. It is the heart that says: “I can’t give you everything, but I can give you me.” And that is always enough for God to work with.

The Harpers didn’t have much. Barely enough food for themselves. A pot full of misfit ingredients. A pantry that looked like a failed episode of Chopped. A tired mom, a worn-out dad, and kids who cleaned carrots like their lives depended on it. Nothing about them screamed “Christmas miracle incoming.” But that’s the point. Because Christmas has always belonged to the small, the tired, the stretched, the humble, the overlooked, the ordinary.

That night, in the fellowship hall, God repeated the Bethlehem pattern:

Take the small.

Bless it.

Break it.

Multiply it.

Feed everyone who shows up hungry. The Harpers’ pot became a stable. Their soup became a manger. Their scraps became a feast. Their lack became the staging ground for abundance. And you know what? Every home, every church, every heart this Advent can become the same thing.

This Christmas season, you may feel like Bethlehem.

Too small.

Too tired.

Too stretched.

Too worn-out.

Too overlooked.

Too “not enough.”

Good!

You’re exactly the kind of place God likes to show up. Your table may not look impressive. Your pantry may look like a scavenger hunt. Your energy may be running on fumes. Your house may be loud, messy, chaotic, and a little crooked around the edges.

But listen to me: Your hospitality, even in scarcity, is a miracle waiting to happen. Your small offering is enough. Your open door is enough. Your handful of compassion is enough. Your presence is enough. Because the God who filled the manger, and the pot, and the hillside with angels is the same God who will fill the small spaces you offer Him today.

So, this Advent, here’s the challenge, simple, holy, doable:

Give what you can.

Share what you have.

Open what you’re able.

Offer the pot you carry, scratches, dents, weary vegetables and all.

Let God turn your not-enough into more-than-enough.

Let Him multiply your presence.

Let Him stretch your compassion.

Let Him surprise you in the scarcity.

And maybe, just maybe, someone will walk away from your table this Christmas saying:

“This tastes like hope.

This tastes like home.

This tastes like Christmas.”

Because when we make room for others, we make room for God.

And He always, always, shows up.

Stay Salty

P.S. AND NOW… THE SHAMELESS PLUG. Don’t worry—I’ll make it quick.

If messy tables, holy moments, burnt edges, and redeemed stories hit home for you…
If you want a Christmas read that blends Scripture, hospitality, hope, and a little kitchen chaos…

Then check out my book The Christmas Table on Amazon.

It’s packed with stories, recipes, theology, laughter, scars, and the kind of hospitality that’s carried me my whole life. If you’ve ever wondered how God’s table stays big enough for all of us—even in the mess—this is the one to grab.

Okay… shameless plug over.
THE MESSY CHRISTMAS YOU LOVE: Advent, Eden, and the God Who Sets the Table Anyway

December 2nd, 2025

Merry Christmas and a joyful, wild-hearted Advent to all of you!

You already know this is my season, my Super Bowl, my Iron Chef finale, my Home Alone “KEVINNN!” moment all rolled into one. So consider this your friendly warning: you’re about to see more posts from me this month than Santa sees cookies on Christmas Eve. Advent is my favorite time of year, and I’m coming in hot with stories, reflections, jokes, theology, and probably a few kitchen disasters sprinkled in for flavor.

So… buckle up, smoke ’em if you got them, keep your notifications on, and stay on the lookout.
It’s Advent… and I’ve got a lot to say.

If you’ve spent more than five minutes around me, either in a kitchen or sitting across from me at some church’s “fellowship meal” that really should’ve been called “casserole roulette”, you know one thing about my life: it has never been clean, tidy, or symmetrical. I’m 6’4”, 325, tattooed, bearded, and built like somebody who knows where the secret fridge is and isn’t afraid to use it. I grew up in a house in Vermont with five kid and two Southern parents who believed sweet tea and prayer could fix anything, usually in that order. And countless strays that us kids and my Mom and Dad would bring home to couch surf.

Dinner at our place wasn’t a peaceful Norman Rockwell painting; it was more like the deleted scenes from Home Alone, the ones where Kevin is yelling and people are slipping on ice and pizza is flying through the air. That’s how I learned hospitality: one noisy, messy, chaotic meal at a time.

As I got older and stepped into kitchens full-time, I learned very quickly that perfection is a myth, timing is a suggestion, and if you’re not slightly sweating, you’re probably in the wrong building. I’ve burned pans, dropped trays, had stock pots explode like a culinary grenade, and watched grown adults cry because the ticket printer started spitting out orders like a demon possessed. But here’s the thing: Some of the best meals I’ve ever made happened right after something went terribly, catastrophically wrong. And oddly enough, that’s also how God tells His story.

That’s why Advent matters.

That’s why Christmas starts way before Bethlehem.

That’s why Genesis 3:15 hits me like a punch to the chest every time I read it.

Because Advent isn’t just a season. Advent is God walking into the kitchen of human failure saying, “I’m still coming toward you.”

Genesis 3 is not a pretty chapter. It’s not a Hallmark movie. Nobody is solving problems with cookies and a small-town love interest. It’s the spiritual equivalent of Clark Griswold losing his temper while the house lights refuse to turn on. It’s the moment humanity sets the whole kitchen on fire and tries to blame the oven.

Adam and Eve didn’t just mess up, they hid, deflected, pointed fingers, and made excuses that would make even a tired chef roll his eyes.

And right in the middle of the fallout, right when shame is thick in the air, God opens His mouth and speaks hospitality.

Not a lecture.

Not a “you should’ve known better.”

Not a divine “I told you so.”

Instead, He gives them Genesis 3:15, the first promise of a Savior. The first whisper of Christmas. The first Advent.

God basically says, “You broke it, but I’m not leaving you in it. Someone is coming. Someone who will crush the serpent’s head. Someone who will undo what you just did.”

And that changes everything. Because that means Christmas doesn’t start with a baby. It starts with a promise.

