Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥

I don’t know your name, but I know this moment. You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think. I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair. This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back. I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet. Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss. But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. That’s why this matters to me. Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance. If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand. If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too. If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love. Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will. Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on. If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open. Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up. And that is no small gift.

The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape. This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next. Because grief is heavy enough. Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you. Who do we call now? What needs to be paid? Is there insurance? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming. I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion. I’ve also seen something else. I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today. Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it. When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human. Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there. Because grief is heavy enough on its own. Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension. If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving. Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy. Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess. And that is no small gift. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty

Joy doesn’t usually look like what we think. We imagine joy as bright, effortless, bubbling up like champagne. But Paul writes about joy from a prison cell, not knowing whether he’ll live or die, and he chooses a very different word for it. Not cheerfulness. Not positive thinking. Not “chin up.” Joy, for Paul, is courage. Joy is steadfastness. Joy is the deep, quiet strength that comes from knowing you’re not alone. He says: “Stand firm in one spirit, striving side by side… not intimidated by your opponents. For you are having the same struggle you saw I had and now hear that I still have.” ( Philippians 1:27–30 ) This is joy that stands its ground. Joy that refuses to bow. Joy born not from ease, but from solidarity. When Paul wrote these words, the world was filled with “Neros” — leaders who demanded allegiance through fear, intimidation, and spectacle. They ruled by threat. Paul’s readers knew the pressure well. In their world, refusing to bow wasn’t just countercultural. It was dangerous. Yet Paul tells them: Stand firm. Don’t flinch. You’re not standing alone. You’re sharing the same struggle. This is where joy enters the story — not as celebration, but as resistance. Joy is what rises when fear doesn’t get the last word. Joy is what grows when we stand side by side. Joy is what happens when courage becomes contagious. There was a season not too long ago when I was shifting out of full-time ministry into whatever this next chapter was supposed to be. I didn’t have language for it then; all I knew was that my old identity didn’t fit anymore, and the new one felt unfinished. I wasn’t “Pastor Marty” anymore, but I wasn’t sure who Marty was either. People don’t tell you how disorienting that kind of transition is — how it feels like losing your spiritual address. I remember telling a friend, “I don’t know where I belong right now,” half-expecting him to hand me a pep talk or a Bible verse. He didn’t. He just nodded and said, “Yeah… that season was hard for me too.” That was it. No solutions. No sermon. Just solidarity. But somehow, knowing someone else had lived the same struggle — and survived it — gave me a quiet kind of courage. Joy didn’t show up as excitement. It showed up as “me too”. As proof that being in the in-between wasn’t a sign I was lost — just a sign I was on my way. That moment carried me more than I realized. This is Paul’s point exactly: Joy grows where struggle is shared. Joy takes root where we realize we don’t have to stand alone. Joy becomes possible when someone else’s courage spills over into us. This is the Third Sunday of Advent — the Sunday of Joy. But Advent Joy isn’t naïve. It doesn’t ignore the darkness. It doesn’t pretend everything is fine. Advent Joy is defiant. It’s the joy of people who believe the Light is coming even when the night is long. It’s the joy of refusing to bow to fear, cynicism, or despair. It’s the joy that whispers: It might look like Friday… but Sunday is already on the move. Paul’s readers lived in a world where bowing was the only safe option. Paul invites them — and us — to stand instead. Not alone. But side by side, bound together in Christ’s love. Joy becomes possible not because the struggle disappears, but because we discover we’re in it together. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a candle or a choir singing “Joy to the World.” Maybe it’s the moment someone says, “I’ve been there too.” Maybe it’s the courage that rises when you realize you don’t have to face your fear alone. Maybe it’s the quiet joy that comes from standing shoulder to shoulder, hearts beating the same hope. Maybe the altar is the shared struggle itself — the place where Christ meets us, strengthens us, and binds us not by our victories, but by our vulnerability. Paul’s words remind us: Joy isn’t something you feel. It’s something we carry — but we carry it together. Grace and peace, friends. And know that we are one Sunday closer to Joy that won’t be denied.

