SC Town Defies Mayor's Nativity Ban in Fiery Christmas Clash

Paul Riverbank, 12/22/2025Small-town Nativity display sparks national debate—balancing tradition, law, and inclusion in Mullins, SC.

Yet, not long ago, what was planned as a festive display downtown—a patchwork of twinkling lights, wreaths, a snowman grinning amid the new marketplace parking lot—found itself at the eye of a swirling national debate. At the center: a wooden Nativity scene, about the size of a kitchen table, arranged with careful hands by Kimberly Byrd and others from the town’s Beautification Committee. “We wanted it to feel like a hometown Christmas, you know? Like what you’d see in a Hallmark movie,” Byrd remarked, shaking her head at how quickly things escalated.

The kerfuffle started quietly. Mayor Miko Pickett—open, direct, known for her pragmatism—texted Byrd with a request: perhaps the Nativity ought to be moved from the city-owned marketplace. Pickett’s rationale was classic civic caution: respecting the patchwork of beliefs within Mullins, yes, but also the legal principle that government shouldn’t appear to endorse a particular faith. “I simply asked they remove it from public property,” Pickett wrote on Facebook later, perhaps anticipating pushback. “This isn’t about banning Nativity scenes. Our community is made up of many backgrounds, and the laws around church and state do apply to us as well.”

But for Kimberly Byrd, who’s lived over fifty Christmases in this town, that didn’t sit right—nor, apparently, did it for several city council members, some of whom are unaffiliated with any party. To them, the Nativity was woven into the season, as fundamental as carols or mistletoe. “We celebrate Christmas because of Christ,” Byrd insisted. “What do we say to kids when we move it? That our beliefs belong behind closed doors?”

The disagreement might have stayed at the level of polite but earnest persuasion, but in 2024, almost nothing stays local for long. Texts and posts begat headlines on cable and news wires. Advocacy groups with strong opinions and even crisper press releases seized the story, referencing a Supreme Court decision from 1984: Lynch v. Donnelly. The ruling, complex as any from the high court, found that holiday displays featuring a Nativity weren’t unconstitutional if they were surrounded by secular trappings—a reindeer here, a Santa there. “A Nativity isn’t, by default, an endorsement,” constitutional lawyers pointed out, though in the real world, the lines always seem blurrier.

The debate rolled on, but there were gestures, too—a sense of neighborliness that never wholly disappeared. One evening, city councilman Albert Woodberry shrugged in the glow of the Christmas lights, saying, “Why not let it stay? Kids come by. It brings people together. Aren’t the holidays supposed to do that?”

Recognition for Byrd’s stand arrived from afar—a symbolic toast, accolades from religious liberty groups, and the warmth of townsfolk who remembered, perhaps, how often tradition provides comfort in uncertain times.

To outsiders, it might look like another flashpoint in the endless conversation America has about faith in public life, law, and inclusion. Yet in Mullins, it’s something more tangible: the shy nod of someone watching the lights with their child, the subtle calculation and care of local leaders, the push and pull between honoring cherished customs and ensuring no one feels a stranger on their hometown Main Street.

For now, the Nativity remains, flanked by wreaths and snowmen, quietly standing its ground. There’s no telling how this will shape future Decembers, but in some way, it’s a classic American story—where ideals, legal doctrines, tradition, and lived community all intersect, sometimes awkwardly, always unmistakably.

It would be easy, strolling through Mullins, South Carolina at dusk, to mistake it for a postcard from some gentler era. Steeples and brick storefronts, the slow pace of a December evening: here, Christmas isn’t just marked on the calendar but etched into the rhythm of life itself. Folks know each other. The hum of greetings is nearly as familiar as the scent of pine on the green.Yet, not long ago, what was planned as a festive display downtown—a patchwork of twinkling lights, wreaths, a snowman grinning amid the new marketplace parking lot—found itself at the eye of a swirling national debate. At the center: a wooden Nativity scene, about the size of a kitchen table, arranged with careful hands by Kimberly Byrd and others from the town’s Beautification Committee. “We wanted it to feel like a hometown Christmas, you know? Like what you’d see in a Hallmark movie,” Byrd remarked, shaking her head at how quickly things escalated.The kerfuffle started quietly. Mayor Miko Pickett—open, direct, known for her pragmatism—texted Byrd with a request: perhaps the Nativity ought to be moved from the city-owned marketplace. Pickett’s rationale was classic civic caution: respecting the patchwork of beliefs within Mullins, yes, but also the legal principle that government shouldn’t appear to endorse a particular faith. “I simply asked they remove it from public property,” Pickett wrote on Facebook later, perhaps anticipating pushback. “This isn’t about banning Nativity scenes. Our community is made up of many backgrounds, and the laws around church and state do apply to us as well.”But for Kimberly Byrd, who’s lived over fifty Christmases in this town, that didn’t sit right—nor, apparently, did it for several city council members, some of whom are unaffiliated with any party. To them, the Nativity was woven into the season, as fundamental as carols or mistletoe. “We celebrate Christmas because of Christ,” Byrd insisted. “What do we say to kids when we move it? That our beliefs belong behind closed doors?”The disagreement might have stayed at the level of polite but earnest persuasion, but in 2024, almost nothing stays local for long. Texts and posts begat headlines on cable and news wires. Advocacy groups with strong opinions and even crisper press releases seized the story, referencing a Supreme Court decision from 1984: Lynch v. Donnelly. The ruling, complex as any from the high court, found that holiday displays featuring a Nativity weren’t unconstitutional if they were surrounded by secular trappings—a reindeer here, a Santa there. “A Nativity isn’t, by default, an endorsement,” constitutional lawyers pointed out, though in the real world, the lines always seem blurrier.The debate rolled on, but there were gestures, too—a sense of neighborliness that never wholly disappeared. One evening, city councilman Albert Woodberry shrugged in the glow of the Christmas lights, saying, “Why not let it stay? Kids come by. It brings people together. Aren’t the holidays supposed to do that?”Recognition for Byrd’s stand arrived from afar—a symbolic toast, accolades from religious liberty groups, and the warmth of townsfolk who remembered, perhaps, how often tradition provides comfort in uncertain times.To outsiders, it might look like another flashpoint in the endless conversation America has about faith in public life, law, and inclusion. Yet in Mullins, it’s something more tangible: the shy nod of someone watching the lights with their child, the subtle calculation and care of local leaders, the push and pull between honoring cherished customs and ensuring no one feels a stranger on their hometown Main Street.For now, the Nativity remains, flanked by wreaths and snowmen, quietly standing its ground. There’s no telling how this will shape future Decembers, but in some way, it’s a classic American story—where ideals, legal doctrines, tradition, and lived community all intersect, sometimes awkwardly, always unmistakably.