I’ve always told people this—and I’ll keep telling it until somebody takes my peppermint tea away:

Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa do not cancel each other out.
They don’t compete.
They don’t substitute.
They don’t need a theological cage match.
They simply tell different parts of the human story.

Christmas celebrates His birth—God choosing skin and breath and inconvenience

Hanukkah reminds us of tradition, remembrance, and light that refused to go out, even when logic said it should.

Kwanzaa lifts up principles that look suspiciously Christ-like—unity, purpose, responsibility, faith lived out loud.

Different languages.
Same longing for light.

In Hanukkah, there is a center candle called the shamash—the servant candle.
It’s set apart.
It’s lit first.
And it doesn’t shine for itself.
Its whole purpose is to light all the others.

That image has always stayed with me. Because in Christianity, that’s Jesus.
He didn’t arrive demanding attention.
He didn’t come to be admired from a distance.
He came to serve, to ignite, to give light away—even when it cost Him everything.
Jesus is the Servant Candle.
Lifted up not for status, but for sacrifice.
Set apart not for glory, but for love.

Kwanzaa, too, places a center candle—the black candle—knowing who the people are, grounding everything else in identity and purpose. Not a servant candle, but a reminder that light means little if you forget who you are while holding it.

Different meanings.
Same truth: light is meant to be shared.

This conviction was born years ago when a young friend looked at me like I’d grown a second head because I knew what the symbols on a dreidel meant. He had just given it to me—a gift from a Jewish friend—and suddenly panic set in.
“Is that… disrespectful to your Christian beliefs?”

I smiled. Because fear usually shows up when faith hasn’t been fully introduced to trust yet.
Accepting that gift didn’t weaken my faith.
It revealed it.

Jesus never seemed nervous around other people’s traditions.
He showed up where He was invited.
He honored faith wherever He found it.
He let light come from unexpected places.

And if I’m honest—any faith that collapses because it encountered someone else’s story probably needed better roots.

This is the Scripture I come back to when the debates get loud and the lines get drawn too tight:
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
— John 1:5
Notice it doesn’t say whose darkness.
Or which calendar.
Or what kind of candle.
It just says light still works.

And if a tradition, a candle, or a principle reminds us to live more faithfully, love more generously, or serve more humbly—then maybe the question isn’t “Is this disrespectful?:
Maybe the better question is:
“Did the light reach you?

Because when it does, you don’t argue about the source.
You’re just grateful you can see.

Love Chelle