I-20 construction has become an exercise in enduring a spiritual test. Those of headed west from Ruston or east to Ruston must face the challenge of merging into one lane around the construction. It is maddening. It is also instructive.
Let us begin with a confession: merging onto the interstate in Louisiana is not for the faint of heart. It is a spiritual exercise in chaos theory, a test of faith, and occasionally, a near-death experience. One might say it resembles the early church—passionate, unpredictable, and occasionally in need of divine intervention.
Contrast this with the Northwest, where merging is a liturgy. Drivers there glide like synchronized swimmers in a baptismal pool of asphalt. They signal. They yield. They make space. It’s as if they’ve read Romans 12:10—“Outdo one another in showing honor”—and applied it to traffic patterns.
But what if merging isn’t just about traffic? What if it’s a metaphor for fellowship?
In the church, we speak often of “fellowship,” that sacred mingling of souls in potluck lines and small group gatherings. But true fellowship—like merging—isn’t just proximity. It’s intentional movement toward one another. It’s the art of adjusting speed, checking blind spots, and sometimes braking for someone who’s still figuring out their spiritual GPS.
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Consider the Apostle Paul. He was a master merger. One moment he’s persecuting Christians, the next he’s writing half the New Testament and hosting small groups in Philippi. He didn’t just join the faith; he merged into it—yielding to grace, accelerating toward purpose, and signaling his transformation with every epistle.
In merging, as in fellowship, timing is everything. Too fast, and you risk colliding. Too slow, and you cause confusion. The church, too, must learn this rhythm. We must make space for the hesitant, the wounded, the ones still figuring out which lane they belong in. We must resist the urge to honk our theological horns or tailgate someone into conformity.
And let us not forget the sacred blinker. In traffic, it’s a sign of intention. In fellowship, it’s vulnerability. It says, “I’m trying to join you. I’m not perfect, but I’m coming alongside.” The church thrives when we honor the blinker—when we respond not with suspicion, but with grace.
Of course, there are spiritual roadblocks. Pride. Judgment. The occasional congregant who drives a theological monster truck and refuses to yield. But even these can be navigated with patience and prayer. After all, Jesus merged with humanity itself—God taking on flesh, signaling love, and entering our lane with humility.
So next time you’re on the interstate, and a fellow Louisianan or visiting Texan barrels down the ramp like they’re auditioning for a Fast & Furious sequel, take a breath. Remember that merging is messy. Fellowship is, too. But both are holy.
Because in the end, the church is not a convoy of perfect drivers. It’s a caravan of grace—bumper to bumper, blinker to blinker, learning to merge our lives into one body, one Spirit, one glorious journey toward the Kingdom.
And if all else fails, just wave. It’s the universal sign of fellowship. Even in traffic.
Doug de Graffenried is the Senior Pastor of Trinity Methodist Church in Ruston, Louisiana. You can reach Doug at his email: DougDeGraffenried
