Left to Our Own Devices: A Modern Christmas Story

 

Left to Our Own Devices: A Modern Christmas Story

 

O

ur Christmas holidays are increasingly interrupted by our devices—phones checked between conversations, tablets balanced on laps, televisions murmuring in the background. We sit together, but mentally we are miles apart. Silence feels as uncomfortable as an itchy wool sweater, and sitting still feels unproductive. Some salivate like Pavlov’s dogs, waiting impatiently for the next text or email. They cradle their devices—not because they need them, but because they no longer know what to do without them.

We’ve lost the ability to be bored without panic. The ability to sit in a room without filling it with noise. The patience to follow one story without interruption. We’ve traded depth for stimulation—and called it connection. Perhaps it’s time to ask Santa for something else: a new Christmas tradition, like in Iceland.

 

In Iceland, Christmas Eve revolves around books. Not as novelty gifts or symbolic gestures, but as the point of the evening. The tradition is called Jólabókaflóð, or “The Christmas Book Flood,” and it rests on a simple, almost defiant idea: give books, then stop long enough to read them.

 

Each fall, new books are released across the country. In early November, the Icelandic Publishers Association delivers Bókatíðindi, a catalog of upcoming titles, to every household. People study it. They talk about it. They choose deliberately. On Christmas Eve, those books are exchanged—and then the noise goes away.

 

People sit. They read. They stay put.

 

This isn’t a charming oddity. It’s the result of a culture that still believes attention matters. Iceland, with a population of roughly 330,000, produces more writers per capita and reads more books than anywhere else in the world. Reading is valued as a worthwhile activity rather than simply a way to pass the time or avoid reality.

 

The tradition began in 1944, during wartime scarcity, when Iceland had few options for gifts. Paper wasn’t rationed. Books—written, printed, and bound locally—were affordable, practical, and meaningful. They became the obvious choice. What started as necessity endured because it revealed something essential. Books didn’t demand speed. They didn’t fracture attention. They didn’t compete for dominance in the room—and chargers were not needed.

Today, roughly 40 percent of Iceland’s book sales occur during the Christmas season. The book flood fills conversations, social media, and living rooms. Icelanders read more than two books a month on average. A third read daily. Libraries are busy. These aren’t just statistics—they are signs of a culture that hasn’t surrendered its inner life.

Now consider what we have lost.

Iceland doesn’t reject technology. It simply refuses to let it dominate every moment, making a collective choice: attention over distraction, presence over performance, depth over speed.

The Christmas Book Flood isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about reclaiming something we still need. It reminds us that traditions shape behavior, and behavior shapes culture. If we want quieter homes, deeper conversations, and more meaningful holidays, we have to choose them. They’re just waiting for us to stop scrolling long enough to pick them up again.

              A Prayerful Pause

On iPhone, on Android, on Google and Chat,

On laptop, on tablet, wherever we’re at.

The device grows heavily perched atop our knees,

But perhaps this year, we can pause then with ease.

 

One book, a story,  a real Silent Night,

A moment to linger, a soft shared light.

We put down the screens, we slow the pace,

And open our hearts to make room for God’s grace.

 

And in that stillness, that pause from the noise,

We thank God for the Savior and all our joys.

 

Merry Christmas