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You’ve got the Christmas story wrong: Lee Strobel tells Glenn Beck the ONE Greek word that shatters our classic narrative
Back in 2005, “The Case for Christ” author and Christian apologist Lee Strobel published a book called “The Case for Christmas: A Journalist Investigates the Identity of the Child in the Manger.”
In September this year, 20 years after its original publication, Strobel released an updated version of his Christmas book to include the latest scholarship, research, archaeological findings, and scientific insights that have emerged since.
On this episode of “The Glenn Beck Program,” Glenn interviews Strobel about these fascinating new findings that change the way we read the Christmas story.
According to the most widely accepted narrative, Mary and Joseph came to Bethlehem for the census, arrived at an inn, but were turned away by the innkeeper for lack of space, forcing Mary to give birth to Jesus in a separate stable or barn among animals, where she laid him in a manger.
But Strobel says there’s one Greek word that changes this narrative entirely, and that word is “kataluma.”
In the ancient manuscripts of the gospel of Luke, “kataluma” is the word used to describe the place where Mary and Joseph were turned away, but it doesn’t mean inn, according to most scholars.
It actually translates to “guest room.”
A typical house in first-century Bethlehem, Strobel explains, had “one large room broken down into two parts.”
“The larger part was a living area — that’s where people would live, eat, sleep — and then there was a couple of steps down to a smaller area where the animals were brought at night,” he explains.
However, because animals were often seen as beloved pets, sometimes they were allowed to come up into the main living area. A manger (a feeding trough) was therefore a common item in both the upper and lower spaces of the house.
Wealthier families also had a “kataluma” — a guest room — in their homes, used for hosting traveling family and friends.
The original scriptures say that Mary and Joseph were turned away from the “kataluma” because it was occupied. This means that the couple likely didn’t seek shelter at an inn at all but rather at a relative’s home.
It makes sense that the “kataluma” would have been full at this time because of all the people traveling into Bethlehem for the census. Mary and Joseph, Strobel explains, were likely told by their relatives that they could just stay and birth the baby in the main living area.
“And yes, there is a manger there. And yes, some of the animals may have come up the stairs because of the commotion,” he says, reiterating that animals and mangers were common in a home’s main living space.
“There probably was no inn,” he concludes.
But an imprecise translation for “kataluma” isn’t the only evidence for this new narrative.
Strobel explains that Luke uses the word “kataluma” only one other time in the book, and it clearly refers to a separate room in a family home. But he uses a different word — “pandocheion” — to refer to a traditional inn in the parable of the Good Samaritan.
“If he wanted to use the word ‘inn,’ he would have used ‘pandocheion,’ but he didn’t. He used ‘kataluma,’” he says.
Further, “in first-century Jewish culture, the value of hospitality was so high that it would have been impossible for an innkeeper to turn away a pregnant Jewish woman,” Strobel tells Glenn.
“It would have destroyed his business. … And we don’t even know there were any inns in Bethlehem. It was a small town — 500 people. It wasn’t on a main crossroads. There may or may not have even been an inn there in the first place,” he adds.
The revelation that Jesus was most likely born in a home rather than in a dirty barn “changes everything,” Glenn says.
But there are even more details that the traditional Christmas story gets wrong about Jesus’ birth, according to Strobel.
According to the standard narrative, Mary is on the verge of giving birth when she and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem, but this urgency, Strobel says, comes from “a book of fiction that was written in 200 A.D.”
The scriptures only tell us “that while they were in Bethlehem, she gave birth. Doesn’t say they’re in Bethlehem five minutes or five days or five months,” he explains.
To hear more incredible revelations from Strobel’s investigations into the authentic Christmas story, watch the video above.
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The algorithm sells despair. Christmas tells the truth.
I recently did something that I usually avoid. I stayed up too late and wandered into the digital sewer we politely call “the conversation.” X, feeds, clips, comments, rage-bait. I knew it would not end well, but I kept scrolling anyway. By the time I finally shut it off, it was clear that the despair and resentment social media produces are not a bug — they are the feature.