Christmas doesn’t begin with shepherds or stars. It begins with two humans shaking in the bushes because they believe God won’t want them anymore. Christmas begins with God stepping toward people who are running away from Him.

That’s Advent. The God-who-comes-toward-us. The God-who-sets-the-table-even-after-we’ve-burned-the-meal. That’s biblical hospitality in its purest form.

Let me tell you something from decades in the kitchen and decades in ministry: The best hospitality happens after something breaks. I’ve watched families barely speaking to each other sit down at a table and somehow walk away laughing. I’ve watched church folks with old wounds find healing over plastic cups of lukewarm coffee. I’ve seen people walk in angry at God and walk out understanding, maybe for the first time, that He hasn’t forgotten them.

Because hospitality isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence.

It’s about showing up.

Making room.

Welcoming people who don’t think they deserve to be welcomed.

That’s what God did in the garden.

That’s what God does in Advent.

That’s what God is still doing with us.

And if you’ve lived any life at all, you know this: you can tell everything about a person by how they respond when stuff goes sideways.

Advent tells us everything about God.

He doesn’t abandon.

He doesn’t retreat.

He doesn’t throw the pan away and say, “This recipe was a mistake.”

No!

He steps closer.

He stays.

He promises redemption before they even know they need it.

That’s hospitality.

That’s heart.

That’s Advent.

Every year people treat Christmas like it begins at 7:00am on December 25 when the first kid sprints down the hallway screaming. But Advent isn’t a countdown to presents. It’s a revelation of God’s character: Advent is the season where God teaches us how to wait. How to hope. How to believe that He is still coming toward us even when life looks like the Grinch stole everything but the carpet.

And let’s be real: some of you have had years that felt like The Grinch without the redemption arc. Some of you feel like that neighbor from Christmas Vacation, standing outside in the snow holding a broken decoration, wondering where everything went wrong. Some of you feel like Kevin’s family in Home Alone, scattered, stressed, and one wrong move away from leaving someone behind.

But Advent tells you this: Your mess doesn’t scare God. Your mistakes don’t make Him flinch. Your failures don’t cancel His invitation. The same God who walked into Eden’s disaster walks into your December. And for someone reading this, that might be the only hope you’ve had in a long time.

If I had to boil this whole thing down to one kitchen-sized, tattoo-worthy truth, here it is:

Advent teaches us that God moves toward us even when we’ve moved away from Him.

That’s the lesson.

That’s the heart of it.

That’s the thing that should hit us like stepping on a LEGO at 2am.

Eden didn’t ruin God’s plan; it revealed God’s heart.

Failure didn’t end the story; it set the stage.

Humanity fell… but God didn’t fall back.

This is why I love Advent more than any single Christmas morning. It’s the slow burn, the simmering pot, the long process of a God who refuses to quit on us.

In my life, every bit of transformation happened because God didn’t walk away when I gave Him every reason to. The hospitality He showed me, the “sit down, son, I’m not done with you yet”, shaped everything I do now.

So what do we do with this? What do we take from Eden and Advent and lug into our everyday lives like an overstuffed bag of Christmas decorations?

Here’s how we live it out:

Move toward people instead of away from them. Especially the difficult ones. The hurting ones. The ones who think they burned their bridge with you. Hospitality starts with movement.

Make room for people’s humanity. They will fail. They will disappoint you. They will have “Genesis 3 moments.” But God makes room for your mess, so make room for theirs.

Set your table with intention. Maybe literally. Maybe figuratively. Invite someone who needs a place. Share a meal with someone who’s lonely. Slow down and see people the way God sees them.

Keep showing up. Hospitality isn’t a moment, it’s a posture. A lifestyle. A year-round calling.

Tell the story. Remind your kids, your church, your friends: Christmas didn’t begin in Bethlehem. It began in a garden full of shame, where God still said, “I’m coming for you.”

AND NOW… THE SHAMELESS PLUG don’t worry it will be quick.

If this whole theme of messy tables, holy moments, burnt edges, and redeemed stories resonates with you, if you want something this Christmas season that ties Scripture, hospitality, hope, and real-life kitchen chaos together, then let me say it plainly:

Check out my book, “The Christmas Table”, Found on amazon.

It’s full of stories, recipes, theology, laughter, scars, and the kind of hospitality that has carried me my whole life. If you’ve ever wanted to understand why God’s table is big enough for all of us, even in the mess, this is the book to grab. Ok shameless plug over.

So here’s my invitation:

Lean into Advent.

Lean into the promise.

Lean into the God who walked into the mess then…

and is still walking into yours now.

While you do, open your door, set your table, and show the same hospitality God showed in Genesis 3:15, hospitality that comes running even after failure. Merry messy, beautiful, holy Advent.

You’re loved, and you’re not alone at this table, and make sure other people know that they aren’t alone either.

Stay Salty
Gifts Fit For A King: The Hospitality We See

December 20th, 2024

In the quiet hills of Vermont, where snow blankets the world in December and the church steeples stand like sentinels of hope, my home church had a tradition that embodied the true spirit of Christmas. Every year, they set out a simple table. It wasn’t adorned with fancy decorations or filled with expensive gifts; instead, it was a collection point for items donated by members of the congregation.

The items on this table weren’t flashy or new but gently used treasures—clothes, toys, books, and household items—that still had plenty of life left in them. These donations became gifts for those in need, a way for our little church to extend hospitality and generosity during the holiday season. Watching this table fill up year after year was like witnessing God’s provision in action, a small miracle of kindness and community.

When my wife and I had kids, we wanted to instill in them this same spirit of giving. That’s when the Yearly Toy Purge was born.

The Yearly Toy Purge

Every December, as the Christmas season approached and the house began to fill with the anticipation of new presents, we handed each of our kids a large bag and gave them one simple instruction: Fill it.

At first, this was met with mixed reactions. Our kids were young, and the idea of parting with their toys was, let’s say, less than thrilling. They’d try to sneak in toys with missing parts, ripped books, or clothes that had seen better days. That’s when the life lesson kicked in.

“Would you want to receive this as a gift?” we’d ask.

