Every December, the world puts on lights.
Cities glow. Stores sparkle. Homes become warmer—at least on the outside. We call it Christmas. We call it Navidad. We call it family. Tradition. Generosity. A season of love.
And still, a question keeps tapping me on the shoulder, persistent and slightly inconvenient:
What are we even celebrating?
Because “Navidad” literally points to birth. “Christmas” literally points to Christ’s Mass—a religious ritual. And yes, even as someone who believes in Jesus and loves what he represents, I can admit what most people already know: the date itself is symbolic, layered over older winter celebrations tied to the solstice and the return of light.
So maybe the question isn’t whether Jesus was born on a specific day.
Maybe the question is more personal, more ethical, and much harder to ignore:
What does it mean to celebrate the “birth of love” while continuing to build worlds that crush the vulnerable?
Jesus as love with backbone
If you strip away the sentimental packaging and look at the figure many people still feel drawn to, Jesus isn’t most powerful because he was “nice.”
He’s compelling because his love wasn’t submissive.
He didn’t reduce spirituality to performance. He didn’t worship status. He didn’t treat rules as more sacred than people. He didn’t reserve dignity for the “right kind” of human.
Whether you read him religiously or ethically, the pattern is clear:
he confronted hypocrisy, exploitation, and social hierarchy—and he did it from a place of radical compassion.
That’s a dangerous combination.
And it raises a question that makes many of us uncomfortable:
If Jesus showed up today, would he feel comfortable at our tables… or would he flip them?
Because the systems he challenged are still here. We’ve just renamed them.
The same systems, wearing new outfits
In his time, the “system” decided:
- who belonged and who didn’t
- who was “pure” and who was “unclean”
- which rules mattered more than human life
- whose suffering counted and whose suffering didn’t
Today, many of the same mechanisms operate—just with updated language:
- religious power becomes institutional power
- temple economy becomes industry
- purity codes become moral superiority, ideological policing, social punishment
- belonging becomes passports, “legal status,” class, productivity, and algorithmic visibility
And the most dangerous thing about these systems is not that they exist.
It’s that they feel normal.
We get used to them. We repeat them. We outsource our conscience to “how things are.”
I’m not writing this from a pedestal
I need to say something clearly: I’m not posting this as someone who has “arrived.”
I’ve caught the same impulse in myself that I critique in the world: the desire to punish when I feel hurt. The desire to “balance the scale” by making someone feel small—especially someone close to me, especially when I feel unseen.
I’ve also noticed how complex my compassion becomes when global conflicts touch identity, history, and safety. It’s easy to declare universal compassion in theory. It’s harder when your nervous system is activated, when you feel loyalty, when you fear what history could repeat.
I’m naming this because it matters:
The ‘system’ isn’t only out there. It also lives in us.
And in my experience, the beginning of transformation isn’t purity.
It’s honesty without self-hatred.
Why we don’t question (and why it’s not always shallow)
Let’s be fair: people don’t avoid thinking only because they’re ignorant.
Sometimes people avoid thinking because:
- they’re exhausted
- they can’t bear more grief
- their tradition is the only warmth they have left
- they fear being rejected by their community
- they feel powerless (“what can I even do?”)
- they don’t want to break the spell, because the spell is what helps them function
And still—avoidance has a cost.
Because if we never look, nothing changes.
And if we keep repeating rituals without transformation, we don’t honor the figure we claim to celebrate—we use him. The establishment always preferred a harmless Jesus: decorative, sentimental, and safe.
But the Jesus people still sing about?
He was not safe.
He was love that disrupted.
The return of the light
If this season is about “birth,” what is meant to be born in us?
If winter traditions are about the return of light, maybe the question isn’t theological. Maybe it’s existential.
Because light isn’t only cozy aesthetics.
Light is what reveals what we’d rather not see.
Light is what ends denial.
So here is the question I keep returning to:
What does the return of the light mean in your life—concretely—this week?
Not as a beautiful metaphor. As a practice you live.
Here are questions that don’t let you scroll away:
- Where in your life have you accepted something inhumane as “normal” because it’s easier?
- Which rules do you defend even when they harm real people?
- Who are the “less-than” people in your world—quietly, in your mind?
- What suffering have you trained yourself not to feel?
- Where do you confuse compassion with weakness, and hardness with strength?
- Who benefits from you staying distracted, tired, and numb?
- If your life truly reflected your values, what would change this week—in your calendar?
These are uncomfortable questions. But uncomfortable doesn’t mean wrong.
It often means alive.
Love without submission (the practice)
If I had to name the most transformative part of Jesus’ message (as I experience it), it would be this:
Love that refuses to abandon dignity.
That kind of love:
- doesn’t need to perform
- doesn’t need approval
- doesn’t need to “win”
- but also doesn’t tolerate dehumanization—inside you or outside you
And that means the work is not only political or “out there.”
It’s also here, in your daily life:
- how you speak when you’re scared
- what you tolerate to belong
- what you do when you feel unseen
- how you treat yourself when you’re imperfect
- the stories you choose because they protect you from discomfort
A tiny ritual (for people who hate fake rituals)
If you want something simple and real:
Return of the Light (2 minutes):
- Name one place you’ve been avoiding truth.
- Ask: What would love-with-backbone do here?
- Take one small action before the day ends.
A boundary. An apology. A message. A donation. A conversation. A refusal to participate in cruelty. A choice to stop dehumanizing—anyone, including yourself.
That’s it.
No performance.
Just birth.
So… what are we celebrating?
Maybe we’re not celebrating a date.
Maybe we’re celebrating the possibility that:
- something new can be born in us
- even in the darkest season
- even when we don’t feel ready
- even when the world is loud
- even when we are inconsistent
Not a perfect humanity.
An awakening humanity.
And yes—I still celebrate the light while I’m learning how to live it. I’m still widening my compassion. Still practicing love that doesn’t become submission. Still noticing where I confuse justice with punishment.
If that’s you too, you’re not alone.
Your turn:
What does “the return of the light” mean in your life—specifically, concretely—this week?
And what is your honest reason for not wanting to look too closely?
If this reflection resonated with you —
if you’re also questioning what we celebrate, what we normalize, and what wants to be born in you —
I’d love to continue the conversation while walking Amsterdam together.
I guide slow, thoughtful walks where history, the city, and inner layers meet.
Sometimes the light we’re looking for shows up between streets, stories, and silence.
You’re welcome to walk with me.
With love,
Constanza.