The world you see online is a world stripped of context and proportion. Everything is framed as an emergency, everything demands outrage, nothing asks for wisdom. Human suffering is turned into ammunition, children are turned into slogans, and hatred is dressed up as moral clarity. If you sit with it long enough, you begin to feel foolish for believing in decency at all.
God is not dead. He is not asleep. And the story is not finished, no matter how much the algorithm wants you to believe otherwise.
It made me think of a poem I had not thought about for some time.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Christmas Bells” is often quoted for its opening lines about peace on earth and goodwill toward men. That is usually where people stop.
But Longfellow wrote the poem in the middle of the Civil War. His country was fractured, his own son a casualty of the fighting, and his wife killed in a tragic accident. The poem is an honest look into the mind of a man laid low.
In the early stanzas, Longfellow describes hearing church bells repeat the old promise of peace. Then reality intrudes, cannons thunder, violence drowns out the song. He writes that it felt “as if an earthquake rent the hearthstones of a continent.” That is what civil war feels like from the inside.
That line has stayed with me for a very long time.
We are not there yet, but the pressure is mounting. Anti-Semitism has returned openly, not whispered, but justified. The Jewish people — history’s most reliable early warning system — are being threatened again, and too many voices respond with silence, excuses, or applause. We swore we would never allow this again. Now it is happening all over the West.
At the same time, the world is edging toward wider conflict. Alliances are hardening, borders matter again. But this time, there is no obvious force capable of stabilizing the chaos. America is busy devouring itself. Europe is exhausted. The rest of the world is watching to see what happens next.
This is the part of the poem most people skip.
Longfellow does not rush to hope. He admits his despair. “There is no peace on earth,” he writes, “for hate is strong, and mocks the song.” Honesty is not weakness. Pretending everything is fine when it is not is how civilizations collapse quietly.
But the poem does not end there.
The final stanza matters because it follows despair instead of denying it. Longfellow writes:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
That is not cheap optimism promising a quick end to suffering. It is a conviction insisting that evil does not get the last word.
That distinction matters a lot right now.
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Hope is not pretending the algorithm is wrong. It is recognizing that what trends is rarely what endures. The quiet courage that holds families together, the decency that stops violence when no camera is present, the faith that steadies people when institutions fail — those things do not go viral, but they do prevail. History does not turn on outrage. It turns on character.
Every civilization that survives a moment like this does so because enough people refuse to surrender their moral bearings. They do not deny the danger or excuse the evil. They do not outsource conscience to crowds or machines. They decide, quietly and stubbornly, to let their lives reflect the fact that truth still matters.
Longfellow had not yet seen the end of the war when he wrote that poem. He wrote it because despair was real and hope was necessary anyway. The bells did not silence the cannons overnight. But they reminded him — and us — that order is not an illusion and truth is not negotiable.
God is not dead. He is not asleep. And the story is not finished, no matter how much the algorithm wants you to believe otherwise.
Why the ‘Christian’ Democrat is more dangerous than the loud one
The Democratic Party has been wandering the wilderness for years, somehow discovering new ways to alienate large portions of the country. And it still isn’t finished.
Rock bottom, it turns out, has a basement — and Texas has the keys.
Earlier this month, Rep. Jasmine Crockett (D), a congresswoman who treats every disagreement like a full-contact sport, announced her Senate bid. Waiting for her in March is state Rep. James Talarico (D), a former teacher and pastor-in-training with a very different style.
Neither is good news. But from a Christian perspective, one is far worse.
Crockett is impossible to miss. She’s volume without thought, performance without a functioning pause button. Trump derangement syndrome has long since replaced reason, and nuance never survived the encounter. She seems to measure success by how many people she can irritate before lunch. Her politics are blunt, her tone brittle, her intellectual range roughly comparable to a Roomba. You always know where she stands because she’s standing on the table, yelling.
Talarico, by contrast, operates on an entirely different frequency. He lowers his voice, quotes scripture, and speaks with the gentle cadence of a youth pastor wrapping up a weekend retreat just before the acoustic guitar comes out. He talks about compassion, dignity, and the moral duty to protect the vulnerable. He wants to heal divides, soothe tensions, and “bring people together.”
If Crockett feels like a bar fight, Talarico feels like “Kumbaya” by candlelight with everyone instructed to hold hands.
And that is precisely the problem.
