Pointing Up

A devotional about the only piece of my car that came home with me — and the arrow on the back of it that I almost missed

So I preached the wreck sermon yesterday.

I didn’t say the sermon was a wreck! Ha!

Cut on my face. Glass in my socks and shoes.

Sermon in my mouth that was less than twenty-four hours old.

And about 6 hours after the service ended — I sat down at my desk back at the church and checked the YouTube comments.

Pastors should not do this.

It is on the same spiritual discipline list as “do not Google your own name at 11 PM” and “do not respond to anonymous emails sent at 3 AM by people with cleverly named Gmail accounts.”

But I did it anyway. Because John 2.0 is apparently still a Presbyterian with anxiety.

[some lessons take longer than 24 hours to learn]

And There It Was

Right at the top of the comment thread. From an online member of our church. Faithful person. Watches every Sunday. Means well —

— which is exactly the kind of person who lands a punch when you are not expecting one.

The comment said — and I am paraphrasing only slightly —

“How does it feel to be homeless (you are living in a rented room in Suite 214) and now car-less? By the world’s standards, you seem to be going DOWN. But by God’s standards — you seem to be going UP.”

Beloved — I read that comment four times before I had any idea what to do with it.

Because on the one hand —

“Sir. I am sitting at my desk with a cut on my face and a tow yard somewhere in Corpus Christi holding the keys to a car I will never drive again. Is this REALLY the day you wanted to send me that text?”

On the other hand —

She was not wrong.

Let’s Do The World’s Math For A Second

By the world’s scoreboard, the last twelve months of my life read like a sad country song.

Nine months off the job for reasons I do not have the bandwidth to revisit in a 400-word devotional.

A rented room in Suite 214 because Renee is still trying to sell the house in Houston. Marriage operating on FaceTime and Whataburger run reports.

And as of yesterday morning at 9:47 AM — a paid-off Nissan Z Proto Spec, one of only 500 built worldwide, with thirteen thousand miles on it and brand-new Michelins —— carved into a piece of modern art by a Chevy Trail Boss.

By the world’s metrics, John Roberts has had a year.

My credit score is fine.

My net worth is fine.

My career, technically, is on an upswing.

But by the metrics this culture worships — possessions, stability, predictability, comfort —

I am in the same league as a man who got divorced, lost his hair, and bought a boat he cannot afford to maintain.

And the truth is —

I have never been more aware of who God is than right now.

Which Brings Me To The Part On My Desk

I want to tell you about a piece of plastic.

After the wreck — after the cops, after the tow truck, after Sharla, after my heart rate finally came down — I did something I am not sure I should have done.

I started walking.

Back up the road. Past the intersection. Past the gouges in the asphalt where my Z had spun. Past the broken glass that the wind had not yet swept away.

I was looking for anything.

I do not even know what I was looking for. A piece of bumper. A reflector. A scrap of evidence that my Z had been real. That it had not just —

— evaporated into a story I would tell later.

[grief makes you do strange things on the side of a Texas highway]

And about four hundred feet from where the Trail Boss hit me — I saw it.

Lying on the asphalt. Just sitting there in the sun.

One. Small. Piece. Of plastic trim. In case you missed it here, it is again!

Black. Probably four inches wide and ten inches long. With a soft rubber gasket on one edge. Carved off my car by the impact, thrown by physics across four hundred feet of Yorktown, and resting in the middle of a sun-bleached stretch of road like it had been waiting for me.

I bent down. Picked it up.

I am not going to lie to you — there is something about a 55-year-old pastor bending down to pick up a piece of his own totaled car off the road that does something to your soul.

I felt like I was at my own crime scene.

I felt like a man retrieving the only physical inheritance of a $76,000 limited-edition vehicle.

That is it. That is what came home with me.

That is the entire estate of the Proto Spec Z.

And I held that little piece of plastic in my hand and I thought —

“Well, Lord. This is humbling.”

And as I started to walk back to the wreckage —

I turned it over.

And I read what was embossed on the back.

Read It With Me

>PMMA< 76891 6GP0A NISSAN 6GPLH L ↑ UP GP

Looks like manufacturing gibberish. Looks like the kind of thing you ignore on the back of a part.

But sit with me for a second. Because there is a sermon on the back of this thing.

Three things to notice.

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First — That Word PMMA

PMMA stands for polymethyl methacrylate. And no, I did not know that on Saturday. I learned it Sunday afternoon Googling for this devotional while my coffee got cold.

Here is what PMMA is.

It is impact-resistant plastic.

Same chemical family as bulletproof glass.

Same chemical family as the canopies of fighter jets.

Same chemical family as the windshields on airliners that get hit by birds at five hundred miles per hour and do not shatter.

It is the plastic engineers specifically use when they need something to absorb a blow so that whatever is behind it can keep going.

Beloved — the only piece of my car that came home with me — was the piece engineered to take a hit so something else could survive.

