My husband is Jewish, and while I grew up with jolly old St. Nicholas, a twinkling tree, and piles of presents in December, he grew up watching that through the window. The Christmas season is a constant reminder of how minimalizing it can feel to be a member of a minority religion.
But he helps me pick out a tree, and he helps me decorate it, and he tones down his grimaces a little when I put out the creche. And, on Christmas Eve, he asks, "Are we going to a midnight service?"
During the service, he usually reads through the Bible and picks and chooses bits of hymns to sing, paying minimal attention; what he loves is the end when every member of the congregation passes a flame one to another, and the church dims the lights, and everyone lifts their candles in the darkness to sing a lullaby to a baby born long, long ago. Because, evidently, that moment is magical to all.