Crockett’s politics are abrasive but obvious. She makes no effort to hide what she believes or where she wants to take the country. There is something almost refreshing about her lack of disguise. You may not like the message, but it’s unmistakable. She offends openly and moves on.
But Talarico offends in a very different manner. He has mastered the art of wrapping progressive politics in pastoral language. What he offers is standard Democratic doctrine: sexual ideology backed by law, borders treated as optional, and a growing state taking over matters once settled by family, church, and conscience.
RELATED: ‘Progressive Christian’ turns Bible into a Planned Parenthood parable — but truth fires back
Mark Felix/Bloomberg via Getty Images
Talarico insists that faith and today’s Democratic Party can walk hand in hand. Perhaps this was plausible once, back when Democrats still shared a basic moral grammar with the rest of the country. In the 1990s, disagreement existed, but reality was still shared. Marriage meant something fixed. Biological sex wasn’t up for debate. Free speech had limits, but truth still mattered. You could argue policy without arguing over whether biology or basic reality still mattered.
That world is gone.
The modern Democratic project is built on ideas fundamentally at odds with Christian teaching: the self treated as sovereign, identity treated as sacred, desire elevated to authority, and socialism presented as the only workable future.
Sin is renamed “harm.” Redemption is replaced with affirmation. Judgment is reserved only for those who dissent. Christianity, meanwhile, insists on restraint, repentance, and allegiance to something beyond the individual.
Talarico tries to solve this puzzle by watering down Christianity until it feels more like a mood than a creed. He does this because he has no other choice. In today’s Democratic Party, a Christian who speaks plainly about restraint and repentance simply cannot survive. He is summoned, sidelined, and eventually expelled. To remain welcome, faith must be dumbed down and rendered harmless.
So Talarico treats Christianity like a buffet. He keeps the language of love and mercy, the parts that flatter modern sensibilities, and quietly discards the parts that demand obedience, self-denial, or radical honesty.
This is not faith guiding politics but politics reshaping faith.
And that is where the charge sticks. This is not a good-faith disagreement or a sincere wrestling with belief but a distortion carried out for political survival. If Talarico spoke the full truth of Christianity as it has been taught for centuries, he would be politically homeless by morning. Rather than risk that, he trims the gospel until it fits the party line.
This is where the real danger lies. He speaks like a shepherd but votes like an activist, borrowing Christianity’s authority to push policies that weaken what faith seeks to strengthen — specifically the nuclear family and ordered community.
Crockett does her damage loudly, like a bull in a china shop. Talarico, on the other hand, is more woodworm than wrecking ball, smiling as he eats through the beams.
There’s something faintly comic about watching Democrats embrace Talarico. This is a party that spent decades treating Christianity like a vestigial organ, now swooning over a Sunday-school version of Pete Buttigieg.
But there’s nothing funny about what the Texan stands for.
Talarico offers a faith that never says “no,” never draws lines, and never makes anyone uncomfortable except those stubborn enough to insist that limits must be imposed. Love is endlessly elastic. Compassion is permanently undefined. Everything bends; nothing breaks — except, eventually, the foundation.
Crockett, for all her theatrics, doesn’t pretend to share a Christian worldview. Talarico does. He doesn’t attack Christian beliefs outright. Instead he sands them down, slowly, patiently, until they no longer support much of anything.
For Texans, come March, both options are bad. This isn’t a choice so much as a coordinated assault: one, a knee to the groin, the other, a roundhouse to the ribs. Crockett does her damage loudly, like a bull in a china shop. Talarico, on the other hand, is more woodworm than wrecking ball, smiling as he eats through the beams.
Neither deserves trust. But only one dresses his agenda in sacred language.
Texas Democrats may think they are choosing between bedlam and bland reassurance. Christians should recognize the choice for what it is: between open hostility and sneaky subversion, between a politics that attacks faith from the outside and one that reshapes it from within.
Both are bad. But only one pretends to be good. And that, from a Christian point of view, makes all the difference.
A caregiver’s Christmas
A Christmas or two ago, we arrived in Denver just after Thanksgiving for my wife’s long-awaited surgery — one of a series of complex procedures that could only be done at the teaching hospital there. The hospital was already dressed for the season, garlands hung and trees lit, but I barely noticed. All I could see was the next hurdle in a long medical journey.