The kids would pause, realizing that broken toys and ruined clothes weren’t gifts—they were trash. We explained that generosity isn’t about giving what you don’t want; it’s about giving something that can bring joy or be useful to someone else. Over time, they learned the difference, and the Yearly Toy Purge became less about clearing space and more about sharing blessings.

The Joy of Giving

What started as a teaching moment for our kids soon became one of our family’s favorite traditions. Each year, we’d fill the bags with gently used toys, clothes, and books, load them into the car, and head to the church to drop them off.

There was something magical about seeing the table at church fill up, knowing that each item would find its way into the hands of someone who needed it. And the best part? Watching the items disappear. A toy dinosaur would vanish one day, a puzzle the next. We’d smile, knowing that somewhere out there, a little boy or girl was receiving a gift they might not have had otherwise.

The joy in our kids’ faces as they watched the fruits of their generosity unfold was something words can barely capture. They no longer needed reminders—it was the kids who started reminding us when it was time for the yearly donation.

The Spirit of Hospitality

The table at our church wasn’t just a collection point for donations; it was a symbol of the hospitality of generosity.

In 1 Peter 4:10, we’re reminded:

“Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.”

That table was an open invitation to live out this verse. It wasn’t about giving flashy or expensive gifts but about offering what we had to serve others. It taught our family—and our whole church—that hospitality isn’t just about welcoming people into your home. It’s about opening your heart and sharing what you’ve been blessed with to bless others.

Life Lessons for the Holidays and Beyond

Through this tradition, our family learned several invaluable lessons:

Generosity Begins at Home

The Yearly Toy Purge wasn’t just about cleaning out closets; it was about cultivating a habit of giving. Our kids learned that generosity starts with recognizing the blessings you have and being willing to share them.

Giving Is a Form of Hospitality

Hospitality isn’t always about inviting people into your home. It can be as simple as giving someone a toy, a book, or a piece of clothing that says, “You are seen, and you are valued.”

The Joy of Selflessness

There’s a unique kind of joy that comes from giving. Watching our kids find happiness in sharing their belongings reminded us of Acts 20:35:

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Thoughtfulness Matters

Teaching our kids to give thoughtfully—to only donate items in good condition—reinforced the idea that generosity isn’t about getting rid of junk. It’s about honoring the dignity of the recipient.

Keeping the Spirit Alive

Though we’ve moved away from Vermont, the tradition of the Yearly Toy Purge remains a cornerstone of our holiday season. It’s more than just a family activity—it’s a way of keeping the spirit of hospitality and generosity alive.

As the kids have grown, so has their understanding of why we give. They know that the act of giving isn’t just about the items; it’s about the message those items carry. Each toy, each piece of clothing is a small token of God’s love, passed from one person to another.

And every year, when we see the joy on our kids’ faces as they load up their bags, or when we picture the smiles of the children receiving the gifts, we’re reminded of one simple truth:

Hospitality, at its core, is about making space—for others, for generosity, and for the love of Christ to shine through.

A Tradition Worth Sharing

The table at our church in Vermont might have been a simple idea, but its impact was profound. It taught us all that hospitality doesn’t require grand gestures or perfect circumstances. It just requires a willingness to give and a heart open to serving others.

So this holiday season, whether it’s through a toy purge, a donation table, or simply opening your home to someone in need, take a moment to reflect on the hospitality of generosity. Because in giving, we don’t just share our blessings—we create space for the love of God to work in and through us.

When you picture the Magi—the wise men rolling into the Christmas story—you probably see three regal figures with robes and camels, following a star like it’s the ultimate GPS. They arrive bearing gifts that would put any Secret Santa exchange to shame: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But who were these travelers, really? And what can their story teach us about how to live with hospitality, faith, and generosity? Let’s dig into their backstory, their cameo in the greatest story ever told, and the lessons they left us—bonus points for how it all connects to St. Nick and some of our favorite Christmas traditions.

Who Were the Magi, Anyway?

The word “Magi” comes from the Greek magoi, which sounds fancy because it was. These guys were a priestly crew from ancient Persia, experts in astronomy, spirituality, and ancient prophecies. Think of them as the Ph.D. theologians-slash-astrologers of their time.

Their lineage likely links back to the days of Daniel (yes, the lion’s den guy). Remember when Daniel was in Babylon, interpreting dreams and climbing the royal ladder? He probably dropped some Jewish Messianic prophecy knowledge on these scholars, setting the stage for the Magi to anticipate a King like no other.

When they saw that star, they didn’t just hop on a whim and say, “Road trip!” These men were the real deal—wise, learned, and dedicated to finding the truth, even if it meant a brutal journey.

The Magi’s Big Moment

Cue Matthew 2:1-12. The Magi arrive, gifts in hand, ready to honor the newborn King. But let’s pause here and dig into why their gifts and journey matter so much.

The Gifts

Gold: Fit for a king. Jesus wasn’t just any baby—He was the King.

Frankincense: Symbolizing worship and divinity, pointing to Jesus as our High Priest.

Myrrh: Spicy foreshadowing alert! Myrrh, used in burial, pointed to His ultimate sacrifice.

These weren’t just random trinkets they picked up at a duty-free shop. The Magi knew who Jesus was, and their gifts reflected His identity and mission. On a practical note, these treasures probably funded Mary and Joseph’s escape to Egypt. Talk about timing.

The Journey

These guys didn’t Uber their way to Bethlehem. They trekked from the East—likely Persia or Babylon—facing dangers and discomfort because they believed honoring Jesus was worth it. Hospitality, in this case, meant bringing their very best, even when it was inconvenient.

The Humility

Here’s the kicker: despite their wealth and wisdom, the Magi knelt before a child born in a humble setting. They remind us that true greatness bows to true holiness, recognizing God in unexpected places.

The Magi’s Influence: Passing the Torch

The Magi weren’t just travelers—they were legacy builders. Their knowledge of the Messianic prophecies wasn’t accidental. It came from centuries of faithful teaching and preparation, starting with Daniel’s influence.

