What Am I Going to Do With Yule?
It seems like every December, I hear someone whisper like they’ve uncovered a scandal: “Did you know some Christmas traditions came from Yule?”
They say it like they’re warning me not to eat convenience-store sushi.
But the truth is a little less dramatic and a whole lot more beautiful.
Yuletide wasn’t a rival gospel — it was a midwinter reach for light. And God has never been threatened by people reaching for light. He just knows that He can offer them the only perfect and pure light.
So, the question this season isn’t, “Should I panic about old traditions?”
The better question — the one that stirs the heart and steadies the hands — is: What am I going to do with Yule? What will I do with this season, these symbols, these longings that once pointed at winter and now bow to a Savior?
And sure — the word Yuletide does come from an old midwinter festival practiced by the Germanic and Norse peoples long before anybody ever sang “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” But here’s the thing:
Knowing where something came from isn’t the same as knowing what God can do with it.
Yule was a celebration of the longest night, marking the return of light. Fires. Feasts. Evergreen branches. People huddled together against the cold, hoping for warmth and the promise of a brighter season. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it? Human hearts haven’t changed much. We’re all still looking for light in the long nights.
When the gospel spread north, early believers didn’t burn every old symbol to the ground. They didn’t declare war on trees and feasts and fires. Instead, they did what redeemed hearts tend to do — they aimed those things toward Jesus.
They re-tuned the season so the old longing for light found its fulfillment in the Light of the World.
They didn’t have to throw the baby out with the bathwater… because, given enough time, that baby grows up, stands up, and tosses out His own dirty water.
That’s the genius of the gospel: God doesn’t just delete cultures — He redeems them. He doesn’t demand we scrub everything down to bare concrete. Instead, He takes what was reaching for hope and becomes the object of that reach.
And that’s where the angel’s words in Luke 2 penetrate the room like warm sunrays through a frosted window:
“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you; He is the Messiah, the Lord.”
— Luke 2:10–11
Great joy.
All people.
A Savior.
Born to you.
God didn’t send a messenger into the darkness; He was the message. The angels didn’t announce an upgrade to the winter solstice; they announced a Person — the Messiah who doesn’t just shorten the night but shatters it.
So, what does that have to do with Yule? Everything and nothing.
It has to do with nothing, because our hope doesn’t come from ancient festivals, evergreen branches, or nostalgic traditions. It comes from a Savior laid in straw, not mythology blanketed with snow.
It has to do with everything, because God loves to take human habits — even imperfect ones — and repurpose them toward His glory. He turns symbols into signposts, traditions into testimonies, and everyday winter moments into holy reminders.
That means you don’t have to panic about your Christmas tree or your wreath or your cinnamon-spiced anything. If it doesn’t bow to a false god and it doesn’t drag your heart away from Jesus, it may simply be a memory that’s learned to kneel — a tradition warmed by the fire of truth. When it melts into the message of Christ, it becomes part of what the angels meant that night: “great joy for all people.”
So, this season, instead of worrying about what others think your traditions might mean, ask a better question:
What am I going to do with all of this? How will I point it — and myself — toward Jesus? Maybe your wreath becomes a reminder of unending grace. Maybe your candles whisper that light always wins. Maybe your Christmas tree — rooted, reaching, resilient — tells the story of a God who reached out from the tree of life to rescue us.
You don’t have to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Just make sure the Baby in the manger grows larger in your heart than anything else in the room.
And as He does, He’ll do what He always does: