A Witness to the Rhythm of Sanctification
I didn’t expect God to test my faith at a car dealership,
standing under fluorescent lights,
talking about trade-in values,
engine replacements,
and dealership policy.
But sanctification rarely happens where we imagine ourselves being heroic.
It happens in the places where our reflexes still belong to the flesh.
And when it did, I realized something I hadn’t fully seen before:
I have spent most of my life protecting the old man.
A few years ago, I bought a Jeep Rubicon JL, a beast of a vehicle, lifted, armored, tuned—
built for extreme off-road adventures I always dreamed of…
but never actually took.
The dealer never disclosed that one of the modifications,
an aftermarket turbo kit,
had blown the engine.
I didn't find out until after the sale that it had been replaced before it was traded in.
Legally, ethically,
I should have been told.
Because there’s a difference between a modified vehicle,
and a vehicle where a modification failed catastrophically.
One adds value.
The other raises questions,
especially in modern vehicles, where everything is tied together,
engine, electronics, heating, diagnostics.
Over the next four years, I only put about 4,000 miles on it,
and nearly the same amount in repair dollars,
including a $2,500 radio replacement, because in modern vehicles everything runs through it,
climate, diagnostics, the works.
And slowly, what I once wanted
became something I carried.
So eventually, I decided to sell it, and that’s where the testing started.
I made a Facebook Marketplace ad
and listed the modifications, the parts—everything that added value.
The new man spoke up:
“Be honest. Include the engine swap.”
But the old reflex pushed back, fast and familiar.
"Let's call it an upgraded engine."
It was brand new, right?
On a vehicle with 30K miles, technically, that’s an upgrade.”
So the truth went in,
but it got softened.
Not an outright lie,
just not the whole truth.
Not long after the ad went up,
a serious buyer expressed interest.
He wanted to come check it out,
but I blew him off.
I could already feel it coming,
the probing, uncomfortable questions,
the moments where I would have to decide, in real time,
what… and how much… to say.
I said to my wife, “Let’s just go look at cars. If we find something, we’ll trade it.”
No negotiation.
No back-and-forth.
No exposure.
Or so I thought.
We went to the dealership,
and found a car we liked.
Everything felt simple,
until it wasn’t.
I didn’t have the Jeep with me,
but I did have a link to my Marketplace Ad,
which had an itemized list of the $25,000 in modifications.
So I handed that to the appraiser, thinking,
“This should help.”
I even did a little selling of my own:
“Imagine the customers this monster would draw in to the dealership.”
The salesman agreed it would definitely turn heads.
I had them,
or so I thought.
Then the appraiser came back, confident look, clipboard in hand.
“Because the engine isn’t original, we’d have to wholesale it…”
That meant they wouldn’t put it on their lot,
they’d send it to auction for a much lower value.
Even though the rest of the vehicle, professionally built, heavily modified,
should have made it worth more, not less.
And in that moment, my heart sank and my face went pale,
not because of the offer,
not because of the number.
But because of one thought:
“How did he find out?”
I had checked.
There was no record of it. No CarFax entry. Nothing obvious.
I was in a panic,
but the old man was only too happy to help.
“Think. How might he have found out?”
“The Vehicle Identification Number!” (aka VIN)
That had to be it.
“Now what do we say?
He’s gotta be thinking we were trying to pull a fast one.”
The appraiser didn’t accuse.
He didn’t question.
He didn’t care whether there was any duplicity.
He had leverage to devalue the vehicle.
That’s all he was concerned with.
But the old man cared.
He cared what the appraiser thought.
He cared that he’d been exposed…
And for one brief, fleeting moment,
he was in the driver’s seat again.
“No problem… we can spin this.”
And blithely I said:
“Of course I knew you’d find that out when you ran the VIN.
I wasn’t trying to deceive you—”
And then before I fully realized what I was doing,
I added the claim…
“I’m a Christian.”
God help me.
I had used the name of Christ
to lend credibility to a lie.
This is why I always referred to myself as a “Believer”
and not a “Christian”,
not because I didn’t want to be associated with “them,”
the hypocrites, the tares…
but because deep down,
I knew.
I was them.
And on that note, I politely declined the offer and went home,
and later, as I replayed it all in my mind, it hit me:
“The listing.”
I had put it in the listing.
I hadn’t been discovered.
I hadn’t been caught.
I had revealed myself.
My sin had found me out.
Before my formation, I would have just shrugged it off.
“Whatever.”
“I’ll never see that guy again.”
“He probably won’t even remember me.”
And that would have been the end of it.
But I had taken the name of Christ
and used it to protect someone…
The old man,
the one who was supposed to be dead.
Everything in me wanted to leave it there.
We don’t need to go back. Don’t be a martyr.
But the answer came just as clearly:
We’re going back. To confess.
So I called the salesman to ask when the appraiser would be in.
When he asked why I wanted to know, I told him what happened—
not a softened, cleaned-up, minimized version,
not one where I looked sympathetic,
but the real one:
the reflex.
the justification.
the “I’m a Christian” claim.
The salesman was excited:
“Oh yes, you just HAVE to tell him!
He’s a Christian! He’ll want to hear this!”
And just like that…
my mind ran with that thought:
“This is awesome!”
“You’re going to look so humble… so contrite.”
“He’ll eat this up.”
“Jesus will be vindicated…”
“Win-win.”
So I arranged a time to meet the appraiser, face to face.
And my mind just reeled,
imagining the moment:
the reconciliation, the tears, the rejoicing.
This was going to be amazing.
God is so good!
But it didn’t play out in person the way it had in my head.
He wasn’t excited like the salesman.
He wasn’t outraged either.
He didn’t even seem particularly moved.
He simply said “I forgive you.”
And that was the end of it.
The old man winced.
But the new man rejoiced.
Because sanctification doesn’t rest on how others respond.
It rests on obedience.
And somewhere in that obedience, something was confronted again…
not loudly,
not emotionally,
but clearly.
The conditioning was exposed.
Ownership was taken.
And what once would have been justified
was surrendered instead.
Because the old man didn’t get covered.
He got exposed.
And that… is where freedom begins.
Because the man who hides nothing fears nothing.
This is the testing of your faith.
And the more we are tested,
and the more we are tried,
the more we learn
to recognize,
to persevere,
and to let the Spirit lead us into all truth.
May your faith be tested too.
And may you come forth as gold.