Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.”
Doug said, “I drive, therefore I am,” and honestly, I’m starting to trust my version more.
I spend so many hours with my body attached to a car that I’m basically a mobile Methodist. I know I20 like the back of my hand—every bump, every dip, every spot where my cell signal disappears as if it’s entering the Witness Protection Program. I know where law enforcement hides, waiting to catch those who treat the speed limit as a suggestion from a friend rather than a command from the state. I know exactly how far I can push the fuel light before I’m praying in tongues at the next exit. If you see me on the Interstate, give me a wave. I’ll wave back. I’m friendly like that.
Driving entertains me. I read bumper stickers like they’re sacred texts. If you see me tailgating, don’t worry—I’m not being aggressive; I’m just trying to discern whether your “Coexist” sticker is faded or ironic. And I’ve developed a spiritual gift: I can tell when someone is talking on the phone while driving. They always slow down. Always. It’s like the car senses the conversation and decides to meditate.
Today I was headed to Bossier City when the nice truck in front of me decided it was time for a midjourney spa treatment. He hit his windshield washer at 70 mph. At my following distance, his washer fluid became my washer fluid. A surprise baptism by RainX. I just smiled and thanked God for the improvisational rain shower. Louisiana weather is unpredictable, but apparently so are Louisiana drivers.
Now here’s where the sermon sneaks in.
My actions can change your attitude, and your attitude interprets my actions. That’s the whole ballgame.
I could’ve gotten mad. I could’ve imagined he did it on purpose. I could’ve turned on my wipers and smeared my windshield into a Monet painting. Or I could interpret it factually: I was following too closely behind a man with a dirty windshield who needed to see better. Or I could interpret it spiritually: God’s grace falls on the just, the unjust, and the guy behind the truck who wasn’t expecting a windshield blessing.
We don’t live in a vacuum. Our actions splash onto the people behind us—sometimes literally. That’s why Scripture tells us to be careful how we walk. We don’t want to trip someone else up. But the other side is just as important: I’m not responsible for what you do to me, but I am responsible for what I let your actions do inside me.
The world is small. The road is shared. And whether we like it or not, we’re all windshield washers for somebody.
So drive kindly. Live kindly. And if you must baptize the car behind you, at least use the good fluid.