Merry MAGA | Hunter S. Tomcat

There’s a strange seasonal pageant that plays out every December: millions of self-described Christians clutching their manger scenes like holy security blankets, swooning over the Greatest Story Ever Told. They adore the baby in the manger. They exalt the cross. They polish the bookends of the story — but the teachings in between, the mercy, the justice, the inconvenient “love thy neighbor” clauses? Those get treated like a software update they’ll install “later.”

The Nativity is a political satire hiding in plain sight. Christianity begins not with dominance but with danger — a family dodging a violent ruler, crossing borders without papers, praying for a place to sleep. Mary wasn’t “seeking opportunity”; she was running from a tyrant with her infant on the line. Joseph wasn’t a proud provider; he was a man terrified he couldn’t keep his family alive. And Jesus? He wasn’t some proto-patriot mascot. He was exactly the kind of child ICE would’ve separated without losing a moment’s sleep.

Yet the very movement that venerates this refugee child all December spends the other eleven months making sure anyone like him never gets within fifty miles of safety. They kneel before a plastic Nativity, then stand up to demand razor wire. They mourn the holy family turned away at every inn, then write legislation ensuring Mary never even gets to the door.

This is the moral absurdity of our moment: a movement that worships a child fleeing danger while punishing anyone who flees danger. A movement that claims the teachings of Jesus — provided you ignore the teachings.

If the Nativity means anything — anything at all — it’s that empathy is the price of admission. You honor Jesus not by defending some mythic civilization, but by refusing to abandon the very people His story began with.