Is It Haram To Celebrate Christmas

'Eloise at Christmastime' captures the essence of Christmas through the eyes of its mischievous yet endearing protagonist, Eloise, who turns the Plaza Hotel into her personal winter wonderland. The story thrives on her boundless energy as she orchestrates holiday chaos—decorating every corner with tinsel, sneaking into kitchen feasts, and charming guests with her uncontainable enthusiasm. The hotel staff humors her antics, creating a warm, familial atmosphere despite the grandeur of the setting. Eloise’s childlike wonder mirrors the magic of the season, where even the smallest acts—like wrapping absurdly large presents—become celebrations of joy. Beyond the whimsy, the book highlights quieter traditions. Eloise observes carolers in the lobby, eavesdrops on hushed holiday plans, and even stages her own ‘very merry’ plays. The illustrations amplify the festive vibe, with snowy Central Park scenes and twinkling chandeliers draped in garlands. What stands out is how Eloise’s unstructured revelry contrasts with the hotel’s polished elegance, reminding readers that Christmas isn’t about perfection but spontaneity and heart.

I've thought a lot about whether playing the lottery can be considered haram. From my perspective, it leans toward being unacceptable. The sheer element of chance and the encouragement of gambling can detract from the value of hard work and ethics in many cultures. When I see people putting their hopes solely on random numbers, it makes me wonder about the potential consequences. There's a beauty in striving for your goals through effort rather than waiting for luck to strike. It can also perpetuate financial issues for some. Overall, I think it's best to approach such activities with caution and mindfulness of their implications.

A haram relationship refers to a romantic or physical relationship that goes against Islamic teachings. It involves actions or behaviors that are considered sinful or forbidden in Islam, such as premarital intimacy or relationships outside of marriage. Such relationships can lead to moral and spiritual conflicts for individuals who follow Islamic principles.

When it's Christmas, I go all out with the decorations and feel festive! The lights, the tree, and a killer playlist of holiday classics get me in the spirit. I love to watch 'Home Alone' on repeat. It brings back those childhood vibes, and the humor never gets old. Baking gingerbread cookies is a must too, the smell alone fills the house with warmth and happiness. Everyone gathers around for hot cocoa, and it just feels like a cozy wonderland. It's the little moments that truly make this season special.

As someone who spends most of their free time buried in books, I absolutely adore novels that celebrate the magic of reading itself. 'The Shadow of the Wind' by Carlos Ruiz Zafón is a masterpiece—it’s a love letter to literature, set in a mysterious library where books have souls. The way it weaves together mystery, romance, and bookish passion is unforgettable. Another favorite is 'The Book Thief' by Markus Zusak, narrated by Death, which beautifully captures how words can be both a refuge and a weapon during the darkest times. For a lighter but equally heartfelt read, 'Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore' by Robin Sloan is a quirky adventure about secret societies and the timeless allure of books. And if you’re into historical fiction, 'The Invisible Library' by Genevieve Cogman blends fantasy and bibliophilia, featuring a librarian who collects rare books from alternate realities. Each of these novels reminds me why falling in love with stories is one of life’s greatest joys.

Storms feel like party invitations in some places — seriously. I’ve followed celebrations for thunder deities across different cultures and it’s wild how alive those rituals are today. In West Africa and the diaspora, the goddess who governs storms and change shows up in big, loud ceremonies. I once watched a Candomblé ritual in a documentary where the drumming pulsed like distant thunder; people offered food, cloth, and danced until someone was said to be ‘ridden’ by the deity. Those ceremonies are community-shaped: offerings, rhythmic music, and storytelling keep the goddess present in everyday life, and modern practitioners add contemporary songs or saint imagery to connect old myth with new worlds. In East Asia the frame is different but the energy’s similar. Shrines and gates with thunder motifs — like the famous Kaminarimon at Senso-ji — still draw crowds during festivals and storms, and people visit to pray for protection from lightning and for safe crops. Meanwhile in Europe and the Baltic region there’s been a revival of folk practices: seasonal festivals, reconstructed rites, and craft fairs that celebrate storm-myth motifs. Some evenings I’ve gone to tiny folk concerts where musicians rework old thunder chants into modern folk-rock anthems; you can feel a lineage linking a raw weather myth to today’s playlist. What fascinates me is how flexible the goddess figure becomes. In contemporary neopagan circles she’s often reclaimed as a symbol of feminine power — thanks in part to pop culture flips like the version of 'Thor' where thunder is held by a woman. People show up at parks or online altar-building meetups with candles, rainwater, handmade lightning charms, and playlists. It’s equal parts ritual, folk memory, and creative reinterpretation — and that blend keeps the thunder goddess loud and current in ways that feel both ancient and surprisingly modern to me.

