The most dangerous road in America is not along the hairpin turns of the California coastline, but a never-ending, straight Texas highway between Pecos and Fort Stockton. No signs. No houses. No trees. Just an inflexibly unswerving asphalt carpet that makes Monument Valley look downright curvy.
On our way back from Colorado, I almost lost track of driving on that precipitous pathway in West Texas. It was dangerous. Not in the sense of having to negotiate obstacles, but rather in the sense of lulling the driver into an absolute daze. Hypnotic it was. Other than the oil wells and a single car, our family was treated to a scenery of nothing. And while driving that insufferably straight stretch of pavement--(Wouldn't you know it?)--my preacher imagination kicked into high gear.
What is it that makes a repetitive lifetime of churchgoing so dangerous?
Could it be that "going to church" Sunday after Sunday after Sunday lulls us into the habit of believing we are "Christian" because we followed the traditional routine while simultaneously making sure we avoided upsetting the prescribed way we have been conditioned to read Scripture?
Or to put it more simply:
Is the 10:00 hour on Sunday morning the measure of our trust in God just because we sang, preached, and tabled "the right way"?
Or how about this:
Does God consider the way I treat the guy at the rental car counter just as important as communion?
(Warning: Meddling Ahead)
Jesus told a story about a man... on a journey... on a road. Maybe it was a ridiculously straight road. On that road, the man was beaten and left for dead. Another man driving along the road was on his way to church. He noticed the oil wells and the single car that passed him. His mind was focused on where they might go out to eat after the closing prayer. For a split second he thought he saw a man lying on the side of the road. But he kept going. After all, it was 9:40 on Sunday morning.
He arrived at the church building fifteen minutes early to greet his fellow churchgoers and have some coffee. They went into the auditorium (not the "sanctuary") and sang along with the song leader (not the "worship minister") and partook of the Lord's Supper (not "communion") and listened to the preacher (we don't call him "pastor") and made sure the women kept silent and the kids sat still and nobody clapped and everything was done decent and in order.
When the service (ironic word) was over, they drove back home down the straight and narrow path. As he drove, he thought about how good the preacher was, and how comfortable his leather Bible felt in his hand. His mind drifted back over the morning, and how everything went perfectly. He filled out his membership card. At one point during the offering, he even took the ribbon hanging out of one of the songbooks in the empty pew in front of him, and put back in its proper place. There, that's better.
His driving daydream was suddenly interrupted by his daughter's voice. From the backseat she yelled, "Dad! There's a guy lying in the dirt!" To which he replied as the pathway plodded forward, "Be quiet, sweetheart, Daddy's concentrating on the road."
