Mayor’s War on Christmas: Mullins Stands Up for Nativity Tradition

Paul Riverbank, 12/22/2025Small-town Nativity sparks heated debate over tradition, inclusion, and church-state boundaries in Mullins.

Take a walk down Main Street in early December: storefronts trimmed with garland, an elderly man chatting with a neighbor near a glowing reindeer, and nestled unobtrusively on the edge of the public parking lot, a Nativity scene—small enough to miss if you aren’t looking. Most years, it would blend right in among the avalanche of decorations. But what feels traditional to some strikes a plainly different chord for others.

Mayor Miko Pickett wasn’t comfortable letting it slide. In a terse message to Kimberly Byrd, the woman behind the town’s Beautification Committee, Pickett cut to the chase: move the Nativity. The mayor, who did not mince words, made clear that faith lines in Mullins run broader than many realize. “We are a community composed of various ethnicities and religious beliefs,” she wrote later in a Facebook note attempting to clear the air. The heart of her concern? Avoiding the sense that City Hall was championing one religious story over others—a risk, as she saw it, for a public display on municipal turf.

Byrd, upon receiving the mayor’s request, was floored. To her mind, faith is something open and woven through daily life—a badge not tucked away at Christmastime, of all seasons. “It’s not like we’re forcing beliefs on anyone,” she said in her living room, hands folded. Decades living in the Bible Belt left her unprepared for this kind of pushback.

For a brief moment, old assumptions clashed with updated interpretations of civics. Byrd refused to move the figures. Council members—here, ideological labels seemed irrelevant—backed her insistence. Folks in town started passing word; Facebook posts sprouted like weeds, some echoing Byrd, others agreeing with the mayor’s argument about inclusion and the ever-contentious line between church and state.

As it happens, the law is less dramatic than you might expect. In 1984, the Supreme Court drew a squishy boundary, stating a Nativity scene alongside secular trappings like reindeer or Santa passes muster. Mullins’ display, with its snowman and tangle of lights, seemed to fit the bill. Yet, legal precedent rarely calms political nerves; officials weigh lawsuits, shifting demographics, and the raw temperature of public opinion.

Rather than recede, the small-town spat drew interest from groups watching the broader national conversation about faith in the public square. Before long, the Becket Fund, a heavyweight in religious liberty law circles, pressed a plaque into Byrd’s hand—a nod to her willingness to hold her ground. Mark Rienzi, the group’s president, called her an example at a time when traditions often meet scrutiny.

Many locals barely registered the squabble as anything new. Councilman Albert Woodberry captured the prevailing mood one damp evening: “I mean, it’s just Christmas. The kids love that scene. People drive from out of town and point it out to their grandchildren.” His words, plainspoken, echoed softly in the council chamber.

There’s no telling how long the peace—such as it is—will last. No matter what the Supreme Court or city council decides, the holidays will always find a way to test how much folks value tradition, and how willing they are to bend toward new sensibilities.

This year, the lights still glow over Main Street and, undisturbed, plastic baby Jesus lies in his manger. Next year? That chapter’s unwritten, and it may look different. But here in Mullins, history and hope share the square; one plastic nativity at a time.

Christmas in Mullins, South Carolina, doesn’t usually make headlines. This year, though, a humble Nativity set off a season-long dust-up—one that felt, at times, less about plastic figurines than about how a town understands itself.Take a walk down Main Street in early December: storefronts trimmed with garland, an elderly man chatting with a neighbor near a glowing reindeer, and nestled unobtrusively on the edge of the public parking lot, a Nativity scene—small enough to miss if you aren’t looking. Most years, it would blend right in among the avalanche of decorations. But what feels traditional to some strikes a plainly different chord for others.Mayor Miko Pickett wasn’t comfortable letting it slide. In a terse message to Kimberly Byrd, the woman behind the town’s Beautification Committee, Pickett cut to the chase: move the Nativity. The mayor, who did not mince words, made clear that faith lines in Mullins run broader than many realize. “We are a community composed of various ethnicities and religious beliefs,” she wrote later in a Facebook note attempting to clear the air. The heart of her concern? Avoiding the sense that City Hall was championing one religious story over others—a risk, as she saw it, for a public display on municipal turf.Byrd, upon receiving the mayor’s request, was floored. To her mind, faith is something open and woven through daily life—a badge not tucked away at Christmastime, of all seasons. “It’s not like we’re forcing beliefs on anyone,” she said in her living room, hands folded. Decades living in the Bible Belt left her unprepared for this kind of pushback.For a brief moment, old assumptions clashed with updated interpretations of civics. Byrd refused to move the figures. Council members—here, ideological labels seemed irrelevant—backed her insistence. Folks in town started passing word; Facebook posts sprouted like weeds, some echoing Byrd, others agreeing with the mayor’s argument about inclusion and the ever-contentious line between church and state.As it happens, the law is less dramatic than you might expect. In 1984, the Supreme Court drew a squishy boundary, stating a Nativity scene alongside secular trappings like reindeer or Santa passes muster. Mullins’ display, with its snowman and tangle of lights, seemed to fit the bill. Yet, legal precedent rarely calms political nerves; officials weigh lawsuits, shifting demographics, and the raw temperature of public opinion.Rather than recede, the small-town spat drew interest from groups watching the broader national conversation about faith in the public square. Before long, the Becket Fund, a heavyweight in religious liberty law circles, pressed a plaque into Byrd’s hand—a nod to her willingness to hold her ground. Mark Rienzi, the group’s president, called her an example at a time when traditions often meet scrutiny.Many locals barely registered the squabble as anything new. Councilman Albert Woodberry captured the prevailing mood one damp evening: “I mean, it’s just Christmas. The kids love that scene. People drive from out of town and point it out to their grandchildren.” His words, plainspoken, echoed softly in the council chamber.There’s no telling how long the peace—such as it is—will last. No matter what the Supreme Court or city council decides, the holidays will always find a way to test how much folks value tradition, and how willing they are to bend toward new sensibilities.This year, the lights still glow over Main Street and, undisturbed, plastic baby Jesus lies in his manger. Next year? That chapter’s unwritten, and it may look different. But here in Mullins, history and hope share the square; one plastic nativity at a time.