By John Kass | December 24, 2025

Dear Reader:

I’ve been writing this column for a long time now.  Our family thinks of it as a blessing. So do many of you. Some of you have been reading it along with the rest of us every Christmas Eve, for years. But there is one thing to understand.

It has never been the same column every year. It is new each time.

From year to year there are some minor changes, although the general form remains the same: it comes from the petitions of the Holy Greek Orthodox Liturgy. I do not reprint or cut and paste, but I write every word fresh so that the words are always green in my heart and spirit.

Most times columns can take hours, even days. This one originally took about 30 minutes. I know I had help. I could feel it, like an angel on my shoulder.

 Some years ago, the managing editor at the paper—a former Roman Catholic altar boy—wondered aloud that it sounded like a prayer. I smiled and said yes, it sounds that way to me, too.  

JK

For all the people who are hurting and broken. For those who feed the poor.

And for all the children who should be loved always, but especially on this night, with our arms wrapped around them and a long goodnight kiss on the temple, a kiss more precious than anything that could ever be wrapped in a box.

Kyrie Eliason, Kyrie Eliason, Kyrie Eliason.

For every parent standing quietly in the darkened doorways of the bedrooms—or remembering how they stood there once many years past–watching those small, sleeping shapes tucked in under the covers.

For every baby who isn’t loved enough and grows up with a hard crust around his heart because there was no one near to plant those kisses and give those hugs.

And for every couple who can’t have children and adopt a child to save a life.

For all the young women who have given their baby up for adoption, to save the life growing inside her. For all those who’ve donated funds so that the young women could see the ultrasound image of the life inside of them and save that life. For couples who tried, and couldn’t have children of their own but kept their faith in God and stayed together. For those who’ve lost their children. For all who’ve lost their moms and dads.

For the moms and dads who keep their family close and safe.

For that crazy uncle who’ll drink a bit too much tonight, and gives you a wink as he sneaks outside to put on the red suit in the driveway, laughing at himself out there alone in the cold before coming back in to surprise all the children. For that wise aunt who makes sure that the coffee is strong and black, to help the crazy uncle sober up.

For all those 100,000 or more young Americans who’ve been poisoned by fentanyl brought by the Mexican narco gangs. For the Christians slaughtered and taken captive in Nigeria. For all the grieving parents who were told again and again by politicians in Washington that the border was secure. For Bethany MaGee, that poor young young woman burned alive by the angry, demonic madman on the CTA train.

For the innocent child victims and young women victims of sex-traffickers who controlled the Southern border for years, A millstone waits patiently to be placed around the necks of those who hurt the “little ones” and have led them into sin. This is the time of mercy, but Jesus was clear about what he would do to those who hurt his little ones.

For all the people in every choir in the world. They’ve been practicing for weeks in cold, empty churches, so tonight is their night too. Their beautiful voices lift us with song, inviting us to humble ourselves as we ask for help in scraping away any bitterness that has grown like hard bark around our hearts.

For the Sunday-school teachers and church music directors forced to separate the angry lambs from the angry shepherds with their shepherd’s crooks in the church hallway, right before the church Christmas Pageant.

For all those friends who don’t wait for a special night to build a family. They show up unannounced to find you on some random afternoon in July, or a cool morning in November– with a coffee cake from your favorite bakery–dropping by just to make sure that you’re OK.

Tonight is for them, and tomorrow, too, because they are family, by the acts of family.

For all the young who are lonely and feel lost and don’t know why. For all those who are far away and can’t make it home this year. For those who are physically near, yet distant in so many other ways, believing that the bad choices they’ve made have locked the door against them.

Don’t be afraid because there is good news! Never be afraid.

Why?

Because tonight is the night when the lost lambs are found. Tonight is the night of new hope for the world.

And the door is always open.

Just reach for it and see.

For the good people who help others first. For the children who are hungry and for those who help feed them. For the selfish and the mean-spirited, too, as well as for the good and the kind. We’re all hurting somehow.

We’ve all been broken in some places, or we’ve come close to breaking. All of us.

The rabbi, the carpenter reminded us to love our neighbor.

For the shy ones who aren’t part of the ruling clique at work, but just don’t know how to put themselves forward and get themselves noticed. They’d rather not push themselves forward, especially if that meant pushing someone out of the way. They would not demand a spotlight.