After eight days in the ICU, Gracie was transferred to the neuro floor. I wanted her to feel something of Christmas, so I slipped out to a store and returned with a small tree, poinsettias, battery candles for the window, and stockings I hung by the nurses’ message board. A friend loaned me a keyboard, which I tucked into the corner. Music has steadied us through many storms, and I hoped it would do so again.
Christmas felt sharper there. Simpler. More honest. When life strips away what doesn’t matter, what does matter finally comes into view.
When the nurses wheeled her into that room, she entered a tiny Christmas world carved out of tile and fluorescent light. The cinnamon-scented broom was no match for the Montana pines behind our home, but it still brought a smile.
Gracie sometimes sang from her hospital bed as I played familiar carols. You’ll be relieved to know that when a staffer requested Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas,” I politely declined and stayed with the classics. Her song gets ample airplay as it is.
Learning the language of hospital life
I have been a caregiver for a long time. We have spent nearly every major holiday in a hospital, along with most minor ones — birthdays, anniversaries, and the days in between.
Hospitals, however harsh, have become familiar enough that they no longer disorient me. In the last three years alone, we spent nearly 11 months in that same Denver hospital over three difficult stretches. Over the decades, Gracie has been inpatient in 13 different hospitals. After that many years, you learn the rhythms, the noises, the hush, and the hidden grief of those hallways.
At night, before crossing the street to the extended-stay hotel where I lived during that long stretch, I often stopped at the grand piano in the massive lobby and played Christmas hymns. Patients and their families drifted nearby or stood quietly along the balcony with IV poles and wheelchairs. Their faces carried the loneliness, fear, and disbelief that appear when life tilts without warning. When I played “Silent Night,” you could see the change. Shoulders dropped. Eyes softened. A few wiped away tears.
We lived in Nashville for 35 years before moving to Montana, and the only time I felt a lump in my throat at that piano was when I played “Tennessee Christmas.” When I reached the line about Denver snow falling, it hit me harder than I expected. Being far from home — and yet exactly where we needed to be — settled heavily on me in that moment.
Spending Christmas Eve in a hospital is unlike any other day. For a few minutes that night, the music gave all of us a place to breathe. While I’ve grown somewhat used to that world, I could tell my impromptu audience had not. So I played for them.
Not home, but holy
Our youngest son flew in, and a close friend joined us for Christmas Eve. In that small room upstairs, we shared meals, prayed, and laughed through the kind of tears that form when joy and exhaustion sit side by side. It was not home, but it was holy.
On Christmas morning, we filled stockings, opened gifts, and played more music. To our surprise, that hospital Christmas became one of the most meaningful we’ve ever known. We have enjoyed plenty of postcard holidays in the Montana Rockies, with snowy woods and trees cut from behind our cabin. Yet none of those scenes compared to the quiet radiance of that hospital room.
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nathamag11 via iStock/Getty Images
Christmas felt sharper there. Simpler. More honest. When life strips away what doesn’t matter, what does matter finally comes into view.
God stepped into a harsh world, not a perfect one. The first Christmas came in conditions far cruder than ours, yet Heaven filled that stable. That is the story we remember every year: Emmanuel — God with us.
I thought of that as I looked up from the piano in the lobby, seeing the sadness on the faces around me and those watching from above. It brought to mind the crowds Jesus saw when Scripture says He was “moved with compassion” for the afflicted. Unlike me, He did not merely observe sorrow. He stepped into it. He came to bear it, redeem it, and ultimately remove it.
The light that still shines
That night reminded me that the holiness of Christmas is not found in perfect scenes but in God drawing near to people who are hurting. Being in a hospital on Christmas Eve was a fitting picture of how needy we truly are — and how miraculous it is that Christ entered our sorrow, suffering, and loneliness. Emmanuel means God with us, not in theory, but in the raw places where we feel most alone.
I left Denver with a truth I needed to keep close: Joy does not depend on scenery. Any place can become a sanctuary when Christ is worshipped — even a hospital room where monitors beep and nurses whisper through the night.