I meant to share this last week for the Second Sunday of Advent — Peace — but maybe it landed right on time. Advent has a way of teaching us that God shows up even when we’re running behind. My Deliverance A Reminder That We Don’t Walk Through Anything Alone Paul is sitting in prison, chained to the floor, waiting to find out whether he’ll live or die — all for saying “Jesus is Lord” in a world where Caesar insisted on that title. He doesn’t know how the trial will go. He doesn’t know if he has weeks or hours. He doesn’t know if he’ll walk out free or be carried out. And yet he writes these impossible words: “And because of this, I rejoice… for I know that what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance.” ( Philippians 1:18–19) Rejoice? Deliverance? Now? Paul isn’t delusional. He’s anchored. And there’s a difference. When Paul says, “This will turn out for my deliverance,” he’s quoting Job — the sufferer who stood in the rubble of his life and still said, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” And honestly, I understand that move. You see, there are days when I can’t find the right words to pray. I start, stop, stare at the ceiling… and nothing comes out the way I mean it. On those days, I borrow someone else’s words. Sometimes it’s Niebuhr and his Serenity Prayer — that quiet nudge to accept what is and release what isn’t mine to carry. Then there are days I borrow from St. Francis, asking God to make him an instrument of peace when everything inside me feels anything but peaceful. Many times, I turn to Mother Teresa — who heard Jesus whisper, “Come be my light,” and responded with a simple, steady, “I will never refuse you.” She promised to “do something beautiful for God” and spent her life carrying a small flame into the darkest places on earth. On the days when my own light flickers, I borrow a little of hers. And often, it’s St. Patrick’s Breastplate — my favorite. That long, old prayer that wraps Christ around you like armor: Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me… A reminder that deliverance doesn’t always remove the danger, but it does surround you with Presence. When my voice shakes, I lean on theirs. Their prayers steady me when my own run out. It isn’t cheating. It’s community — across generations and stories. That’s exactly what Paul is doing: borrowing strength from saints before him until he can feel his own again. When Paul talks about deliverance, he uses the word soteria — but he doesn’t mean escape. He isn’t saying: “Don’t worry — I’ll be home for dinner.” Or “These chains are about to fall off.” He knows deliverance might mean life but it also might mean death. What he is saying is: “Whatever happens, I will stay true. My hands will be clean. My heart will be steady. I won’t lose myself.” That’s deliverance. Faithfulness that survives circumstances. He refuses to let despair be his narrator. He refuses to say something he’ll regret just because he’s tired and afraid. That is its own kind of freedom. Paul is quite clear how he will make it: “Through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ.” If he runs out of strength, someone else’s strength will carry him. If he runs out of hope, someone else’s hope will cover the bill. This is Paul’s theology of community: none of us gets through anything alone. Imagine if we lived that way. It would change everything. That reminds me of what Advent Peace is all about. Advent Peace isn’t calm circumstances or a detour around uncertainty. It’s Christ-with-us — the Presence that keeps your heart from unraveling even when your world is. Paul isn’t peaceful because prison is comfortable. He’s peaceful because he isn’t alone. And that is Advent’s promise. Not escape. Something better – Presence. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a star. Maybe it’s the prayers you borrow when your own run out. Maybe it’s the saints whose words help you breathe again. Maybe it’s the people whose strength carries you when yours is gone. Maybe deliverance isn’t being rescued — but being carried. And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again: “ This will turn out for my deliverance.” Not because the road is easy. Not because we’re strong. But because we are held.

Let me start with something honest and maybe a little surprising: I didn’t step into final expense because I wanted to sell anybody anything. If you know me — if you’ve sat beside me at a graveside or in a church pew — you already know that. For years, serving churches and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood with families in their most fragile hours. I’ve been in living rooms where grief and paperwork sat at the same table. I’ve seen tears that weren’t about death — but about cost. About decisions. About not knowing what mom or dad would have wanted. I’ve watched loved ones look at one another and whisper the questions no one ever wants to ask: "How do we pay for this?" " Who has the money?" "What do we do now?" The hardest part about death isn’t always the goodbye — Sometimes it’s the weight left behind. And that weight — when carried by the people left behind — can be heavy. Final expense insurance isn’t really about funerals or policies or paperwork. It’s about relief. It’s about compassion with a plan. It’s about love — still speaking long after the voice is gone. I’m not a big company. I don’t read from a script. I don’t do pressure or fear tactics. It’s just me — one human being who has watched this play out more times than I can count. And I’ve seen the difference a plan makes. I’ve watched families breathe easier because arrangements were handled and decisions were clear. I’ve seen tears of gratitude instead of panic. I’ve seen love carry forward — quietly, gently, faithfully — because someone cared enough to prepare. And here’s something I’ve learned: most people want to plan — they just don’t know where to begin. You don’t have to make every decision today. You don’t need a file cabinet or a color-coded binder. You just need a first step. A conversation. A plan that whispers to your family one day: “You’re not alone in this. I took care of you.” That’s what preparation does — it lifts the weight before it lands. That is why I do this work. So let me be clear: I’m not selling final expense insurance. I’m offering peace of mind. I’m offering dignity. I’m offering love — prepared, thoughtful, lasting. I know these conversations aren’t always comfortable. Death rarely is. But neither is leaving our people with a burden they never asked for. If you want to talk about a way to make those hardest days softer — no pressure, no pitch, just two humans talking about legacy and kindness — I’m here. We can explore options. We can ask honest questions. We can plan ahead with courage, tenderness, and hope. Because the way we leave matters. Not in dollars. But in love.