But they would stun you with their commitment and talent if only given half a chance.

For every old man at the end of the bar tonight, nursing his drink, grateful to sit in a warm, clean, and well-lighted place where he can sip something warming and listen to the buzz of life going on around him. And for every old woman alone tonight, wide awake in her bed staring at the ceiling, remembering the laughter of children on nights just like this one, when there was so much work to do and a houseful of guests to feed.

For all our four-legged friends who just know it when you’ve received very bad news. They know what you need. They lean against your leg. They’re there.

One cold Christmas Eve it was warm in the house with people gathering, and to add to the cheer we made a large punch bowl of home-made eggnog with plenty of zest. We put that big punchbowl of boozed-up homemade eggnog out on the table on the deck, nestling it in the snow, to keep it cool.

And later, someone let the dog out, but his human didn’t know he was out there, and so the dog known to many as Zeus the Wonder Dog stuck his big stubborn head deep into the punch bowl to gulp down that spiked eggnog.

He lapped and lapped. Then he lapped some more.

When his human confronted him, Zeus slowly lifted his head out of the bowl, totally buzzed and somewhat surprised, the eggnog dripping from his now-sad face. He wagged the stub of his tail as if to say “Man, you’ve got to have some of this. It’s so darn tasty.”

It was a good thing dogs can’t drive because Zeus couldn’t walk a straight line.

And for everyone on the night shift tonight, and those who must work tomorrow, all the first responders—the paramedics, firefighters, and police–and the families and friends, especially their children, nieces and nephews waiting for them to come home safe.

And for that Chicago Paramedic Chief who thinks about the people under his command, and how they all dealt with the pain.

For all the kids cut down in the street gang wars in violent big cities, with politicians cynically bartering away the public’s safety in the pursuit of power and votes from those who do violence against the innocent.

For all the cops of these broken cities who can’t bear what the brutal politics have brought and so they internalize it and poison themselves and seek an exit. Please don’t. Please don’t go. Reach out, ask for help. There are priests to talk to, your colleagues. Remember that help is out there, and you are loved. And remember, the people need you and rely on you to protect them.

For everyone who waits for the call from the doctor and feels the flutter of dark wings.

For everyone in hospital tonight praying for dignity, relief from pain, and a peaceful end without shame or suffering.

For the families and friends who comfort them and mourn them. For their physicians who tend them.

For every nurse who enters a quiet room, pulls up a chair and listens to a quiet confession. For the physical, occupational and language therapists who never let me or their other patients quit on themselves.

For all the clergy who’ve struggled with their faith, yet who find it again and who are renewed.

For every sailor at sea standing watch tonight, staring out at cold black water, and remembering brightly lit rooms.

For the pilots bringing us safely home, staring into night skies.

For every member of the U.S. Armed Forces who protect us. And for those of the U.S. Foreign Service and the Intelligence Services who walk into the shadows alone to protect this great nation.

For the American republic, the last, best hope of liberty on earth. And for the American people, who never, ever quit.

We are Americans. And Americans find a way.

To all those whom I’ve hurt with thoughtless words, I apologize. Yes, it troubles me because I just can’t reconcile this political writer’s life that sets me to make hard judgements. I’m trying to balance all that against my Orthodox Christian faith and I fail and fail again.

Kyrie Elaison.

I worry that I’ll been blinded by zeal or by pride, locking the gates of heaven against me. Those of us in political life can see ourselves becoming like barking dogs we fear.

But it is by the love of Christ, prayer, and faith that we’re given the opportunity to unlock those gates around our hearts.

For every one of you who has joined me here in supporting this great new adventure. I am overwhelmed by your kindness and friendship. My family and I can’t ever thank you enough.

And for all those across the world who know what is most important on this special night:

It is that simple message brought to us by that perfect child born in the manger in Bethlehem so long ago.

He is the gift, the only gift. He came to light the world.

He is all about love.

May His love comfort you and remain.

From our family to you and yours. From my wife Betty and from our sons and their fiancés, with all our love.

Merry Christmas.

(Copyright 2025 John Kass)

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About the author: John Kass spent decades as a political writer and news columnist in Chicago working at a major metropolitan newspaper. He is co-host of The Chicago Way podcast. And he just loves his “No Chumbolone” hat, because johnkassnews.com is a “No Chumbolone” Zone where you can always get a cup of common sense.

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