Passing down truth, whether through mentorship, teaching, or storytelling, is its own act of hospitality. Proverbs 11:25 nails it:

“Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered.”

The Magi’s dedication to preserving and sharing this knowledge meant that, when the moment came, they were ready—and they helped others see the light, literally.

Hospitality Lessons from the Magi

The Magi’s actions are like a masterclass in hospitality. Let’s break it down:

Generosity

Their gifts weren’t just thoughtful—they were sacrificial. Similarly, we’re called to give with intention, whether it’s our time, talents, or treasures. Remember 2 Corinthians 9:7:

“God loves a cheerful giver.”

Sacrifice

Hospitality isn’t always convenient. The Magi left their homes, braved hardships, and offered their best. Real hospitality often requires stepping out of our comfort zones to serve others.

Welcoming the Stranger

The Magi’s inclusion in the Christmas story is a nod to God’s inclusive hospitality. Gentiles honoring the King of the Jews? That’s Galatians 3:28 in action:

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile… for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

From the Magi to St. Nicholas: A Legacy of Generosity

Fast forward a few centuries, and we meet St. Nicholas, the OG Santa Claus. Like the Magi, Nicholas was all about selfless giving to honor Christ.

Generous Giving

St. Nicholas is famous for slipping dowries to poor families, saving daughters from slavery. The Magi’s gifts weren’t just symbolic; they were practical, too. Both show us how generosity meets both physical and spiritual needs.

Defender of Truth

Nicholas wasn’t just a gift-giver; he also threw down (literally, if the Nicaea stories are true) for the truth of Christ’s divinity. The Magi’s gifts proclaimed Jesus’s identity, just as Nicholas defended it.

Christmas Symbols: Signs of Hospitality

Before you dismiss Christmas traditions as “too commercial,” remember their deeper meanings:

The Star: It guided the Magi and symbolizes divine hospitality, reminding us to seek and find Christ (Matthew 7:7).

The Evergreen Tree: A picture of eternal life, its lights representing Jesus as the Light of the World (John 8:12).

Gift-Giving: Inspired by the Magi and St. Nicholas, this tradition reflects God’s ultimate gift—His Son (John 3:16).

Living the Magi’s Legacy

This Christmas, let’s follow the Magi’s lead:

Give Generously: Offer your best to others, whether it’s your time, energy, or resources.

Welcome the Stranger: Embrace those outside your usual circle with God’s love.

Pass Down Wisdom: Share truth and guidance with the next generation.

Stand for Truth: Defend the gospel with grace and humility.

The Magi’s story is about more than a long journey and fancy gifts. It’s a reminder that hospitality, generosity, and faith are acts of worship that reflect God’s heart. As we celebrate this season, let’s embody their legacy, leading others to the Light just as they followed the star to the King.
The Real Santa: Defender of Truth

December 19th, 2024

When I think back to my childhood, the magic of Christmas wasn’t just in the twinkling lights, the smell of cookies baking, or the thrill of presents under the tree. No, the true enchantment came from the lengths my Mama, Papa, and Nana went to keep the spirit of Santa Claus alive. To them, Santa wasn’t just a jolly guy in a red suit but a living, breathing symbol of generosity, kindness, and unbridled joy.

I still remember one Christmas Eve when I was about eight years old. I decided to test my theory that Santa was more myth than man. Armed with curiosity, I crept out of bed and tiptoed toward the living room. There, bathed in the glow of the Christmas tree, was Nana, coming back from the placement of gifts under the branches. My young heart skipped a beat. Was Santa a sham? The thought was almost too much to bear.

But Nana, bless her quick thinking and mischievous grin, didn’t miss a beat. With a twinkle in her eye, she shooed me back to bed and whispered, “Santa just left. I was up talking to him because we’re old friends. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect before he headed to the next house.” That was all it took. The magic was preserved, and I drifted back to sleep, comforted by the image of Nana and Santa sharing a laugh over milk and cookies.

As I grew older, the thrill of receiving presents evolved into a deeper joy—the joy of giving. I began to understand that Santa wasn’t just about toys or stockings; he was about embodying a spirit of selfless generosity. Today, I even don the red suit myself during the Christmas season. Playing Santa has become one of my favorite traditions. There’s nothing quite like seeing a child’s face light up as they share their wishes or watching a parent’s eyes glisten with nostalgia. It’s a privilege that I treasure deeply. And yes that is me in the photo.

Not everyone, however, shares my enthusiasm for Santa Claus. I learned this the hard way during my first Christmas dating my wife. My future mother-in-law, with a mix of concern and conviction, informed me that Santa was an “enemy of Christ.”

“Santa?” I asked, baffled. “The jolly guy who brings toys?”

She proceeded to explain her reasoning: Santa lurks in fireplaces like the smoke of hell, his name rearranged spells “Satan,” and his jolly persona distracts people from the true meaning of Christmas. At first, I thought this was a one-off perspective, but as the years went by, I encountered others who shared similar sentiments. To some, Santa Claus is seen as a rival to Jesus, a symbol of commercialism, or even a pagan imposter.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. To understand the real Santa Claus, we need to travel back to the 4th century and meet St. Nicholas of Myra. This Christian bishop, known for his unwavering faith and profound generosity, lived in what is now modern-day Turkey. St. Nicholas was a fierce defender of Christian orthodoxy, particularly during a time of great theological upheaval. The Arian heresy, which denied the full divinity of Jesus, was gaining traction, and Nicholas wasn’t having it. Legend has it that during the First Council of Nicaea in 325 AD, he was so incensed by Arius’s arguments that he punched him in the teeth, (insert the POW words in the air like 60’s Batman show) then picked him up tossed him out of the meeting in to the cold street in the mud and turned and looked at the rest of the group and asked if anyone else agreed with him. While this act might not make the modern WWJD playbook, it underscores Nicholas’s passionate commitment to protecting the truth of Christ.