Friends — if you are looking for a gospel illustration, look no further.

That is the cross. That is Jesus. That is Isaiah 53:5 in industrial plastic form.

“But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” — Isaiah 53:5

PMMA absorbs the blow so what is behind it can keep going.

Christ absorbed the blow so I could keep going.

That is the entire Bible in one acronym you cannot pronounce.

Second — The Arrow Points UP

Look at it. There is a literal arrow embossed on the back of the part. Next to two letters: “L UP” with the arrow pointing skyward.

Now — from an engineering perspective — the arrow exists so the assembly line worker in Yokohama knows which direction the part goes when it is installed in the car. Nothing mystical. Just industrial orientation.

But beloved.

The Nissan corporation, without consulting me and without consulting the Holy Spirit — stamped a small directional arrow on the only piece of my totaled car that survived —

And the arrow points UP.

That commenter wasn’t wrong. By God’s standards — I am going UP.

And the only piece of evidence God left in my hands — the only piece — agrees with him.

The world looks at my life this year and sees a man losing things. House. Car. Stability. Reputation. The metrics of the American dream.

And God hands me back one piece of plastic with an arrow on it that says —

“Son. You’ve been reading the wrong scoreboard.”

“Son. This is the direction you are actually going.”

“THE ARROW POINTS UP.”

Third — The Part Number

Look at the numbers stamped above the NISSAN logo. 76891 6GP0A.

That is the unique part number.

There is one of those numbers per part.

Every piece of trim, every panel, every nut and bolt in that car had its own number.

Beloved — the Nissan Motor Company tracks every single piece of plastic that goes into every single Z that comes off the line.

Why?

Because if a part fails — they want to be able to trace it back.

To know what batch it came from.

To know what factory made it.

To know who is responsible for it.

They keep records that are obsessive.

And friends — read this with me —

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” — Matthew 10:29–31

If Nissan can number every piece of plastic in a sports car —

How much more does the One who made you keep track of every hair on your head?

Every part of you is numbered. Every part of you is known. Every part of you is accounted for.

And friend — when the wreck of your life comes — and it will come —the One who made you is going to walk through the wreckage with a clipboard and check off your name and say —

“This one is Mine. I made this one. I have been tracking this one since the foundation of the world. Bring this one home.”

What I Am Going To Do With This Piece Of Plastic

Right after I finish writing this devotional, I am going to do something with this piece of trim.

I am going to hang it on the wall of my office at the church.

Not in a frame. Not behind glass. Not labeled with a brass plate that says “In Memoriam: The 2024 Nissan Z Proto Spec.”

[Though I admit I considered it.]

Just — a screw. And the part. Hanging there. Embossed side facing out. Arrow pointing up.

And every time I walk into my office at Grace — every time I sit down to write a sermon, every time I open a counseling appointment, every time I get an email from a member who wants to tell me everything wrong with my last sermon —

I am going to look at that piece of plastic.

And I am going to remember:

I was given a coupon. I was given a second chance. I was given more time to be a Hope Dealer.

More time to drink coffee with my wife. More time to call my boys. More time to go back to Honduras and do the work down there that has been calling my name for years. More time to preach the good news.

More time to live the life God has actually called me to live — instead of the life I was carefully managing on my way to my own funeral.

And every time I look at that arrow on the back of that part —

I am going to remember that God was in the car with me.

And He still is.

And One Last Word To The Commenter

To the online member of our church who left the comment —

“How does it feel to be homeless and car-less?”

Brother. Sister. I know who you are, and you know me…

I want you to know I read your comment four times. The first time I was offended. The second time I was hurt. The third time I was annoyed.

The fourth time —

I realized you had accidentally given me the title of this devotional.

By God’s standards, you seem to be going UP.

Friend — you were more prophetic than you knew.

And I want to thank you. Because sometimes the Holy Spirit speaks through angels. Sometimes through Scripture. Sometimes through a Saturday morning Trail Boss.

And sometimes —

— through a slightly clumsy YouTube comment from a well-meaning member I have never met.

Thank you. I needed to hear it.

And One Last Word To You

Friend —

Whatever piece of your life feels totaled today —Whatever marriage. Whatever career. Whatever financial dream. Whatever relationship. Whatever season.

Whatever piece of you was carved by a Trail Boss you did not see coming —

Turn the part over.

Look at the back of it.

There is an arrow on it. And the arrow points UP.

Because the One who knit you together in your mother’s womb knows the part number.

And the One who absorbed the impact of every sin you have ever committed and ever will commit — is still tracking you through the wreckage.

By the world’s metrics, you may look like a totaled car.

By God’s metrics —

You are still pointing UP.

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The best is yet to come.

Your Hope Dealer,

Rookie Roberts, John 2.0

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P.S. — If you want to come see the piece of plastic on the wall of my office at Grace, the door is open all week. Bring your own coffee. I can supply a chair, a Bible, and an unscheduled hour for whatever is sitting on your shoulder.