I get a kick out of how ritual calendars mix history and the living rhythms of a community, and Caodaism is a great example. From what I’ve seen and from conversations with people who visit Tây Ninh and local Caodaist temples, the big festivals aren’t rigidly fixed to the Western calendar — most follow the Vietnamese lunar calendar or commemorate key historical events from the religion’s founding in the 1920s. So, if you’re asking when Caodaiists mark their major festivals each year, the short beat is: major days fall around the lunar New Year (Tết), anniversaries connected to the religion’s foundation and the Holy See, and a handful of saintly or divine anniversaries determined by the lunar dates associated with revelations or temple consecrations. I like to think of Caodaism’s year as a weave of daily discipline and a few big annual moments. On the daily side there’s the distinctive schedule of three large communal prayers (around 6:00, 12:00, and 18:00) that shape worship life, but the true big gatherings cluster around a few occasions. The founding of the movement (often called the ‘Khai Đạo’ or ‘Opening of the Way’ ceremony tied to 1926) is observed every year and is treated as a central festival — usually sometime in the autumn months by the Gregorian calendar, but the exact public observance can vary by temple. Tết (the lunar New Year) is another huge time for Caodaists: many temples hold special services, ancestor rites, and open-house style ceremonies that bring families together. Beyond those, Caodai communities mark anniversaries of the Tây Ninh Holy See (the movement’s principal temple and administrative center) and various anniversaries associated with spirit-revelations, enthronements, and the birthdays of major figures in the Caodai pantheon. Because these latter dates are often recorded on the lunar calendar, they drift when translated to the Gregorian dates — so a festival that appears in January one year might fall in February the next. If you want to attend, the practical tip I always pass along is to check the local temple’s posted schedule or contact the Holy See’s office around December–January for an English-friendly schedule of the upcoming year. I love how this calendar ties the cosmic (spirit communications and pantheon anniversaries) to the ordinary (family reunions at Tết). If you’re planning a visit or want exact Gregorian dates for this year’s celebrations, shoot a message to a Tây Ninh temple or look for Vietnamese-language temple calendars online — they usually list the lunar dates and the corresponding Western dates. I’m curious which festival you’d like to see in person; the pageantry at the Tây Ninh Holy See during a major ceremony is something else.

There's something about films that wear their kindness on their sleeves that gets me every time. I think of 'Amélie' first: Jean-Pierre Jeunet's camera is like a curious child peeking into warm apartments, using saturated reds and greens, playful slow-motion, and whip pans to make everyday kindness feel magical. The way faces are framed close, with soft lensing, makes Amélie's good deeds intimate and tactile. I used to watch it on rainy nights with tea and a blanket, and the cinematography always made small moments — tapping a spoon, a paper cutout — feel monumental. Then there's 'Moonrise Kingdom', where symmetry and golden-hour palettes create a safe, nostalgic world. Wes Anderson's static compositions and controlled tracking shots insist the viewer linger on gestures of innocence and loyalty. Likewise, 'Spirited Away' celebrates a pure heart through expansive, painterly backgrounds and fluid camera moves; Hayao Miyazaki often lets the frame breathe so Chihiro's compassion fills the screen. And I can't help but mention 'Paddington 2' — bright, cozy lighting and wide, welcoming compositions turn kindness into communal spectacle. If you want to see how cinematography elevates goodness, watch for warm color grading, generous close-ups, and camera movements that privilege characters' small acts. These films don't shout their morals; they compose shots that make you feel them. Grab popcorn and pay attention to the light — it tells half the story, honestly.