If you’re facing a season you never would have chosen, may this Christmas meet you with that same comfort. The promise of Emmanuel — God with us — has not changed.
“Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light; the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight,” Phillips Brooks wrote in 1868, steadying his people with the truth that Christ walks into dark streets as readily as bright ones.
Jelly Roll receives second chance, thanks to Tennessee governor’s Christmas season tradition
Tennessee Gov. Bill Lee (R) maintains an annual Christmas season tradition of granting clemency to select individuals, highlighting stories of redemption and second chances.
This year, Lee extended pardons to 33 individuals. The most notable beneficiary was country music star Jelly Roll, who was previously convicted of robbery and drug felonies.
‘His story is remarkable, and it’s a redemptive, powerful story, which is what you look for and what you hope for.’
“I am genuinely inspired by the broadness of the folks that are getting pardons today,” Lee said, the Tennessean reported.
The governor called his pardon power “a very serious responsibility.”
While federal pardons allow convicted individuals to avoid prison time, Tennessee pardons serve as a statement of forgiveness after time has been served. The AP reported that they offer a path to restoring certain civil rights, including voting rights. The governor may specify the terms of the pardon.
Jelly Roll, whose given name is Jason DeFord, stated during a January 2024 congressional hearing that his right to vote had been restricted due to his criminal past.
Jelly Roll. Photo by Georgiana Dallas/WWE via Getty Images
As part of the clemency process, applications undergo a months-long review, the Associated Press reported. The state parole board reportedly issued a unanimous, non-binding recommendation for Jelly Roll in April.
The music artist visited the governor’s mansion on Thursday to receive the news.
“His story is remarkable, and it’s a redemptive, powerful story, which is what you look for and what you hope for,” Lee stated.
Tennessee Governor Bill Lee. Tom Williams/CQ-Roll Call, Inc via Getty Images
Jelly Roll stated that the clemency would make it easier for him to travel internationally for his concert tours and Christian missionary work.
Earlier this month, while appearing on Joe Rogan’s podcast, Jelly Roll received word that he had been invited to become a member of the Grand Ole Opry.
“I didn’t even dream of it,” Jelly Roll told Rogan. “God will make things bigger than your dreams. Somebody out there right now is dreaming of something, and it’s too small. Dream bigger, baby.”
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Fact check: No — Jesus was not a refugee
There’s a narrative that circulates in progressive “Christian” circles every time Christmas rolls around: Jesus was born a refugee.
Not only does this take the focus from Jesus’ ultimate identity — the Son of God and savior of mankind — and channels it toward a destructive political agenda, but it’s also just false. Jesus was not a refugee by today’s standards.
On this episode of “Relatable,” Allie Beth Stuckey debunks this ridiculous argument that uses toxic empathy to push open borders.
“We can have a separate biblical defense of defending refugees and how many refugees we should accept and which refugees we should accept from what countries. That’s fine,” says Allie, “but the argument should not be based in the idea that Jesus Himself was a refugee. He was not a refugee in the same sense that we are defining refugees today.”
A refugee in the modern sense, she explains, is “someone who is leaving one country and going to another country to take refuge.”
But that doesn’t describe Mary and Joseph at all. They were simply obeying a Roman census decree that required them to travel inside the empire they already belonged to. This was an internal journey within the same province, not an international border-crossing or asylum-seeking flight comparable to modern refugees entering the United States.
Then after Jesus was born and Herod ordered the massacre of all boys under 2 in Bethlehem, the family — acting on an explicit divine command from God — fled to Egypt, which was also a Roman province at the time.
Mary and Joseph’s travels were never “a breaking of the law,” says Allie.
She reads from Matthew 2:13-15: “Now when they had departed, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Rise, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you, for Herod is about to search for the child and destroy him.’ And he rose and took the child and his mother by night and departed to Egypt and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I called my son.”’
It’s a “completely different scenario” than progressive “Christians” would like us to believe. Jesus’ family’s flight to Egypt was prophecy fulfillment, obedience to the Lord, and deliverance from a murderous tyrant. And it all happened “within the same empire,” meaning no laws were broken, Allie counters.
