The Old Fashioned
Slow is Sacred
Note: This post reflects on a cocktail, but really it’s about ritual and grace. If alcohol isn’t for you, the altar can be tea, coffee, water, or
stillness just the same.
One slow afternoon, I remembered something I had read — a description of an Old Fashioned, elegant in its simplicity: bourbon, bitters, sugar, orange peel.
So, I made one.
Not to escape, but to pause. To breathe. To anchor myself in something steady. I didn’t know then that I was stepping into a kind of ritual — that the act of making this drink, slowly and with intention, would become a quiet practice for me. A way of creating a small altar in the middle of uncertainty.
Now — before we go any further, let’s talk about the name: Old Fashioned.
It sounds like something your granddad might order right after telling you how gas used to be 29 cents a gallon. Or like your aunt who still writes checks at the grocery store and thinks “LOL” means “lots of love.” But the drink itself? It’s aged beautifully. Simple, steady, and still showing up on menus everywhere. Turns out “old-fashioned” isn’t always an insult. Sometimes it just means tried-and-true.
Later, I learned that the Old Fashioned is considered one of the earliest cocktails, dating back to the early 1800s. Originally called a “whiskey cocktail,” it was just spirits, sugar, water, and bitters. Over time, as drinks got fancier and more complicated, some folks asked for it to be made “the old-fashioned way.” The name stuck. Simplicity became its signature.
There’s something almost liturgical about the process — not in the sense of organ music or stained glass, but in the steady rhythm of it all. The slow swirl of the spoon. The clink of ice settling into glass. The careful peel of citrus, not just for garnish, but as a kind of offering. It’s a ritual that invites you to slow down and pay attention. Like any good liturgy, it’s not meant to be rushed. You don’t chug an Old Fashioned. You honor it. You sit with it. You let it open you up — not for escape, but for reflection, maybe even reverence.
It’s no surprise that so many of us reach for rituals when we’re weary. Whether it’s lighting a candle, saying a prayer, walking the same wooded trail, or crafting the perfect cocktail, there’s comfort in repetition. A sacred rhythm in doing something the old way — not because it’s trendy, but because it tethers us to something older, deeper, steadier.
The Old Fashioned is often seen as a “dad drink,” a grandfather’s favorite, a retro relic. Maybe that’s part of its charm. It connects us to people we miss. To stories we’ve heard at the corner of a bar or the edge of a kitchen counter. It reminds us that presence matters. That slow is sacred.
In some strange way, the Old Fashioned mirrors the gospel.
Because the gospel, like the drink, is simple at its heart — just a few core ingredients: love, mercy, truth. Not flashy. Not complicated. But with power that sneaks up on you. It’s meant to be savored, not rushed. Received, not conquered. Shared, not hoarded.
And like any good ritual, grace is best experienced in community. Over stories. Laughter. Honest confessions. And maybe even a few regrets.
You can’t microwave an Old Fashioned. And you can’t fast-track grace. Both require a kind of patience that modern life resists. You have to show up. Measure things out. Pay attention. Trust the process. Maybe even believe that slowing down isn’t laziness, but holiness.
I’ve come to believe that even small rituals — especially in the moments when no one else is around — can hold us together.
So here’s to the Old-Fashioned.
And to all the unlikely altars we find in things stirred slowly, tasted deeply, and shared freely.
May your glass be full — not just of bourbon and bitters, but of memory, meaning, mercy, and maybe a maraschino cherry if that’s how you roll.
And may you always find God — not just in stained glass or scripture, but in the hush of an evening, the rhythm of a sacred habit, and the grace that still finds us, even when the lights are on and the streets are flooded.
A Note of Care:
If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.
Recipe: The Old Fashioned
1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp dark sugar)
Splash of soda water
2–3 dashes Angostura bitters
2 dashes orange bitters
2 oz rye or bourbon (I like James E. Pepper 116 proof rye for backbone)
Garnish: Amarena cherry (never maraschino) and/or orange peel
Method:
Muddle the sugar cube with bitters and a splash of soda water in a rocks glass until it dissolves. Add whiskey and ice. Stir slowly until chilled. Garnish with an orange peel twist or, if you must, an Amarena cherry. Sip. Savor. Do not rush.
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