Living Between Bethlehem and the North Pole: Navigating Two Worlds at Christmastime Without Losing My Mind (or My Manger Pieces)

 

Every year, as December rolls around, I discover that I am living in two very different Christmas worlds. It’s not subtle. It’s not quiet. It’s not something you ease into like a warm mug of cocoa. No, this is more like being pulled in two directions by shepherds and elves at the same time.

On one side, I have my beloved, deeply Catholic colleagues. These dear souls, true Advent gladiators, have the spiritual discipline of monks and the liturgical precision of Swiss watchmakers. They remind me that Advent is a sacred season of waiting. A time for quiet reflection, intentional prayer, and an empty manger that stays empty until the clock strikes Christmas Eve.

On the other hand? The world I live in. The world where the first Christmas tree goes up at Target before Halloween candy has even been marked down. The world where radio stations switch to “All Christmas All the Time” before Thanksgiving dinner is served. In a world where Santa appears in malls, parades, grocery stores, and children’s dreams with the persistence of glitter, once he shows up, he’s everywhere.

And then there’s me. Standing in the middle and trying not to step on the Baby Jesus.
Trying not to offend the Santa crowd and trying to survive the whole thing with a shred of dignity. Now, let me be very clear: I am not omitting the Baby Jesus. I am not rewriting salvation history. I am not starting a theological rebellion in the school hallways. I place the baby in the manger, sometimes before December 24. And you would think this tiny porcelain infant nestled in a bed of hay was a liturgical crime.

One year, I casually set up the nativity at home while Christmas music played. I placed Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, the stable animals, and yes, the baby. A while later, a well-meaning Catholic friend visited. She walked in, saw the nativity, froze, and whispered, as if I were holding contraband, The baby Jesus doesn’t go in yet.” You know the tone someone uses when they see a toddler holding scissors? It was that tone.

Meanwhile, in the Other World, while one world polices my manger timeline, the other side is asking entirely different questions: “Do you have Santa pictures yet?” “Are you done shopping?” “When are you putting up your tree?”
I can’t win.

If I stay Advent-focused, the secular side thinks I’m a joyless monk. If I lean into lights and Santa décor, the religious side thinks I’m spiritually distracted. And if I try to do both? Well, then everyone has something to say.

So, here’s the truth: I love both worlds. I love the quiet, reverent, candle-lit waiting of Advent. I love the twinkling, glittering, hot-chocolate-fueled chaos of Christmastime. I love the ancient prophecy of Isaiah. I love the smell of a Christmas tree (even if mine plugs into the wall). I love O Come, O Come Emmanuel. I love Bing Crosby.

I can hold both. My heart has room for Bethlehem and the North Pole. I think most people do, too; they don’t always admit it.

One of my favorite contradictions is Bing & Bowie. If anyone doubts that these two worlds can coexist, I always point them to my favorite Christmas song of all time: the Bing Crosby–David Bowie duet of The Little Drummer Boy / Peace on Earth. I mean, come on, if those two could pull it off, surely the rest of us can. On paper, it shouldn’t work: a crooner from the golden age of Hollywood standing in a living room singing next to glam-rock royalty? One singing a traditional, spiritually soaked carol, the other layering in a brand-new, secular plea for peace? And yet somehow, the whole thing becomes this oddly perfect harmony; two styles, two worlds, two traditions blending into something timeless. The sacred and the secular didn’t cancel each other out; they created a classic that still gives me goosebumps every single year. If Bing and Bowie taught us anything, it’s that Christmas has always had room for more than one voice.

One more contradiction. Every year, I faithfully remind students: Advent is a season of preparation. You know, the ol' Jesus is the reason for the season. Then I go home, put on something cerebral, like The Grinch, pour some spiked eggnog into a Clarke Griswald reindeer mug, and stare lovingly at the Christmas tree that has been up long enough to qualify for residency.

Somewhere, a liturgical purist feels a disturbance in the force. The Season Is Big Enough for Both Worlds. Maybe we don’t have to choose. Perhaps the quiet mystery of the Incarnation and the childlike wonder of Santa aren’t competing in a zero-sum match. Maybe it’s okay that my heart leaps at the Savior’s birth and smiles when someone rings a Salvation Army bell in a Santa hat.

The whole season, the sacred and the secular, has always been about preparing room. Room for Hope. Room for Joy. Room for Mystery. Room for Laughter. Room for that strange tension of living in two worlds at once.

So, this year, I’m embracing it all. The Advent wreath and the Christmas lights.
The empty manger and the decorative tree. The solemn waiting and the sugary cookies.
The prayerful hush and the reindeer chaos.

Because I don’t believe the world needs less joy. I don’t think the world needs less beauty. And I certainly don’t feel a jolly man in a red suit threatens Jesus.

I’m choosing to live somewhere between Bethlehem and the North Pole, where the heart is big enough to hold both the miracle and the magic.