Sunday Sermons

Real loud. Real sacred. Delivered weekly from under lifted rigs and greasy pulpits.

SUNDAY SERMON OF THE RADIATOR

📖 Reading from the Book of Coolant, Chapter 1, Verse 3:

“And the heat rose in fury,
but the faithful did not flee —
they turned on the fan,
poured in water,
and kept on climbing.”

🛠 Brothers and sisters in cracked hoses and rusted cores,

Today, we don’t gather to stay cool —
we gather to learn how to keep from boiling over.

This sermon ain’t about horsepower.
It’s about heat.
The pressure under the hood.
That moment the needle hits red —
and you gotta choose: stop, or fight through steam.
🚛 Let’s talk Radiator.

Not the kind you buy new and brag about on forums.
I mean the kind patched with JB Weld, prayers,
and the last of your bottled water.

People think strength is about speed.
But true strength?
That’s temperature management.

It’s not how fast you go —
it’s whether you can keep going when everything’s screaming.
🔥 Let me tell you a story:

There was a man — lean, dusty,
ran a ‘78 Chevy with a radiator so crusty
it looked like it fought in ‘Nam.

He was hauling a trailer full of fence posts
through desert heat so raw, the asphalt cried.

At mile 47, steam rose.
Dashboard lit up like Christmas.
Water gone. No fan. Just faith.

Did he panic?
Did he call for a tow?
Did he curl up in the seat and sob like a hybrid driver in traffic?

HELL NO.

He found an old Gatorade bottle in the ditch,
peed in it without blinking,
poured it straight into the overflow,
and yelled to the heavens:

“I AM THE COOLANT NOW!”

And that truck —
that steaming, rattling, overheating son of a steel gospel —
made it.

Because the Carburetor doesn’t abandon those who boil.
He tests them.
He pressurizes them.
He asks:

“Will you quit, or will you vent and keep rolling?”

🙏 Radiator Prayer:

Oh Holy Carburetor,
who balanced fire with fluid,
cool my fury when the climb gets steep.
Bless my hoses, cracked and wheezing.
Keep my head from warping,
and my cap from blowing.
Lead me not into meltdown,
but through valleys of heat with faith and fan spinning.
For thine is the flow, the pressure, and the overflow,
forever circulating.
Amen.

📣 Final Words:

If your gauge climbs — watch it.
If it hisses — respect it.
If it blows — rebuild it.

A man ain’t judged by how cool he looks,
but by how hot he runs and still don’t quit.

You are not weak for overheating —
you are strong for venting and rolling on.

You are the coolant in the system.
The flow in the fire.
🔧 Go forth.
Steam.
And survive.

Fuel be with y’all.

SUNDAY SERMON OF THE EXHAUST

Reading from the Book of Underframe, Chapter 2, Verse 7:
“And the pipe that bore the roar grew weak with rust,
but the faithful did not mock it —
they patched it with holy weld and let the fumes rise again.”

Brothers and sisters in smoke and steel,

Today we gather not in silence, but in rumble. In echo. In blessed noise that rolls from tailpipes of the chosen.
For the exhaust is not just a pipe. It is a vessel. A prophet.
It takes in the wrath of combustion and sends it screaming into the void.
Without it, our engines would choke in their own fury.

But oh, how we forget.

We polish our hoods. We shine our rims. We detail our dashboards with wipes that smell like pine.
But underneath? Rust eats. Salt devours.
And the exhaust — holy, unglamorous — is left to rot like a preacher in a flooded crawlspace.

Let me tell you a story.

There was a man — simple, honest, ran a ‘94 F-250 with no shame and no muffler.
He loved that truck like kin.
But one day, while crossing a creek bed that smelled of diesel and frogs, his pipe gave way.
It cracked in two like a sinner's promise.

He could’ve cried. Could’ve sold it to a dealer in town.
But instead, he whispered:
“This ain’t the end. This is just a louder beginning.”

He crawled under that frame with nothing but a coat hanger, some beer can metal, and a Bic lighter.
And when he rose, soot-faced and coughing,
the pipe held.
Not pretty. Not quiet. But holy.

Because you see, brothers — it’s not about perfection.
It’s about persistence.
It’s about doing what you can with what you’ve got — and screaming defiance through a leaking flange.

Don’t let this world shame you for the noise you make.
Don’t let ‘em look down on your rust.
Because every scar on your exhaust is a hymn.
Every backfire is a prayer in diesel tongues.

Let ‘em plug in their cars and plug up their lives.
We run on fumes and fury.
We live with a check engine light on — and that’s called faith.

Exhaust Prayer:
"Oh Carburetor divine,
who feeds the flame and bears the smoke,
bless my tailpipe, cracked and singing.
Keep the rust from my flange
and the fuzz from my muffler.
Lead me not to silence,
but to glorious, obnoxious volume.
For thine is the rumble, the rev, and the road,
forever turning and forever loud.
Amen."

And now, a second reading — Book of Underframe, Chapter 4, Verse 12:
“Blessed is the man whose weld holds through winter,
who fears not the annual inspection,
for he shall inherit the shoulder lane and pass the Prius in glory.”

Final Words:

If your pipe rattles, thank it.
If it leaks, salute it.
If your neighbors complain — smile and wave.

Because you are part of something bigger than bolts and bends.
You are the roar in the stillness.
You are the sermon in the smog.

And the Church of the Carburetor hears you.
Not in silence.
But in blessed, sacred, gut-deep noise.

Go forth, and rattle the world.
Fuel be with y’all.

SUNDAY SERMON OF…hmm

Brothers and sisters in carbon and compression,
last Sunday I was all set to preach. Had the Holy Manual cracked open, the organ hummin’ low, candles lit with a butane torch, and a 13mm wrench gripped like the staff of Moses. But then… the phone rang. “Uncle Earl’s in the ditch. Ram 2500’s down in the corn, no signal, no brakes, and no clue.” So I shut the Good Book, fired up the truck, and hit the road like a prophet on a rescue mission.

When I got there, Earl was sittin’ on his hood like he just seen the apocalypse. Claimed “brakes vanished like morals in California,” and his rear axle was restin’ on a concrete block like it lost the will to live. We said a quick prayer, cracked open a few gospel-flavored beers, and got to work. Two hours diggin’ for a fuse that don’t exist. Three hours chasin’ a brake fluid leak that turned out to be in his boot. Fourth hour? Philosophizin’ on whether “fixed” is real, or if all things just rattle less over time.

Now I had the sermon. I had the fire. But by the time I got back, the sun was down, the hood was cold, and my spirit was still layin’ somewhere out there next to Earl’s busted diff. And I realized: sometimes, even a preacher’s gotta shut up. Not from laziness — but from respect for the noise of real life. That day wasn’t sermon-free… it was field service, complete with hammer, torch, and a whispered plea to just let her get us home.

So I thank y’all for your patience. And I swear on the spark plugs of my soul — today we preach loud, on time, and without excuses. Unless somethin’ sacred breaks again. But even then — like it says in the Book of Seals, Chapter 4:
“Let every delay serve only to raise the pressure.”
Amen.