I would have been less surprised seeing an elephant walking past — carrying a Raja, with rubies, perched high on a throne. I certainly would have felt less nervous for the elephant’s and the Raja’s well-being.
What I saw took place in a context that had me in a reflective mindset. I was on a journey both geographic and contemplative. My 84-year-old father had just been informed of having stage four cancer, and I was headed to spend Palm Sunday with him, prior to taking him to an oncologist appointment where I knew the diagnosis would be confirmed and he would decline treatment.
Brad Bull
On top of all that, it was the longest trip I would be making as a new owner of an electric vehicle. But it wasn’t just a change of fuel formats. I’m an ordained Baptist minister and “native” Tennessean who just happened to be born in 1965 in Fort Worth, Texas, while my parents were in seminary. My family nurtured devotion to three powers: Jesus Christ, the Dallas Cowboys and the Ford Motor Co. But then Jerry Jones fired Coach Tom Landry, and we lost almost all interest in pro football. In terms of cars, as with football, the ultimate allegiance was to quality of character, and even my father converted to Toyota years ago. But to buy a Chevy? You might as well be buying your mother a used jock strap off Craig’s List for Mother’s Day.
But copious research had revealed that — combined with a Kia hybrid plug-in for long trips — the Chevy Bolt was the best value for my and my wife’s needs. The deal got sealed by a Reddit review: “Worst mistake I ever made was trading my Bolt for a Ford Mustang Mach-E.” A commenter replied, “I made the same mistake. I so miss my Bolt.”
Fully charged, my second-hand 2018 Bolt has a range of about 243 miles. It’s 173 miles from Nashville to my parents’ house in East Tennessee — a journey that quickly moves from Pride flags to Confederate flags. I wasn’t sure if going down the east side of the Cumberland Plateau would offset climbing the west side. So, halfway to my childhood home, I stopped at Buc-ee’s in Crossville to take advantage of their capacious clean restroom and a long row of superchargers that could give me just enough juice to assure I’d make it to my parents’ home charger for their plugin Prius that sits next to a concrete cross and, not long ago, a Trump sign.
Arriving back at my car, I decided to wait for the charge to reach an even 80%, because 77% just feels weird. I sat there scanning the variety of color and darkness of dusk.
“Two chargers away, my attention was arrested by a sight I’d never seen in person in all my 60 years on earth.”
My gaze slowly scanned from the west to my right, arriving facing east on my left. Two chargers away, my attention was arrested by a sight I’d never seen in person in all my 60 years on earth, especially not in rural Tennessee. I’d seen it only on TV.
On an island of grass, inches from the bumper of a white Tesla, a young Muslim couple was bowed on a prayer mat, foreheads to the ground. They raised up on their knees and then returned to the ground.
On the opposite side of the island and one space farther southeast, a woman in the driver’s seat of a shiny Dodge Ram truck the size and height of a small football stadium was looking down on the couple.
I had several immediate competing thoughts. I’m a photographer and collector of images of beauty, and I was struck by the beauty of the devotion of these two pilgrims surrounded by such contrasts. I wanted to capture this National Geographic-like moment. But the woman in the truck was gawking, and I didn’t want my own type of observation to escalate her type. My mind raced to videos of “Karens” in such situations screaming things like “This is Amurica. Talk Amurican or go back where you come from!” From the look on the woman’s face, I wondered if something like that were about to happen. My mind raced. How would I intervene?
When I realized Truck Woman seemed content to stay in her tank, I eased into a quieter observation.
I remembered in the early 1990s being in a seminary philosophy class taught by Richard Cunningham, author of The Christian Faith and Its Contemporary Rivals. One day in class, he talked about visiting a Buddhist shrine in Tokyo. My ears perked because I had visited the same shrine while enroute to lead a summer camp for missionary kids in the Philippines. Cunnigham said after a few moments of his observation of the shrine, his female missionary host said: “I don’t like coming here. I have a terrible sense of evil.”
Cunningham made a puzzled look as he recounted his reply: “Really? I have a profound sense of the holy.” We went on to talk about the Apostle Paul preaching at Mars Hill, where he didn’t condemn the Athenians’ idols but affirmed their yearning for connection to the sacred.
Cunningham’s experience echoed mine. I had observed Buddhist devotees solemnly praying. But at the entrance to the shrine, I saw three Japanese females and three male U.S. Marines giggling as they went through the motions of waving smoke upon themselves from the entryway jokoro. The Marines obviously were jonesing for something physical later, not something spiritual in the here and now. It was this behavior that profaned the site and my experience. The people bowing reverently in a tradition foreign to me felt more akin to my own spiritual yearnings than those of my fellow Americans who likely would have identified themselves as Christians.
Now, at dusk at Buc-ee’s in Tennessee, headed to begin saying goodbye to my father as the sun of his earthly life descends, I saw a convergence of images. A Tesla. A Dodge Ram. Superchargers in front of me. Gas pumps behind me in the mirror. A Muslim couple bowing toward the east. A woman in a truck, literally looking down on them.
I look inside me. What of my devotion?
Thank you, Muslim Couple Praying at Buc-ee’s. On Palm Sunday Eve, you blessed me on my journey. Blessings on yours.
Brad Bull has served as a hospital chaplain, pastor, professor and therapist. He is freelance writer and speaker. His website is DrBradBull.com.