The Theology of Tinsel
Why We Struggle to Move On
Every January, I find myself standing in front of the Christmas tree like it’s a beloved houseguest who has overstayed their welcome. I know it’s time. The needles know it’s time. Even the cats, who have spent a month treating the tree skirt like a personal chaise lounge, knows it’s time.
Yet I hesitate.
There’s something strangely emotional about packing away the sparkle. In my most recent years, the fake tree adds to the packing where the real tree would have been an act of disposal in the nearby woods. The act of packing it away feels like closing the cover on a chapter I wasn’t quite finished reading. The lights go back in their box, the ornaments return to their tissue paper cocoons, and suddenly the living room looks a little too honest. No twinkle to soften the edges. No excuse for hot chocolate at 3 p.m.
I used to think this hesitation was laziness. Now I think it’s something closer to grief. Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet ache of transition. The kind you only notice when the house gets still.
Tinsel is a funny thing. It’s cheap, it sheds everywhere, and it somehow manages to look both magical and slightly chaotic. But it represents something we don’t get enough of during the rest of the year: permission to delight. Permission to be a little extra. Permission to believe that ordinary things can shimmer if the light hits them right.
So when we pack it away, we’re not just cleaning up. We’re letting go of a season that gave us a socially acceptable reason to slow down, gather close, and remember what matters. Even if what mattered in the moment was simply watching a kid lose their mind over a stocking stuffer.
The real challenge isn’t taking the tree down. (Unless it’s real, you don’t live near the woods, don’t have a truck, and no one picks up). It’s figuring out how to carry that sense of wonder into the weeks that follow. January doesn’t hand out magic the way December does. You have to look for it, to choose it. You have to create it in small, almost invisible ways.
A warm light in the early morning. A conversation that lingers. A moment of gratitude that sneaks up on you while you’re unloading the dishwasher.
Maybe the theology of tinsel is this: wonder was never meant to stay in a box until next year. It was meant to follow us into the ordinary. It was meant to be practiced, not stored.
So yes, take the tree down. Sweep up the glitter that will somehow still appear in July. But don’t mistake the end of a season for the end of its gifts.
The sparkle was never in the tinsel. It was in the noticing.
And that part doesn’t have to go anywhere.
Note: This year my wife has taken down the Christmas tree and I feel compelled for the continuation of my own existence and happiness to both clarify, recognize and thank her for that effort here. Thank you, Mara.
As You Find Me (AYFM) is where Brad Hachez - a visionary neurodivergent creator - explores tech, faith, health, & life. Join the journey to streamline productivity, deepen relationships, & reflect on purpose with resilience, presence, and servant-hearted growth.