H. Michael Brewer
Crescent Springs Presbyterian
19 October 2003
TOTALED
Romans 5:6-8
I wrecked a car a few weeks ago. I haven’t had a major wreck in a while, but I guess I haven’t lost the knack. This one was a doozy. I’m heading up Mall
Road, not speeding but not poking along, either. Cars are stacked up in the outside lane, but my lane is clear. So I’m tooling along, and meanwhile someone in
the outside lane waves a woman through a gap in the traffic. She’s driving a red SUV, trying to get out of a strip mall parking lot. So she takes this Good
Samaritan at his word, assumes the way is clear and darts out right in front of me. I had maybe one car-length in which to stop, and it wasn’t nearly enough. I
stood on the brakes and veered to the left hoping to miss the SUV, but the bumper of the SUV smashed into my right front fender. The SUV spun around and
I bounced off her fender and crashed head-on into a fellow in the oncoming lane who had been waiting to make a left-hand turn.
I’m not hurt in any way. I had my seat belt on and my hands on the steering wheel. Everything inside the car is thrown around and I’m all wet. I had just
come from Chik-Fil-A where I had bought a gigantic Diet-Coke—the half-gallon size. The cup was too big for the cup holder in the car, so I had tucked the
Coke between my legs. Need I tell you that at some point in the three-and-a-half seconds of the wreck the Styrofoam cup self-destructed and I had a lapful of
ice and soft-drink. So I climb out of the car looking like I’ve wet my pants and wondering if that will go into the police report.
Meanwhile a fellow jumps out of the SUV. A woman was driving and this guy was sitting in the passenger seat. I assume he’s her husband. But he pops out
of the car. His face is all red and he comes running toward me. You know, some people get really bent out of shape if their vehicles get bent out of shape, and
I’m thinking, “Oh, good, this guy is just spoiling for a fight.” I’m not much of a scrapper anyway, and besides I’m at a disadvantage. Maybe it’s a guy thing,
but it’s hard to face somebody down when it looks like you’ve just wet your pants.
So this guy is charging toward me, but when he gets about five feet away, he stops, throws his hands in the air and he says, “I told her! I told her not to pull
out! I warned her!”
I knew we were going to get along just fine. For one thing, he knew this wasn’t my fault. More importantly, we immediately recognized each other as
brothers in that ancient fraternity whose motto is, “Blame the woman!”
The wreck was disruptive and inconvenient and costly as wrecks always are. But all things considered, the whole thing went relatively smoothly. I
borrowed a phone, called Jan, and asked her to cancel the appointment I was about to miss. The people in the other cars were congenial, and there wasn’t any
serious question about who was at fault. Everybody had insurance. And my pants had dried by the time the Florence police arrived.
Eventually the other two cars drove away, but not me. Our Ford Taurus wasn’t going anywhere under its own steam. Jagged metal was pressed against the
front tire, and it looked as if the wheel had been twisted. We made some calls and got the car towed to a body shop, but I had a feeling the Taurus had made
its last run.
I was right. Within a few days, I got a call from an insurance adjuster who said, “M. Brewer, we will have to total your car. It will take us a few days to
make a thorough evaluation and get back to you with an offer. But we can see there’s damage to the frame. Under the circumstances the repairs would cost
more than the car is worth.”
Which is a shame for several reasons. That car was in pretty good shape. The body and the interior were nearly spotless. The Taurus was a ’92 but it had
only 70,000 miles on it. And frankly, I had some sentimental attachment to the car. We bought that car from George Thirs and we’d always called it the
Georgemobile. Since George died a couple of years ago, that car has felt like a link to an old friend. But that’s gone.
So the forlorn Georgemobile is sitting in some lot—an automotive death-row—awaiting a final settlement between All-State and the Brewers. I suppose
once the check is cut and the title is transferred, the Georgemobile is destined for cannibalization and eventually one of those crunching machines that convert
cars into cubes.
Of course, I realize that for the insurance company it’s a dollars-and-cents decision. Sentiment doesn’t enter the picture. What is the car worth on the open
market? What is the estimated cost of repairs? And which number is smaller? It’s a simple, straightforward and sensible equation.
