Grace and Peace
Two Words That Can Still Change a Room
Paul starts his letter to the Philippians the way he starts almost every letter he ever wrote — with two simple words that sound like a benediction and a blessing all at once:
“Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”
Grace and peace.
It’s easy to glide right past them. After all, Paul says it so often it can sound like his version of, “Dear friends, hope you’re doing well.” But those words are anything but filler. They’re the opening line of a letter written from prison — a man in chains sending light through a keyhole.
That’s the thing about grace and peace. They don’t wait for better conditions.
When Paul writes, he doesn’t start with complaints about the guards or the food or how cold the nights are. He doesn’t list his injuries or beg for sympathy. Instead, he offers what he himself most needs: grace and peace.
I’ve come to believe that the words we offer the world when we’re hurting reveal what’s deepest in us. For Paul, it was this stubborn conviction that God was still at work, even in confinement — that grace still flowed and peace was still possible.
Grace and Peace
Paul begins with two words that still have the power to stop me in my tracks: grace and peace.
He could’ve opened with something more ordinary — Dear friends, or Hang in there. But instead, from a cell that smelled of iron and damp stone, he chooses a blessing. He leads with joy.
Grace — that wild, unearned love that shows up even when we’ve done nothing to deserve it. Grace is the quiet voice that says, “You’re still mine.” It’s the kind of love that doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It just walks right into your mess and sits down beside you.
And
peace
— not the fragile kind that depends on calm seas or perfect days, but the kind that holds steady when the waves are high. The kind that whispers, “You’re okay, even here.”
I love that Paul links the two together, because grace without peace feels unfinished, and peace without grace feels forced. Together they form a rhythm — grace that reaches, peace that remains.
And maybe that’s what Paul was really offering: a new way to begin.
Can you imagine if those were the first words we spoke to each other every morning?
Joy to you. Peace to you. Every kind of good to you.
How different a day might feel if it started there — not with headlines or hurry, but with blessing.
Maybe that’s the secret of Paul’s letter: that even in a place built to break him, he still believed goodness could find a way through the cracks.
So what would it look like to practice this?
Maybe it starts small — whispering “grace and peace” toward the people you don’t even like. Or toward yourself when that inner critic starts its sermon again.
So what would it look like to practice this?
Maybe it’s learning to pause, breathe peace, and offer grace instead.
When gossip starts — grace and peace.
When the argument heats — grace and peace.
When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace.
When the argument heats — grace and peace.
When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace.
Interrupt the old patterns with blessing.
The early church actually practiced this. In Acts 14 and 20, believers would commend one another to God’s grace before sending them out. They’d gather, pray, lay on hands, and say, “You are given over to God’s grace and peace.”
What if we did that? What if we treated every conversation, every cup of coffee, every parting at the door as a small commissioning — giving one another over to grace and peace before we go back into the world?
A Roman prison doesn’t sound like much of a sanctuary, but Paul found one there. Maybe that’s the invitation — to find our own
Unlikely Altars, the places where grace still surprises us and peace somehow holds.
If I’m honest, I’m preaching to myself here. I could use a little grace and peace most mornings before the second Mountain Dew.
So wherever you are today — in traffic, in grief, in the middle of a week that feels like too much — hear this old, stubborn greeting again:
Grace and peace to you.
Not someday. Not when you’ve earned it. Right now
.
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