But St. Nicholas wasn’t just a theological heavyweight; he was also a man of action. Stories abound of his secret acts of kindness, the most famous being his gifts to a poor man’s three daughters. Unable to afford dowries, the girls faced the grim prospect of lives in servitude. Nicholas, moved by their plight, secretly delivered bags of gold to their home, ensuring their futures were secure. This legacy of selfless giving became the foundation for the Santa Claus tradition we know today.

St. Nicholas’s anonymous generosity perfectly reflects Jesus’s teaching in Matthew 6:3-4:

“But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

Nicholas’s actions remind us that true hospitality and generosity aren’t about seeking applause but about serving others with a pure heart. This spirit of giving lies at the heart of both the Christmas season and the Christian faith.

Why the Hatred for Santa? So, why do some Christians bristle at the mention of Santa Claus? Here are a few common arguments and why they miss the point: “Santa Distracts from Jesus” It’s true that Christmas can sometimes become overly commercialized. But that’s not Santa’s fault. When presented as a symbol of generosity and kindness, Santa can actually point us back to Jesus, whose birth we celebrate during this season. St. Nicholas’s story is one of Christlike love—giving sacrificially to bless others. Far from being a distraction, Santa’s example invites us to embody the same generosity and hospitality that Jesus teaches. “Santa Has Pagan Origins?” While it’s true that many cultural symbols have complex histories, the core of Santa Claus is deeply rooted in Christianity. St. Nicholas’s life and legacy have inspired countless acts of kindness and hospitality over the centuries. Rather than focusing on any perceived pagan connections, we should celebrate the ways his story reflects the love and generosity of Christ.

Beyond Santa Claus, many Christmas traditions carry profound spiritual significance. Let’s explore a few:

The Christmas Tree: A Sign of Eternal Life

The evergreen tree, which remains lush throughout the year, symbolizes eternal life in Christ. Jeremiah 17:7-8 says: “Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream.” Martin Luther is credited with popularizing the tradition of decorating trees with lights to reflect the light of Christ.

Gift-Giving: A Reflection of God’s Generosity

The tradition of giving gifts mirrors the gifts of the Magi (Matthew 2:11) and God’s ultimate gift of His Son (John 3:16). Far from being about materialism, gift-giving reminds us of God’s boundless generosity and inspires us to share with others.

Christmas Lights: Shining the Light of Christ

Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). Twinkling lights symbolize Christ’s light breaking into the darkness of our world.

Lessons in Hospitality from St. Nicholas

Give Generously

St. Nicholas’s secret acts of kindness remind us to give freely, as Jesus teaches in Matthew 10:8:

“Freely you have received; freely give.”

Welcome the Outcast

Romans 15:7 encourages:

“Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.”

St. Nicholas’s care for the marginalized reflects this inclusive hospitality. His generosity wasn’t limited to those who could repay him; it extended to anyone in need.

Defend the Truth

Like St. Nicholas, we are called to stand firm in our faith. Ephesians 6:14 says:

“Stand firm, then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place.”

Nicholas’s defense of Christ’s divinity at the Council of Nicaea reminds us that standing for truth is a form of hospitality—it invites others into the life-giving knowledge of who God truly is. Defending the truth as an act of hospitality might not be the first connection that comes to mind, but think about it for a second. At its core, hospitality is about welcoming others—making space for them to feel safe, cared for, and valued. It’s not just about putting out a cheese board and fluffing some throw pillows (although let’s not discount the power of a good charcuterie spread); it’s about creating a place where people can encounter something real. And what’s more real, more solid, than the truth?

Here’s the thing: truth, for us as believers, isn’t just an abstract idea or a philosophical debate. Truth has a name, and that name is Jesus. Remember what He said in John 14:6? “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” So, when we defend the truth, we’re not just protecting a concept—we’re standing up for the very heart of our faith and, in doing so, creating an open invitation for others to meet Jesus for themselves.

This wasn’t just a theological disagreement; Arius was messing with the foundational truth of who Jesus is. Now, I’m not saying we should go around decking people in the name of truth—let’s keep our hands to ourselves, violence is not the answer……..until it is—but what Nicholas did was about more than passion. He was defending the truth to protect the faith of the church, ensuring people could encounter the real Jesus: fully God, fully man, fully capable of saving us.

In a way, St. Nicholas’s fiery stance was a kind of hospitality. Stick with me here. By safeguarding the truth, he was creating a spiritual home where future generations—people like you and me—could find Jesus as He truly is. He was standing guard at the door, making sure that what we walked into wasn’t some watered-down version of the gospel but the real deal, the kind of truth that transforms lives.

Hospitality also means protecting the vulnerable, and let’s be honest, a lot of people today are vulnerable to lies. The world is a buffet of half-truths, twisted narratives, and outright deceptions, all served up with a side of confusion. When we defend the truth, we’re essentially pulling people out of the chaos and saying, “Hey, you don’t have to stay lost in all that. There’s clarity, there’s peace, and it’s right here.”

But here’s where the rubber meets the road: how we defend the truth matters. It’s not about swinging verbal punches like a theological Rocky Balboa. It’s about inviting people into the truth with love and respect. Remember what Peter said? “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15). That’s the difference between hospitality and hostility. Hospitality says, “I care about you, and I want to help you see the beauty and freedom in this.” Hostility just wants to win the argument.

Think of defending the truth like hosting a dinner party. You don’t throw open the door and start shouting, “You better love my lasagna, or you’re wrong!” No, you invite people in, you set the table, you create an atmosphere where they feel comfortable enough to take that first bite. When we defend the truth, we should do it in a way that makes people want to lean in, not run for the hills.

In practical terms, this could mean having a heart-to-heart with someone who’s wrestling with doubt, answering their questions with honesty and patience instead of rushing to “win” the conversation. Or it might look like taking a stand against a lie in the public sphere—not with arrogance, but with the quiet confidence that comes from knowing the truth is worth fighting for. It could even be as simple as living in such a way that your life becomes a living invitation to meet Jesus.