That equation explains why my car is totaled. That equation also explains why I am a Christian.
From the high and holy place, God can see my whole life all at once. God sees everything I’ve ever done and everything I will ever do—all laid out like an
open book. Frankly, the record isn’t all that impressive. There’s a good deed here and there, and the occasional flash of genuinely selfless love, but mostly the
book of my life is a patchwork of compromises, good intentions, overlooked callings, mixed motives, and a sort of muddling discipleship.
If All-State ran the universe, I know I’d end up in the same place as the Georgemobile. I know how that equation turns out. How much is this guy worth?
How much would it cost to fix him up? And which is cheaper: saving him or scrapping him? The numbers don’t lie, and those numbers add up to, Hasta la
vista, baby.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Brewer, but the estimated cost of repairing your life is more than your life is worth. It wouldn’t be cost effective to save you. We have
no choice but to total you out.”
Which, as I said, explains why I am a Christian. I have decided to rely on the Almighty instead of All-State or any other earthly scheme of salvage and
salvation, because God is no good at math. We’ve all got some things we’re not good at, so let’s be honest: math is not God’s strong suit.
God looks at my life, my dented, broken-down, rusted-out, sold-out life and God says, “You know, I think I can fix this. I can make this guy like new, maybe
better than new. But what’s that going to set me back?”
God punches some keys on the heavenly calculator, and says, OK, to rebuild this guy and do it right, it’s going to cost me . . . my son. It’s going to cost me
Jesus to salvage this guy.”
And this is how I know God is no good with numbers. God looks at this cost analysis and says, “Sure, I’ll do that. I’ll sacrifice the most precious thing in the
universe to restore this wreck of a life. I’ll salvage this guy no matter how much it costs me.”
And that’s exactly what God has done and is doing. Either God really can’t count or else the arithmetic of grace has its own special rules. In either case, it
adds up to the same thing: I’m going to be all right. By any reasonable reckoning God should have totaled me, but instead God paid the highest possible price
to save me from the cosmic crunching machine.
In a roundabout way, I suppose this is a stewardship sermon. Since God paid the price to save me from being totaled, it seems to me that now I belong
totally to God. I never completely live up to that, but it’s what I aim for everyday. And if I do belong totally to God, giving a tenth of my income to God’s
work through the church seems to me to be the least I can do.
Tithing a tenth of your income may sound radical to you. It may sound impossible to you. I commend it to you anyway. Tithing is biblical. Tithing is
spiritually healthy. Tithing is essential for anyone who actually wants to grow into mature discipleship. As far as I’m concerned, this is not about budgets or
capital debts. This is about spiritual health. Tithing is one step toward a truly abundant relationship with God. If you are not a tither, I hope today you will
decide to become one, even if it takes you ten years of baby steps to get there.
Of course, I realize old habits come easy. I’ve been giving God a tenth since I was a child, sometimes a little more, never less. To me this feels as comfortable
as an old pair of blue jeans. In fact, I take the whole thing so much for granted that it does me good to remind myself now and then why I do this.
I’ve been reminded a couple of times lately. The decision to total the Georgemobile was one reminder of God’s goodness in rescuing me from the scrap heap.
Another reminder was seeing the movie Seabiscuit. That’s the story of one horse and several people all of whom have been kicked around by life and broken
in one way or another. Seabiscuit is a horse nobody wants, but his trainer sees possibilities there. What the trainer says about Seabiscuit could apply to any
of us. He says, “Just because a life gets broken, that doesn’t mean you have to throw it away.”
So an owner and a trainer and a jockey decide to salvage this ungainly, unwanted horse. And once Seabiscuit feels their love and realizes that he is of worth
to somebody, that horse begins to run like a champion. He runs with his legs and his heart. Injuries, setbacks, obstacles—none of it really matters after that;
Seabiscuit just gives his all. He never holds back.
It’s an experience that resonates for Christians. When someone has bought you back from the scrap heap or the glue factory, bought you at a high, high
price, you want to be and do your very best. From that moment on, it doesn’t feel right to hold back—to hold back our money or our time or our hearts.
When you’ve been salvaged, it just doesn’t feel right to hold back anything.
Soli Deo Gloria!