An Altar Built From Ashes
Burned Down. Cracked Open. Still Holy.
Let’s just admit something up front:
Asking for forgiveness feels like walking into a room naked,
holding a plate of burnt cookies.
You feel exposed. Awkward. Unsure if what you’re offering is enough—or even edible. It’s terrifying. It’s humbling. And yet, it might be one of the most sacred things we ever do.
This is the final post in a four-part series shaped by a tender moment from the show THE PITT, and grounded in the wisdom of palliative care physician Dr. Ira Byock. In his book, The Four Things That Matter Most, he names four phrases we often wait too long to say:
- I love you.
- Thank you.
- I forgive you.
- Please forgive me.
We’ve explored the first three—words that mend, release, and reconnect.
But this last one? It’s the most vulnerable of all.
“Please forgive me” places the power in someone else’s hands. And that’s exactly what makes it holy.
It means admitting you’re not always the hero in someone else’s story. It’s saying, “I messed up. I see it now. I wish I had done better. And I hope we can begin again.”
To ask for forgiveness is to lay down your armor—your excuses, your good intentions, your pride. It’s not weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom.
We lose our temper. We say the joke that cuts too deep. We go silent when someone needed our voice. We love poorly—or not at all. To say “Please forgive me” is to stop hiding and take ownership for our impact.
It’s not self-hatred. It’s self-awareness. And it may be the first true step toward healing.
I’ve made mistakes - - big ones and small ones. The kind that wakes you up at night. The kind you still defend in your head. The kind you wish more than anything you could undo.
And somewhere along the way, I learned this:
Guilt says, “You did wrong.”
Shame says, “You are wrong.”
Guilt can lead to growth.
Shame just keeps you stuck.
Grace, however, speaks a different word altogether:
“Yes, you messed up. But that’s not all you are.”
It tells you your failures don’t have the final word. That you're more than your worst moments. And that healing is still possible.
You can’t change the past. But you can reshape the future.
And sometimes all it takes… is a few brave words.
Forgiveness doesn’t always look the same.
Sometimes it’s a trembling phone call. Sometimes it’s a letter you never send.
Sometimes it’s standing at a gravesite, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to someone who can no longer answer - - because you need to say it anyway.
Sometimes it’s silence.
Sometimes it’s tears you didn’t expect.
Sometimes it’s finally being able to exhale.
“Please forgive me” isn’t etiquette. It’s a sacred act. It says, “I’m taking responsibility. I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing love over ego.”
It might sound like:
- “I didn’t know how to love you back then. I’m sorry.”
- “I wish I had shown up better for you.”
- “I know I hurt you, and I want to own that.”
- “Please forgive me—not because I’ve earned it, but because I’m asking in love.”
It won’t always be clean. Or poetic. But it might be real enough to begin again.
This may be the most fragile altar we ever build.
It doesn’t look like a church or a ceremony.
It looks like a shaky voice at a kitchen table. A voicemail you almost didn’t leave. A tear-streaked prayer whispered into the quiet: “Please forgive me.”
It’s an altar of humility. Of trying again. Of giving love another chance.
It’s an Unlikely Altar—because it rises from our flaws, not our strengths.
And still, somehow, it’s the very place grace loves to meet us.
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