At its core, defending the truth is about extending an invitation. It’s like saying, “Come on in. Let me show you what’s real. Let me introduce you to the One who can give you rest for your soul.” That’s the heart of hospitality, isn’t it? Making space for others to encounter something—or Someone—that changes everything.

So, let’s not think of defending the truth as some combative task reserved for theologians and apologists. It’s something we’re all called to do, and when we do it with love, humility, and a heart for others, it becomes one of the most radical acts of hospitality we can offer. Truth isn’t a wall that keeps people out; it’s a door that welcomes them in. And when we stand at that door, ready to hold it open, we’re doing exactly what Jesus calls us to do.

To close, let’s revisit the famous 1897 editorial from the Chicago Sun-Times in response to 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon’s question, “Is there a Santa Claus?” The reply beautifully encapsulates the spirit of St. Nicholas:

“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.”

Santa Claus, rooted in the life of St. Nicholas, is not a distraction but a reminder of the spirit of giving and hospitality that Jesus embodies. As we celebrate Christmas, let’s reclaim the true meaning behind its symbols and traditions. By showing hospitality, defending the truth, and giving generously, we reflect the heart of God and the legacy of St. Nicholas. Because yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus—and through Christ, the love and generosity he represents can live on in each of us.
Tinsel and Truth: Unwrapping the Deeper Story of the Nativity

December 18th, 2024

Every year, my home church hosted a Christmas Eve White Gift Service. It was one of those deeply cherished traditions that felt like stepping into a warm, familiar storybook. The centerpiece of the evening was always the living nativity, performed by the children of the church. To call it a “production” might be a stretch—it was more like a holy chaos with tinsel halos and bathrobe shepherds. But it was the kind of chaos that made your heart swell with joy.

One year in particular stands out vividly in my memory. My sweet little girl, along with her angelic squad of friends, donned glittery tinsel halos and glided down the aisle as if heaven itself had commissioned their performance. Their eyes sparkled with the innocence and wonder only children can muster on Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, my nephew took on the role of a shepherd. Clutching his staff like he’d just wrangled a flock of real sheep, he stood proud, fully embodying his part.

And then there was the lamb. A very distracted, very two-year-old lamb.

This little boy—a church families youngest—had been roped into the role mostly because someone needed to crawl around in fuzzy pajamas. But rather than meekly following the shepherds, he spent most of the service alternating between trying to remove his lamb ears and making a break for the Christmas tree in the corner. At one point, he plopped down center stage, happily chewing on what I’m pretty sure was part of the manger, all while waving to people and trying to grab the lit candles. The audience, of course, adored him. There’s something about a toddler in costume that makes even the most solemn congregants grin from ear to ear.

The culmination of the service was always the giving of symbolic gifts to Jesus for His birthday. Each family brought a simple piece of paper with something from our life that we want to give to Jesus—a “white gift”—which was placed at the foot of the altar. Watching my friends and family lay their small offerings before the nativity scene filled me with a quiet kind of reverence. It was a moment to pause amidst the busyness of the season and reflect on the heart of Christmas.

But as my thoughts wandered, I couldn’t help but think of the people in my life who shared their birthdays with this festive season. My dad, my father-in-law, and my brother-in-law all have birthdays that fall inconveniently close to Christmas. And by “inconveniently,” I mean they’ve been shorted on birthday celebrations more times than I can count.

Growing up, my dad’s birthday presents were often wrapped in leftover Christmas paper. My father-in-law’s birthday cakes sometimes might as well of had poinsettias along with candles. And my brother-in-law? Well, his birthday parties were usually merged with whatever family Christmas gathering was already on the calendar.

I’ve often wondered whether it’s a blessing or a curse to share your birthday with the most celebrated holiday of the year. On one hand, the entire world seems to be in a festive mood. There are lights, music, and feasts galore. But on the other hand, does your special day get lost in the shuffle? Does the joy of the season overshadow the celebration of you?

As I watched those children every year, their faces glowing in the candlelight of the sanctuary, made me realized that perhaps it depends on perspective. Sharing your birthday with Christmas might feel like being a shepherd—humble, overshadowed by angels and kings—but it also means your day is woven into the greatest story ever told. To be celebrated alongside the birth of Christ is, in its own way, a profound honor. It’s a reminder that the best gifts aren’t wrapped in paper but are found in love, family, and the shared joy of the season.

That Christmas Eve, as the last notes of “Silent Night” filled the church and the children paraded out in their mismatched costumes, I held onto the sweetness of the moment. My little girl, my nephew, and yes, even the distracted lamb, had reminded me of the beauty of simplicity. And as I thought about those December birthdays in my family, I decided that maybe—just maybe—it’s not about whether you’re shorted or celebrated. It’s about the love you give and the love you receive, no matter the season.

And then there’s Jesus—His first birthday had angels singing His praises, and His last was marked by being beaten and put to death. At this point, you’re probably looking up and saying, “Wait a second, that’s Easter, not Christmas.” To which I’d reply, “Ah, you must not have done much sheep farming, have you?”

Ah, the birth of Jesus—the story that’s been told and retold so many times it feels like we were there. Cue the shepherds, the angels, and that star brighter than your neighbor’s Christmas light competition. But beneath all the cozy nativity vibes lies a narrative packed with symbolism, unexpected heroes, and a hospitality so radical it changes the way we’re called to live.

So, grab a cup of coffee (or a mug of eggnog if you’re feeling festive), and let’s dive into the deeper layers of this timeless story.

When Was Jesus Born, Really?

Spoiler alert: it probably wasn’t December 25th. Most scholars agree that Jesus was likely born in spring, and there’s biblical evidence to back this up. Remember that verse in Luke 2:8? “And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night.” Here’s the deal: shepherds didn’t hang out in fields during winter—too cold. Instead, this detail points to lambing season, which happens in the spring.

And speaking of lambs, Bethlehem was the place for producing sacrificial lambs for the temple. These lambs had to be flawless—no blemishes, no imperfections. The shepherds around Bethlehem weren’t just casual caretakers; they were pros, tasked with protecting these lambs and preparing them for their sacred purpose.

