The Engine That Never Turns Over

A mechanic in Tulsa named Ray Garfield kept a 1967 Mustang in his garage for twenty-three years. He polished the chrome every Saturday. He kept the leather seats conditioned. He told everyone who visited about the 289 V8 under the hood, how it could hit sixty in under eight seconds. But Ray never turned the key. The battery sat disconnected. The gas tank stayed bone dry. When his grandson finally asked to hear the engine roar, Ray just smiled and said, "Oh, she's a beauty. Trust me."

After Ray passed, the family tried to start it. The engine seized. Corrosion had fused the pistons to the cylinder walls. A machine built for motion had been destroyed by stillness.

James understood something that Ray missed. A living engine is meant to run. Living faith is meant to move. "Faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead." Not weak. Not sleeping. Dead — like a seized engine that will never fire again.

We can polish our theology until it gleams. We can tell everyone about the power of the Gospel we carry under the hood. But if that faith never turns over into feeding the hungry, visiting the lonely, forgiving the difficult — it is not faith at all. It is a monument to what could have been.

The Almighty did not give us faith to admire. He gave it to drive.