Don’t Swerve

Not long after Mary and I moved to Franklin, Tennessee in 1987, we gathered our three kids and two Nashville nieces and set out on a Christmas tree hunt. We’d heard about a local tree farm with an outstanding selection, so we borrowed my brother’s larger vehicle and headed out for what we hoped would be a memorable evening.

We had no idea just how memorable it would be.

It was already dark, and the rolling Tennessee hills felt both beautiful and mysterious—maybe even a little dangerous. Sure enough, as we crested a tree-covered rise, a deer appeared just ahead of Robert’s pristine car. In an instant, I made the decision: stay the course. Brakes on—urgently—but no swerving.

Sure enough, contact.

From the back seat, our five-year-old son Erik asked, “Who do you feel worse for—Robert’s car or the deer?”

Humor aside, not swerving meant that the only damage was to the car—and the deer.

This story came to mind again recently as I read Paul’s words to his younger mentee, Timothy:

“O Timothy, guard the deposit entrusted to you. Avoid the irreverent babble and contradictions of what is falsely called ‘knowledge,’ for by professing it some have swerved from the faith.
Grace be with you.” (1 Timothy 6:20–21, ESV)

And again…

“But avoid irreverent babble, for it will lead people into more and more ungodliness, and their talk will spread like gangrene. Among them are Hymenaeus and Philetus, who have swerved from the truth, saying that the resurrection has already happened. They are upsetting the faith of some.” (2 Timothy 2:16–18)

Swerving—not just around a deer, but from the faith. From the truth.

Paul’s letter wasn’t just written to Timothy. It was written to us. To me.

The truth can be uncomfortable. It can get in the way. It can feel like an obstacle—especially when it challenges my comfort or confronts my most cherished assumptions.

And when that happens, my instinct is to swerve. A hard turn into the unknown, into a ditch I don’t fully understand but which, in the moment, feels easier—maybe even safer.

I swerve because I don’t trust the love of God.
I swerve because staying the course is costly.
I swerve because everyone else seems to be doing it.
I swerve because I’m not ready to accept that every person bears the image of God.
I swerve because biblical definitions feel narrow or outdated.
I swerve because I doubt.
I swerve because I still think I’m in control.

And in swerving, I veer away—from truth, from love, from obedience, from sacrifice, from selflessness.

The ditch is worse. I just may not realize it… yet.

On a cold, dark night in Tennessee, I dented my brother’s car—but the things I cared most about were safe. And in the quietness of a morning walk through Paul’s letter, I’m reminded to do the same in my walk with Jesus.

Don’t swerve.