Let’s be honest. Nobody wakes up in the morning thinking, “ You know what I really want to talk about today? My funeral.” It’s not exactly coffee-and-donuts conversation. But here’s the truth: every one of us will eventually reach that moment, and when it comes, somebody has to deal with the details—and the bills. I’m not a big company with a fancy call center or a script that gets recycled from one family to the next. It’s just me—one person, on the phone, talking about something that really matters. And here’s what I’ve learned in my years of walking with families: t he hardest grief isn’t just about losing someone you love, it’s about losing them and being left with unexpected financial stress on top of the heartbreak. That’s why I do what I do. Final expense insurance, sometimes called burial insurance, is simple. It’s not about leaving behind a pile of paperwork or a big confusing policy. It’s about making sure the people you love aren’t scrambling when you’re gone. The average funeral these days costs between $7,000 and $12,000—sometimes more. That’s a lot of money to come up with quickly, especially when emotions are raw. Without a plan, families often have to dip into savings, pull out credit cards, or pass the hat. I’ve seen it happen. And I’ve seen the relief on people’s faces when they realize they don’t have to put their loved ones through that. Think of final expense insurance as your last love letter. It says: I thought of you. I planned for you. I don’t want my leaving to mean stress for you. To me, that’s not just insurance—that’s legacy. Now, I know talking about this can feel awkward. Some people joke, “I’m not planning to die anytime soon!” and I always smile and say, “Well, me neither—but the truth is, none of us get to schedule that.” Humor helps, but compassion carries us through. My promise to you is that our conversations will always be straightforward, respectful, and never pushy. I’ll answer your questions, explain your options, and help you find a plan that fits your life and your budget. This isn’t just business for me—it’s personal. I’ve seen families struggle, and I’ve seen families breathe easier because someone they loved made a wise choice ahead of time. I want your story to be the second kind. When the day comes, your family should be able to focus on what really matters: remembering your laugh, your stories, your quirks, your love—not worrying about funeral invoices. And let me say this: final expense insurance isn’t just for the elderly or those with health concerns. Whether you’re 45 or 85, it’s about preparation, peace, and care. Because let’s face it—life is unpredictable. You don’t need a million-dollar policy to show your family you love them. You just need something simple, something solid, something that says: I cared enough to make this easier for you. So yes, it’s just me—no sales force, no big office. Just one person who believes in helping others prepare for one of life’s hardest days with a little grace, a little humor, and a lot of compassion. My role is to walk with you through the options, answer the questions that keep you up at night, and help you create a plan that feels right. At the end of the day, final expense insurance is about love. Pure and simple. It’s about leaving behind peace instead of panic, dignity instead of debt. Let’s talk. I promise, it won’t be as heavy as you think—and by the end of it, you might even feel lighter.

If you’ve ever played Guitar Hero, you know it can trick you into believing you’re one power chord away from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. My boys played for hours — Freebird, Sweet Child of Mine — and honestly, they were pretty good. But hitting colored buttons on a plastic guitar isn’t the same as playing a real one. There’s knowing about, and then there’s knowing — the kind that comes from touch, repetition, and experience. Paul is praying for that kind of knowing in Philippians 1:9 -11: That your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight… “Abound” — perissos — means to grow past the edges. To spill over. Paul isn’t praying for love that stays where it started. He’s praying for love that keeps going, that wakes up tomorrow and chooses generosity again. And honestly, that’s Advent: the season when light grows in the dark, slowly and steadily. Advent doesn’t rush. It invites us to let hope grow one small flame at a time. Love works the same way. Paul uses another word — epignosis — the kind of knowing that comes from participation. From actually doing love, not just talking about it. You can know the stories and still not know love in a Christ-shaped way. For Paul, knowledge isn’t worth much unless it leads back to love. That’s what Advent calls us to a faith that moves from the head into the hands, from theory into practice, from information into incarnation. God didn’t send a lecture. God sent a baby — love in its smallest form — growing, growing, growing. I’m in a brand-new career — final expense insurance — something I never imagined after years in the pulpit. Some days I’m hopeful. Other days I’m sure I’m in over my head. And on those days, God keeps using someone to teach me about abounding love. Her name is Lauryn. She’s my mentor in this new world, but honestly, “mentor” doesn’t quite cover it. What she really is… is steady. She doesn’t get much out of my success. She doesn’t benefit if I stay or go. But she keeps showing up — offering encouragement when I’m discouraged, clarity when I’m confused, and a nudge forward when I start looking for the exits. Her support isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s not flashy. It’s faithful. It’s Advent in human form — a small light that keeps showing up, growing stronger, enough to help me take one more step. She’s teaching me that love abounds not through grand gestures, but through consistency — the quiet determination to keep choosing one another. That’s how love grows “more and more.” Paul adds another phrase: that we might be “ pure and blameless. ” Not spotless. Not perfect. The Greek word — proskopto — is about stumbling. Paul is praying that our love would grow in such a way that we don’t cause others to trip over us. We trip people up when we talk a big Jesus talk but don’t live it. When we choose fear over compassion. When we forget we’re supposed to be servants, not gatekeepers. But when love grows — really grows — people breathe easier around us. That kind of love is what Advent asks of us: wake up, light one candle, and let that small flame shape how you treat the world. With the first Sunday of Advent upon us, this feels like the season’s invitation: to let love grow a little more. Not perfectly. Not instantly. Just steadily — the way we trust that one candle means more light is coming. Maybe the Unlikely Altar this time isn’t a manger or a sanctuary. Maybe it’s the small place where someone helps you keep going — where their steady encouragement becomes grace, where you learn in real time that love grows by being practiced. Maybe the Unlikely Altar is the moment you realize that God is teaching you how to love through someone who keeps showing up. And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again: May your love abound more and more. One small flame at a time. One act of compassion at a time. One steady step at a time. Because the world doesn’t change in a day. But love grows — quietly, faithfully — until the light is strong enough to see by.

