The Lie Called Chestnut

Please Roast Them

Let me tell you who lied to us…. Nat “King” Cole

He sang,

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

Yuletide carols being sung by a choir,

And folks dressed up like Eskimos.”

Those choice lyrics painted a picture for me of people all vibing together in Christmas-time splendor. I’d join them wearing my most fetching cold-weather outfit, enjoying roasted nuts while the sound of a beautiful choir filled the air, causing warm feelings to bubble over in each of our hearts.

Lies.

Let me tell you the truth about chestnuts.

Last year, I spent part of the Christmas season in Italy on a trip with other scholars. And let me tell you—scholars are going to scholar. After a long day of observing, searching for, and recording the things we were studying, I looked at my friend and roommate on the trip, Shena, and said, “I just need to chill and not think for a while.”

So we decided to walk back to the monastery where we were staying in Rome, instead of riding the bus back. We decided we would vibe with the Italians. Like really vibe. Walk through the markets. People-watch. Be one with the people.

While walking through one of these markets, we saw chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I’m not sure who said it first, but we decided to buy some because:

1. Nat “King” Cole—basically Father Christmas himself—wrote about these fire-roasted nuts.

2. We were one with the Italians.

The vendor offered us the small size, and I said, “No sir, we will take the large one, because we are vibing.”

I paid the eight euros, and we walked on, each popping a roasted chestnut into our mouths, fully prepared to absolutely fall in love with this Christmas icon.

Lies.

We’re walking along, delighted with how deeply immersed we are in Roman life, when suddenly the nut I’m chewing turns into sand. My mouth and tongue are saying, hey, dumbass, you are choking, while my brain is saying, shut up, you dumb American mouth and tongue! Stop being basic.

Then my lungs chime in: hey y’all, we’re going to need some air pretty quickly here.

This is when Shena saves our lives because her internal dialogue is much more aware than mine.

Remember—we’re vibing with the people of Rome. And the people of Rome have places to be. They walk quickly and will absolutely walk over you if you stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

Shena spots a six-inch-wide stoop and yanks me onto it. She yells, “Get my water bottle out of my bag, and I’ll get yours. Water. Now.”

By this point, the sand had turned into a thick, muddy paste. I’m pretty sure it took two gallons of water to dilute it enough to make it down my violently protesting throat.

Gasping, we looked at each other in utter disbelief. How could the world be so wrong about chestnuts? How could Nat “King” Cole lie to us like that? Like, are chestnuts a joke that everyone is in on but us?

We regrouped, rejoined the moving throng, and I lobbed that eight-euro sand trap into the first trash can I saw.

Now listen—if you love a nut that turns into sand, great. I can 100% recommend chestnuts. I don’t understand you, but I will pray for you because you will most likely choke at some point.

As for me and my house, we will not be believing the chestnut lies anymore. The only chestnut allowed in my home is my favorite hair color highlight.

I tell you this story to remind myself, and to make you aware that we believe a lot of things that are sold to us, especially at Christmas.

I used to believe my Christmas family gatherings needed to look like a nostalgic holiday movie. I worked so hard to manufacture magical memories. I drew up schedules to enjoy hot cocoa and sing carols. I set an alarm on my phone to move Elf on the Shelf every night. I even matched my wrapping paper to my Christmas tree decorations—something I am sure Jesus deeply cares about.

My family started referring to my Christmas gatherings as Sarah’s F-ing Christmas, because by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, I was in such a frazzle that I yelled the F-word about everything.

It was… joyous.

Lies.

I pray you don’t feel trapped by nostalgia like I was.

Also, Elf on the Shelf should come with a warning label that reads:

You have no idea the pressure this dumb elf will put on your life. Good luck with the lifelong trauma your child will carry if you forget to move it at night. Also, your neighbor—who is wildly creative—will have their elf skiing down a toilet-paper mountain. Your kids will discover how fun their elf is and what a deadbeat yours is. And the disappointment in their faces will haunt you forever.

My point is this:
I’ve lived through every Christmas posture.
– Christmas without God, driven purely by marketing.
– Christmas with God, where everything had to be only about Jesus and don’t you dare mention Santa.
– And now, trying to live somewhere honest in the middle.

The pressure of it all, plus the church hurt previously documented on my Substack, ruined Christmas for my family and me.

So here we are: just the four of us in Colorado. I’m sitting in the cutest little coffee shop you’ve ever seen. Earlier today, while walking out of our cabin, I said to my kids—ages 18 and 21—“Y’all better put that Lego tree together, or we won’t have a tree this year.”

The grunting responses suggest we may, in fact, have no tree.

If you have little kids, you can’t get where I am yet. I’m pretty sure CPS gets involved if you don’t participate in full-scale Yuletide engagement.

This last semester I came across something N. T. Wright has said many times in his teaching. He writes:

“Take Christmas away, and in biblical terms you lose two chapters at the front of Matthew and Luke—nothing else. Take Easter away, and you don’t have a New Testament; you don’t have Christianity; as Paul says, you are still in your sins.”
—N. T. Wright, paraphrased from public lectures and interviews (cf. Surprised by Hope)

That’ll make you think, won’t it?

Why does Christmas carry so much emotional, cultural, and spiritual pressure, while Easter feels like, oh good, I can wear my white shoes again?

How did Christmas become if you’re not gathered with everyone singing carols, your life is a failure, while Easter became pass the Cadbury eggs?

I don’t have a neat answer. But I can invite you into the same truth-finding mission I’m on.

Look for the lies—like chestnuts—and toss them in the trash.

At its heart, the beauty of the manger story is this: when we needed saving from the horrors of the world, our Savior did not arrive as a warring king adding to the violence. He came in humility, as a baby, born to be our King.

We continue to observe Advent—what most of us just call Christmas—because although our King inaugurated his reign on the cross, creation still waits for its full restoration. As subjects of that King, we wait too. In Advent, we give thanks that Jesus reigns, we lament the brokenness all around us, and we long for his presence to make all things new.

I may be sitting in front of a half-assembled Lego tree this Christmas. Some might call that blasphemous. I call it paying attention—refusing to assume that something is good and holy simply because I’ve been told it is. That is how people end up clinging to life on a six-inch stoop, hoping the water will flush the sand out. Decidedly not the vibe.