There are few things that test the fibre of one’s soul like an Ontario spring road. The ice melts, the frost heaves, and suddenly what was once a perfectly respectable street has become a moonscape of asphalt craters large enough to baptize a toddler in. And yet, into these rutted thoroughfares we go—bump, rattle, bump again—because life, ministry, and grace all require us to keep driving.
Preaching, I’ve often thought, is a lot like navigating those roads. You set out Sunday morning with a full tank of good intentions and a sermon that seemed perfectly smooth on paper. But by the time you’re halfway through, you’ve hit theological potholes, pastoral detours, and one or two unexpected sinkholes where your main point used to be. The congregation, God bless them, smile politely and nod, though some may be wondering if your homiletic alignment is off.
The truth is that ministry never travels a perfectly paved highway. It’s more like the back roads of discipleship — sometimes gravel, often muddy, and always in need of patching. There are seasons when the Spirit feels like a reliable GPS, and others when the “Recalculating…” voice drones on as you miss yet another turn. And yet, somewhere in the middle of all that imperfection, grace finds its way through.
I’ve learned not to panic when a sermon doesn’t land quite where I expected. The potholes keep me honest. They remind me that the Gospel isn’t about polished performance — it’s about divine persistence. God keeps showing up in our theological fender-benders and our pastoral wrong turns, not to tow us out of the ditch, but to ride shotgun until we learn the road a little better.
And sometimes, if we’re lucky, a pothole sermon opens into something deeper — a moment of vulnerability, laughter, or shared recognition that none of us, not even the preacher, has this whole “Christian life” thing smoothed out. The Church, after all, is not a fleet of pristine vehicles cruising down the 401; it’s more like a collection of holy jalopies, bumping and sputtering along, powered by faith, hope, and whatever spiritual duct tape we can find.
So, the next time you hit a bump in your preaching — or your living — take heart. Grace still drives. It doesn’t demand a perfect road, only a willing traveller. And if you can keep the wheel steady and your sense of humour intact, you may find that the roughest routes lead to the most unexpected blessings.
After all, it’s not the absence of potholes that makes the journey sacred — it’s the One who rides along with us, smiling at our detours, whispering, “You’re still on the way.”
Companion Prayer
God of holy journeys and bumpy roads,
You travel with us through every rut and crack,
patient when our wheels wobble,
steadfast when our maps make no sense.
Teach us to trust Your presence in the uneven places—
in sermons that stutter, ministries that stall,
and hearts that get lost now and then.
Keep us humble in the potholes
and grateful for the grace that keeps us moving.
In the name of the One who walked dusty, uneven roads for our sake,
Amen.