There’s a phrase Paul repeats three times in two verses, and it’s the kind of line you skim past until it taps you on the shoulder: “All of you.” He’s writing from prison. Chained. Cut off from almost everything familiar. And yet he says it like a benediction: I hold all of you in my heart… I long for all of you… I care for all of you. Really, Paul? All of them? Even the difficult ones? The ones who drain the room? The ones who argue, complain, or test your last nerve? And Paul answers with that stubborn, beautiful certainty: Yes. All of you. Our English translations make it sound like Paul is describing emotion — “I feel this way about you.” But the word he uses, phroneō, is deeper than feeling. It’s the mindset, the orientation of the whole self — the place where decisions are made and loyalties formed. Paul isn’t saying, “I feel warmly about you today.” He’s saying, “My whole being leans toward you. You matter to me. My life is tied to yours.” That’s not sentiment. That’s love with roots. Then Paul uses another word — koinos — meaning “ shared ” or “ held in common. ” He’s reminding them (and us) that grace creates its own kind of family. Not the tidy, polite version — the beautiful, annoying, complicated version. We don’t get to choose who grace binds us to. We only get to choose whether we show up to it. Finally Paul reaches for the deepest word he can find — splagchnon . The gut. The bowels. The place where your deepest feelings live. We might say it like this: “ I feel this love for you in my gut. ” But even here, Paul refuses to make the love about himself. He doesn’t say, “I long for you with my gut.” He says, “ I long for you with the splagchnon of Christ.” As if to confess: “ I’m not loving you out of my own strength. Christ is loving you through me.” And honestly — that’s the only way “all of you” ever becomes possible. There’s a line in this passage — “ all of you ” — that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life. And strangely enough, I didn’t understand it completely until after my biological father died. I spent years trying to sort out how to feel about a man who refused to acknowledge my existence. I wanted some kind of reconciliation — or at least some inner peace — but it never came. Not from him, anyway. And now his ashes sit in my closet. That’s its own kind of unfinished story — one I never quite know what to do with. How do you hold someone in your heart who never made space for you in theirs? How do you love someone who kept the door closed? How do you make peace with a relationship that never even had the chance to begin? For a long time, I couldn’t. But after he died, something shifted — slowly, quietly, almost without my permission. Not forgiveness wrapped in a bow or tied up neat.. Not closure. Just a loosening. A softening in a place I’d kept boarded up. And I realized the compassion that began to grow in me wasn’t mine. It wasn’t something I manufactured through effort or maturity. It was Christ doing something in me I could never do on my own. The love I couldn’t find while he was alive began to take shape only after he was gone. Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said he longed for the Philippians from his splagchnon — that deep, gut-level place where Christ’s transforming work actually happens . Because sometimes the hardest people to love become the very places where Christ does His most surprising work. Maybe “ all of you ” even includes the ones who ignored us, or hurt us, or never became who we hoped they would be. Maybe the altar this time isn’t a table or a church. Maybe it’s a closet holding ashes and questions — a place where grief and grace sit side by side. Maybe it’s the place where Christ heals a relationship we never got to finish, and teaches us how to love someone we never fully knew. Maybe that is the Unlikely Altar. Because the sacred shows up there too — in the tension, in the ache, in the deep-down places where Christ is still doing the good work. And if Christ can create love in a prison cell, and in a grieving heart, He can create it in us, too.