On Fords and Faithfulness

by Tim Sitterley

The other day as I was changing the oil in my '92 Olds Bravada, I found myself giving thanks to God for one of the most reliable vehicles I have ever owned. I don't actually crawl under the car to change the oil these days. I just pour it in and the engine burns it long before it can possibly become dirty. But in spite of the small cloud that obscures vision each time we start the beast, it still always starts. Even with well over 300,000 miles of "experience," this car still moves in a forward fashion, and gets us to where we need to go.

Granted, it doesn't have the power it once had. And the dashboard no longer works. And we have to use the odometer to know when to purchase gas. and the windshield is cracked from left to right. And the radio routinely burns out fuses. And the fan only has one setting that still works. And the gas tank leaks if you fill it too full. And you have to unlock the passenger door to unlock the driver's door.

Still, I would have to use the word "reliable" and I would rather give God the credit rather than General Motors.

I thought of my Bravada while reading Gordon MacDonald's recent Journal, and I thought some of you might relate as well. I hope you take the time to read this, and I hope you enjoy.

What My Unreliable Old Car Taught Me About Myself.

by Gordon MacDonald
From my journal: My first car was an 8-year old 1950 Ford (stick shift on the steering column) purchased for $200. Its mileage was north of 100,000. To call it a lemon is not an exaggeration.

I quickly learned that the Ford offered performance surprises every day. The starting motor was a fifty-percenter, meaning frequent pushes. The radiator leaked like a sieve. The fuel gauge was accurate to the nearest 25 gallons. The engine drank a quart of oil every 200 miles. The tires were bald, and the muffler was absent without leave.

On cold winter nights, I had to park the Ford at the crest of a hill near my college apartment and drain the water from the radiator to prevent a freeze-up. In the morning I would refill the radiator, nudge the car downhill, release the clutch and hope that the engine would leap into life. No amount of prayer seemed to directly affect the success of this process.

I used to imagine that the Ford talked to itself when it saw me coming. "Looks like he's in a hurry today. I'll slow 'em down." Or, "He looks like he's dressed for a date. Probably wants to impress a pretty girl. He's toast." I tell you, it was not hard to believe that the Ford despised me.

For two years the Ford and I were stuck with each other. Every event in my day had to be planned around the possibility of its non-compliance. More than once, when it did start, I would leave the motor idling while I attended class or had dinner and saw a movie with someone. A car thief would have been warmly welcomed.

The Ford was, in a word, broken, and I had to accept its mechanical eccentricities as a normal part of my life. I couldn't fix it because I wasn't a mechanic, and I couldn't afford someone who was. Add to that my suspicion that the Ford didn't want to be fixed because its brokenness gave it a strange kind of "control" over me.

Today, decades later, I drive a relatively new vehicle (a Suburu Outback). But the memory of the old Ford remains in that part of the brain that stores past automotive horror stories. Every time I turn the ignition key and the Outback starts, I am freshly surprised because I still (to this day!) instinctively anticipate the "click" of a balky starting motor. I believe that, unlike the Ford, the Outback likes me and thinks nice things when it sees me coming. It appears committed to my happiness.

Nevertheless, if I had to liken myself to a car, I'd have to identify with the broken Ford and less the friendly Suburu (this side of heaven anyway). I know I'm supposed to say that I'm a sinner (because I am), but it's more helpful to me to regard myself as broken—a person far, far less functional than God designed me to be and in possession of the same rebellious spirit I once imagined to be in the Ford.

Perhaps we are all like broken Fords who sometimes start and sometimes don't, who may make it to an intended destination but, then again, maybe not. We'd like to appear as if we just came from the showroom. But the truth is that most of the time, we deserved to be towed to the junk yard.

The 12-stepper understands this rationale every time he introduces himself with the words, "Hi, my name is ______, and I'm an alcoholic." Which is not unlike saying, "My name is Gordon, and I'm broken."

Thinking like this helps me to appreciate the remarkable grace and kindness of the Savior, Jesus, who searched for and loved broken "Fords" (then and now) and enjoyed rebuilding them and increasing their reliability factor. And thinking like this helps me to look at others (and at myself) with the understanding that they—like me—sometimes have more characteristics befitting an old broken Ford than a brand new Outback.

When seeing things from that perspective, one can get excited when anybody (beginning with myself) actually starts up and gets where they are supposed to go.

You could have a pretty fine church if everyone saw each other like this.