Now, think about it: Jesus, the Lamb of God, was born in Bethlehem, laid in a manger, and wrapped in swaddling cloths. Sound familiar? It should. This was exactly how sacrificial lambs were handled—born in caves, wrapped up tight to protect them, and placed in stone mangers to keep them safe. The symbolism is about as subtle as a trumpet blast. From the moment He entered the world, Jesus was marked for a divine purpose: the ultimate sacrifice for humanity.

Let’s talk about the shepherds. We tend to picture them as peaceful, pastoral figures with halos and well-behaved sheep. Reality check: these guys were gritty, smelly, and considered the outcasts of their time. They weren’t rolling up to temple worship because their line of work made them ceremonially unclean.

But here’s the twist: these same shepherds were entrusted with the most important job in Bethlehem—protecting the sacrificial lambs. And when the angels showed up to announce Jesus’ birth, they weren’t just cluing the shepherds in on a cute baby in a manger. They were calling them to witness and guard the Lamb of God Himself.

Now, add this layer of drama: King Herod had issued a terrifying decree to kill every boy under the age of two. The city would’ve been crawling with Roman soldiers enforcing the census and keeping tabs on the population. Bethlehem wasn’t just bustling; it was a powder keg.

Knowing this, the shepherds’ role takes on even more significance. These men, who were already skilled at protecting lambs, now had an even greater charge—to watch over the newborn Lamb of God in a city packed with danger. Their presence at the manger wasn’t just a cameo; it was an act of courage and devotion.

We can’t forget about the innkeeper. Sure, he doesn’t get much screen time in the Gospel account, but his role is crucial. Overcrowded conditions, Roman guards everywhere, and no room at the inn—sounds like a recipe for chaos. Yet this unnamed host made room for Mary and Joseph in a stable.

Was it ideal? Nope. Was it necessary? Absolutely. The stable became a sanctuary, and the innkeeper’s simple act of hospitality reminds us that making space for others—even when it’s inconvenient—is at the heart of Christ-like love.

The Christmas story overflows with hospitality. The shepherds left their fields to celebrate Jesus. The innkeeper found room when there was none. Even the angels got in on the action, throwing the ultimate heavenly concert to announce the birth of the Savior.

But hospitality isn’t just about making people comfortable. It’s about creating a space where they can encounter grace, joy, and love. Think about the shepherds again. They didn’t just show up to admire the baby; they stayed to protect Him, fulfilling their role in the story. Their actions challenge us to do the same—to stand up for the vulnerable and offer refuge to those in need.

So, what does this all mean for us? How do we carry the spirit of the nativity beyond the holiday season?

Be Present: In a world that’s constantly on the go, giving someone your full attention is a gift that speaks volumes.

Make Space: Hospitality doesn’t require a Pinterest-worthy home. It’s about opening your heart and sharing what you have, no matter how humble.

Serve with Courage: Like the shepherds, step up to protect and care for those who need it most, even when it’s risky or inconvenient.

Celebrate Together: Hospitality isn’t just about meeting needs; it’s about creating moments of joy and connection that point back to God’s love.

Jesus’ birth wasn’t just a historical event; it was an eternal invitation. From the shepherds guarding the Lamb of God to the innkeeper making room in a stable, every act of hospitality in the nativity story reflects God’s radical love and grace.

So, as we celebrate His birth this year, let’s remember the deeper call of the Christmas story. Let’s embrace a lifestyle of welcome, protection, and love—one that points others to the ultimate Host who invites us all to His table of grace.

Because at the end of the day, the nativity story isn’t just about a baby born in Bethlehem. It’s about a God who made room for us—and calls us to do the same for others.
Generations Gathered: How Passover, Hanukkah, and Christmas Call Us to Connection

December 10th, 2024

Every year, like clockwork, we’d pile into the car for the trek down to North Carolina. The mountains there always seemed to breathe out Christmas, even if the air was warmer than Vermont’s. My Nana—Dad’s mom—would meet us at Mama and Papa’s, my mom’s folks. Each visit was a patchwork quilt of traditions, quirks, and cozy chaos that still wraps around my heart like a well-loved blanket on a cold night.

The highlight of the trip? My great-grandmother’s Christmas party. And let me tell you, this wasn’t your typical family get-together. For starters, my much-older cousins would be there. Seeing them only once a year made it both thrilling and awkward. They’d ask about my life, and I’d stammer something about school or my latest toy obsession, all while feeling like the tiniest fish in a very grown-up pond.

But the party itself? That was pure holiday magic. Store-bought snacks spread out like a feast—Little Debbie Christmas tree cakes that tasted like a mix of sugar and cardboard with a wonderful coating of corn syrup and oil in your mouth, but were devoured with glee. Gifts for the kids were a must, even if they were small and practical. It wasn’t about the what, but the why—the tradition of giving, the joy of unwrapping something handed to you with love.

Dad always brought us back to the real reason we were there. He’d gather everyone, his voice deep and steady as he read the Christmas story from Luke 2. Those words floated across the room, alive with meaning—a sacred pause in the festive chaos, reminding us of the hope and love that started it all.

Then Mom would take her place at the piano, effortlessly striking up carols. We’d belt out the classics, each off-key note adding its own charm. There’s nothing quite like trying to hit the high notes in O Holy Night while standing next to a second cousin you only half-remember. Awkward? Sure. Beautiful? Absolutely. In those moments, we weren’t just family by blood—we were a choir, celebrating the season as one.

After the carols, the grown-ups turned to the man in red. “Excited for Santa?” they’d ask, and our enthusiastic nods were all the encouragement they needed. My siblings and I would race outside, ignoring Nana and Mama’s frantic calls to grab coats. We’d scan the sky, every blinking airplane light instantly transformed into Rudolph leading the way. “I see it!” one of us would shout, and the rest would squint into the darkness, caught in the magic only kids can conjure.

