Or, wearing my religion

I put a “Blessed are the Peacemakers” bumper sticker from ThirdWay.com on the back of my Saturn Vue a couple of years ago. It’s starting to fade and peel, and I’ve been thinking about removing it. But it’s been there as a daily reminder—to act nice on the road.

I’m a son of a grain-hauling truck driver and learned early on what “good driving” meant. Dad wasn’t known for holding his tongue when someone cut him off or, worse, passed his 18-wheeler going down a hill, and then slowed down. The air could get a little blue. We were Mennonite, but farm life and related occupations like hauling grain had its earthy aspects.

Getting to ride in the semi cab was a ritual all the Gingerich boys enjoyed. Having one-on-one time with Dad was always special in the days before OSHA forced him to give up taking passengers along in the truck.

We learn by observing, and since temperament is often passed down, I’ve also been known to use un-Christlike mutterings when I’ve encountered rudeness on the road. Just ask my wife—and kids. In more recent years I’ve worked at trying to control my tongue, or at least keep things under my breath, and try to deflate any possible confrontations.

When I put the bumper sticker on my car, I realized I was visibly proclaiming my “ambassadorship” for Jesus. It just would not do to misrepresent him by flipping off the guy who almost forced me off the road. I’m reminded of that every time I walk around and see it stuck to the back of my car.

I’ve had to wonder if that’s the role of making a visible statement about what you believe—like wearing plain clothing must be for the Amish and other Mennonite groups. It’s a public statement about who you are and whom you represent. It’s an outer discipline that helps keep things in check.

This idea of wearing one’s religion continues to be part of my personal life. I still have “plain” relatives. My parents started their life together in the Conservative Mennonite Conference. They dressed more plainly until joining the (Old) Mennonite Church when I was a toddler. Mom continued to wear a covering for another 25 years.

I remember when she quit wearing it, although she kept one in the glove compartment for “emergencies”—usually an encounter with a more traditional relative or friend. She was not one to offend.

What did the plain clothes my parents wore as young adults represent? A community, a way of being together that was different, for sure. Did it remind them about how they were supposed to act?

In some ways, yes—but as I noted, my dad wasn’t particularly cautious about what words came out of his mouth. Yet he and Mom modeled a sense of justice and integrity in the ways they treated others that I still try to live up to—along with good driving habits.

I don’t wear a broad-brimmed hat or barn-door pants (usually anyway), so a bumper sticker about peacemaking on the back of my car has become a reminder of where I came from and to whom I belong.

Some mornings I start counting the cars I allow to cut in front of me on my commute across Albuquerque, N.M., as a practice in patience. I try for a daily minimum of 10. It’s also a good reminder that I don’t have to get there first. I can be congenial on the road. I don’t have to mutter under my breath (although that still happens sometimes).

I do have to confess I recently got caught up in a “contest” with a driver who kept cutting me off. I didn’t react in the most appropriate way. I was alone, so thankfully no one except God knows what I was thinking or saying.

This peaceable driving thing is still a work in progress. But generally I’m pretty cautious about zipping past someone and then cutting in too quickly. I try not to offend. I know whom I represent, although Jesus probably wouldn’t drive a car anyway. I’m sure he’d take the bus so he could comfort the homeless and down-and-out, heal the afflicted and restore sight to the blind—in person.

And yes, I do have a replacement sticker. I’ll probably put it on one of these days.