The progressive “Christian” argument that anyone who doesn’t support refugees — which today means anyone “who wants to come here from a poorer country” — is somehow against Jesus because He was a refugee is just pure manipulation, she says. It employs “toxic empathy” to get well-intentioned Christians to denounce “enforcement of sovereignty and borders,” both of which are biblical.
“You understand that God created laws and governments and borders and sovereignty for our good, for our protection?” Allie asks.
But there’s another part of the Christmas story progressives conveniently forget: Jesus and His family went home. After Herod died, God told Joseph to “take the child and his mother and go to the land of Israel” (Matthew 2:20), but because Herod’s son, another brutal tyrant, was on the throne, they returned to Nazareth, where it all began.
That’s the opposite story of the modern refugee experience, where people often never return home because they can’t or just won’t.
What progressive “Christians” are doing, Allie explains, is reading the Christmas story through a modern, politicized lens. Their version is not only historically inaccurate, it exchanges the “good news of great joy” for a manipulative political strategy that cons people into supporting open borders.
They’re “not getting more into the heart of Jesus and more into the reason for Christmas,” she says. “[They] are instead trying to extract meaning out of the Christmas story in order to accomplish [their] political ends, and in so doing, are very distracted from what it really means.”
To hear more of Allie’s argument, watch the episode above.
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‘F you’: Departing DC police chief invokes Bible in performative, preacher-like rebuke to critics amid crime stat scandal
Departing Metropolitan Police Chief Pamela Smith had a final message for her critics amid an ongoing investigation into allegations that the department manipulated its data to make crime appear lower in Washington, D.C.
The House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform released an interim report earlier this week on its investigation into the MPD. The report claimed that department leadership pressured and instructed commanders to downgrade crime classifications to lesser offenses, including those not included in the daily crime report available to the public. Smith was accused of propagating a “culture of fear, intimidation, threats, and retaliation.”
‘This person should’ve NEVER been in ANY position of power.’
The MPD hosted a Friday walkout ceremony for Smith after her resignation announcement last week. Her resignation is effective December 31.
During the ceremony, Smith denied the allegations against her, insisting that she “never will and never would have encouraged, intimidated, retaliated, or told anyone to change their numbers.”
“I hope you can understand this from a spiritual context because the theme of what has resonated in this place is one thing, and that’s God,” Smith said.
She claimed that “some folks” mistook her “passion for being the angry black woman.”
RELATED: DC police chief manipulated crime stats to make city look better, report claims
Pamela Smith. Photo by Kevin Dietsch/Getty Images
“My passion is because I love this work. I love God’s people, but I dare not leave without saying something to my haters,” she continued.
Smith was taking on a preacher-like persona by this point, and she raised her gravelly toned voice and offered dramatic pauses as she listed to the crowd all the church-related activities she took part in over the years before declaring “there’s enough Jesus in me that’s gonna get me to heaven if I die tomorrow!”
Then she dropped an F bomb — kinda.
“I’m going to the Bible when I say this to my haters: F you,” Smith declared before issuing another dramatic pause to the crowd, which seemed a bit taken aback.
“I forgive you,” she said soon after. “I forgive you because the Bible makes it very clear. When Jesus was hanging on the cross, when he said to us, ‘Father’ — even in the pit of agony and defeat, he said, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.’ God bless you, and God keep you.”
RELATED: Whistleblower alleges widespread manipulation of DC crime stats, fueling Oversight Committee probe
Smith also called for an investigation into those who accused her of directing police staff to manipulate crime statistics.
Her departing speech was likened to a screaming meltdown.
“WTF?! DC’s DEI police chief Pamela Smith just had a SCREAMING MELTDOWN while giving her resignation speech, after she was caught fudging crime stats,” independent journalist Nick Sortor wrote in a post on social media. “This person should’ve NEVER been in ANY position of power. Especially in the nation’s capital.”
President Donald Trump has repeatedly criticized D.C.’s Democratic leadership for the district’s crime wave. He previously threatened a potential federal takeover if leadership failed to address the crisis successfully — and Trump did just that when he federalized D.C. police in August.
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President Donald Trump. Photo by Andrew Harnik/Getty Images
Former Police Commander Michael Pulliam was suspended in July after he was accused of participating in the alleged data manipulation.
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