Sure, the party could feel a little awkward—reconnecting with relatives who were more like acquaintances. But it was grounding, too. There’s something about being with people who share your roots, even if only briefly. The laughter, the songs, the stories—they stitched us together, year after year, into something bigger than ourselves.

Looking back, those gatherings shine brighter than ever. The cardboard-flavored snacks, the nervous cousin chats, the plane-spotting antics, and the quiet reverence as Dad read the Christmas story—they’re all pieces of a memory mosaic that feels like home.

Those Christmases weren’t just holidays; they were lessons in tradition, family, and the beauty of togetherness. And now, as I reflect, I see how they mirror something deeper, something ancient—traditions like Passover and Hanukkah that also weave stories of hope, faith, and God’s faithfulness through the generations.

At my great-grandmother’s party, we came together to remember the birth of Christ and to reconnect as family. Passover and Hanukkah do the same—drawing families to reflect on God’s provision and redemption. Whether it was Dad reading from Luke or the Israelites recounting the Exodus, the heart of it was the same: gathering to remember, to honor, and to hope.

And just like we’d huddle together to “spot” Santa in the night sky, those ancient traditions celebrate signs of deliverance and light—God’s presence breaking through darkness. They remind us that no matter how scattered we may feel, coming together for what truly matters anchors us in hope, love, and His promises.

So this season, whether it’s with store-bought snacks or sacred stories, let’s gather, remember, and celebrate the ties that bind us. After all, those ties—woven with faith, family, and a little holiday magic—are the real gift that keeps on giving.

Exodus 13:5-8 and 15:22-27 are bursting with themes of divine hospitality that tie beautifully into the holiday seasons of Passover, Christmas, and Hanukkah. These moments of God’s provision and guidance offer a deeper understanding of how we, too, can extend hospitality to others, rooted in memory, community, and transformation. Let’s dive in and explore the connections between these sacred stories and the holidays we celebrate today.

In Exodus 13:5-8, God promises the Israelites a land “flowing with milk and honey,” a lush and abundant home after their journey from slavery. This image isn’t just about survival—it’s about thriving, much like the joy we experience during Christmas feasts or Hanukkah celebrations.

The promise of milk and honey is a stark contrast to the unleavened bread and bitter herbs of the Passover meal, reminding the Israelites of their journey from scarcity to abundance. The birth of Christ echoes this promise. Jesus, the “Bread of Life” born in Bethlehem (the “House of Bread”), comes to bring spiritual abundance to a world in darkness. In the Hanukkah miracle of the oil lasting eight days is another testament to God’s provision. Just as the Israelites received daily manna in the wilderness, the oil symbolizes God’s sustaining power in times of need. God’s hospitality invites us to reflect on how we can create abundance in our own lives and homes—not necessarily with material wealth but with generosity, kindness, and warmth that bring others joy and comfort.

Rituals like eating unleavened bread, lighting menorahs, or retelling the Christmas story are vital to keeping traditions alive and fostering connection.

Eating unleavened bread during Passover connects the Israelites to their history, a communal reminder of their escape from Egypt. Lighting the menorah recalls the miracle of the oil and the rededication of the temple, symbolizing hope and faith in God’s provision. The lighting of candles and stringing of lights during Christmas reflects the arrival of Christ as the Light of the World, illuminating our lives with His grace. The Lighting of Christmas Lights also is an Irish tradition to show that there is room in our hearts for the new Christ child in our homes.

Each tradition emphasizes the importance of memory and teaching, passing down stories of God’s faithfulness to the next generation. Whether it’s through a shared meal or lighting candles together, these moments foster a sense of belonging and purpose, teaching us to see God’s hand in both the everyday and the extraordinary.

Exodus 15:22-27 recounts the Israelites encountering bitter water at Marah, only for God to transform it into sweet, drinkable water. This act of provision parallels the ways God brings light and hope through Hanukkah and Christmas. The menorah lights shining in the darkness of oppression mirror the transformation of bitterness into sweetness—a reminder of God’s power to turn despair into hope. Christ’s arrival is the ultimate act of sweetening life’s bitterness. He turns sorrow into joy, sin into redemption, and hopelessness into eternal promise.

Hospitality during the holidays reminds us to meet people where they are, offering grace and understanding. Whether it’s helping someone carry their burdens or simply sharing a meal, we can be instruments of God’s sweetness in a bitter world.

The unleavened bread of Passover, the oil of Hanukkah, and the Bread of Life born at Christmas all speak to God’s desire to nourish His people—body, mind, and spirit.

The unleavened bread reminds us to strip away distractions and focus on God’s provision. The oil that kept the menorah burning symbolizes the sustaining power of God’s presence in our lives. Jesus, the Bread of Life, offers spiritual nourishment that transcends physical needs, connecting us to God in a way no earthly meal can. As we celebrate these holidays, let’s embrace the deeper meaning of these symbols, sharing not just food but the spiritual sustenance of love, faith, and kindness.

From the blood of the Passover lamb to the miraculous light of Hanukkah and the birth of Christ, each story reveals God’s balance of justice and mercy. The lamb’s blood marked the Israelites for salvation, a precursor to Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. The rededication of the temple reflects God’s justice in restoring His people and His mercy in sustaining them. The birth of Christ marks God’s ultimate act of mercy, offering redemption to all who believe. This holiday season, let’s embody that justice and mercy by extending grace to others. Whether it’s forgiving a wrong, helping someone in need, or simply offering a kind word, our actions can reflect the heart of God.

Passover, Hanukkah, and Christmas each invite us into a story of radical hospitality—a call to open our homes, our hearts, and our lives to others. Host a meal that welcomes the lonely or marginalized. Share your light, both figuratively and literally, with those in darkness. Teach your children and others the stories of God’s faithfulness, weaving them into the fabric of your celebrations.

This holiday season, let’s take the lessons of these sacred stories to heart, creating spaces of warmth, generosity, and love. After all, the true essence of these holidays isn’t just in the rituals or traditions—it’s in the relationships we build and the love we share, reflecting God’s ultimate hospitality to us all.