Tailgating the Holy Spirit

I don’t multitask well while driving. If my phone rings or I need to change the XM channel, you don’t want to be in the lane next to me.
So, as the ragged roar of race cars passed my pit row perch at Andretti Racing School, I thought, “How am I going to watch all of my instruments at 160mph—and not hit the wall?” Later, during our pre-race van laps of Lowes Motor Speedway’s 24º-banked track, that question got amplified with the introduction of signal flags, racing lines [think lanes on a highway], and marks to hit—plus the promise of other student vehicles to be added to the degree of difficulty.
Thankfully, Mr. Andretti and his staff must have known I was coming. We rookie Indy racers were herded into a classroom to hear the answer. The brochure had promised speeds up to 165mph in our retired race cars; the instructor didn’t promise a speed mark. He did ask, though. “Who’s going to drive the fastest today?”
I didn’t want to be a statistic—even if with a cool obituary ending—or “the” student to be the story used for decades of future pre-race classes. Internally, I decided to concentrate on safety rather than the speed that originally drew me to this adventure and quietly refrained from answering aloud.
“There are no instruments in your cars,” announced the instructor. Other than the steering wheel and a USB camera jack, our dashes were stripped and bare. “All you have to do is follow your lead car. When he moves, you move. At your speed, this will put your car where his went.”
The well-insured teacher continued to tell us that we needed to stay within four to six car lengths of the instructor at all times. “If you start to lag, your lead car will know to slow to accommodate you. If you get too close, he’ll slow; and you’ll start an accordion process that will take up to three laps to correct. You don’t get many laps here; so, you want to stay in those four to six car lengths.”
I need to pause to tell you that at 150+mph, four or even six car lengths feels like tailgating—even to a recovering, aggressive tailgater like me.
The instructor then told us that we’d get the best experience following our lead rather than trying to hit a goal speed in our heads. “That’s why we don’t put speedometers in your cars: we want you to focus on the car in front of you.”
“You need to trust your lead car. If he leaves the lines we told you to follow, don’t worry about your marks. Just follow your lead car. He won’t take you anywhere you can’t handle.”
Fast forward to my 28 laps . . . an incredible adrenaline rush—and a new respect for the men and women who muscle these steering wheels at 200+mph. I fought to follow the maroon fuselage and spoiler in front of me, wrestling rubber in the corners and trying to keep the adjustments small. In the end, I would surpass 180mph at least five times, posting a 185.38mph top speed—far above my expectations. I had no idea I was going that fast. I was just keeping up with the car in front of me.
I probably never would have driven that fast, if I’d been given a self-serve speed dial instead of a rear-view mirrored lead car. When the school released four more (slower, beginner student) cars onto the loop, a checklist would have frozen me, slowed me—stolen a lion’s share of the adrenaline rush. Instead, I followed a blurting muffler “high side” through the corners between another set of cars and a blurring fence with crash-marred wall. Construction jersey walls intimidate me in traffic; race walls at 140+mph? Full adrenal dump.
For so many years of my life, my view of the Christian walk—the endurance race to heaven—focused on following the self-serve checklists of an almost-Deistic Creator. I had church pit stops to remind me of the lines, the tips, the need to trust what I’ve been told. As someone who applied my conservative political approach to my faith, I focused on the security of tradition over the adventure of the journey.
What is changing, though, is my recognition of my lead car. To circumvent your Sunday school guess: no, not Jesus. Like Mario Andretti, he paved the way and developed the principles for the experience. His work and words are the foundation of the whole deal. But I never met Mr. Andretti in person; and he definitely didn’t sit in the seat of my lead car. I’m still waiting to see Jesus’ face, too.
I’ve been introduced to a Holy Spirit I never recognized. I don’t blame the King James, but my view of the Invisible God formerly resembled a ghost. I knew he had been incredibly active and present in centuries past; but I chose to see only a haunting, lingering presence remaining now mostly to occupy the soul in lieu of the alternative.
I saw the Spirit as a conscience, the part of me that told me when I was doing wrong. His role was to remind me of the rules—like a pit crew chief into my helmet. Almost like a séance, I would ask God stuff and expect the Spirit to answer for Heaven.
What I’m experiencing now feels game-changing. I always knew he put burdens or people on my heart and sometimes even words in my mouth (or fingers). But it’s at a whole new level now. God’s up to something. He’s got me on an adventure. And the Spirit seems more present, more active—undeniably right in front of me.
It’s a wrestle, sometimes seemingly counter intuitive—or at least not naturally-inclined. It can feel like driving an Indy car at times, right down to the exciting, post-rush reflections.
As I abandon my goals for follow-ship, I’m surpassing my expectations for my Christian life. As I lay aside the templates, I’m finding a presence that can’t be measured. As I’m letting go of my OCD, checklist faith, I’m growing in my confidence that the Christian life does trump the alternative—and not just for the post-death part.
The stakes are high. There is an adventure to be owned, an experience to be shared. It can be mine.
It just requires some supernatural tailgating.