I have hesitated to tell this story for many years. Not because I was embarrassed by what happened, but because I never wanted it to sound as though I was defending myself. I wasn’t.
Time has a wonderful habit of turning painful experiences into wise teachers and, looking back, I can now see that this isn’t really a story about a car. It is about generosity and jealousy. About assumptions and appearances. About criticism and kindness. And, above all, about discovering the freedom that comes from allowing God – and God alone – to be our Judge.
For decades Killy and I have travelled the length and breadth of Britain proclaiming the good news of Jesus Christ. Our car was far more than a means of transport; it was a mobile office. It carried books, display stands, a lectern, suitcases and, quite often, members of our ministry team. By the time this story begins it had faithfully travelled well over 100,000 miles. It had served us magnificently but it was beginning to show its age. It rattled occasionally, squeaked from time to time and, if cars could pray, ours would probably have been asking for divine healing.
Two of our closest friends owned a BMW dealership. They knew us well. They knew our ministry, the endless travelling, the long hours, the practical realities and the relentless mileage.
One day they invited Killy and me to their showroom. We assumed they simply wanted to catch up over a cup of coffee. Instead, they began asking questions about our car, travel and ministry. After listening carefully they smiled.
‘You need a BMW X5.’
I climbed into it. It was magnificent. Too magnificent. I remember thinking, This is wonderful but it feels too grand.
‘I think it’s too big,’ I admitted.
Without hesitation they replied, ‘Then it’s obvious you need an X3.’
That felt much more like me. Then came a moment I shall never forget. They placed the keys in my hand. ‘It’s yours.’ I laughed, assuming they were joking. They weren’t. ‘Drive it for a year,’ they said. ‘Bring it back and we’ll replace it with a new one. No charge.’
For a few moments I couldn’t speak. Not because it was a BMW. Because it was love.
This wasn’t extravagance. It was generosity.
This wasn’t about status. It was about friendship.
Every good gift is a reminder that God often answers our prayers through the kindness of ordinary people. Sometimes his provision arrives in an envelope. Sometimes through an unexpected meal. Sometimes through the hospitality of friends. On this occasion it arrived with four wheels and a BMW badge.
These dear friends simply wanted to strengthen the ministry they believed in. They knew the miles we travelled. They knew the hours we worked. They knew the practical demands of carrying equipment around the country. They wanted to bless us. They even paid the insurance.
Killy and I drove home overwhelmed by their kindness and thanking God for such remarkable friends.
Our joy lasted less than sixty seconds.
As we arrived home, a member of our church happened to be walking past. He stopped, looked at the BMW, walked directly towards me and, without even saying hello, declared, ‘If you can afford a new BMW, I’m stopping my monthly support of your ministry.’
Then he turned around and walked away.
No greeting. No congratulations. No conversation. No questions. No opportunity to explain. He knew the car. He didn’t know the story.
Sadly, he wasn’t the last person to judge us but he was the first to do so without asking a single question.
As we travelled to churches around the country, comments became increasingly common:
‘I suppose you won’t be needing travel expenses.’
‘If you can afford that, you obviously don’t need an honorarium.’
‘You seem to be doing rather well.’
Again and again people reached conclusions without asking the most obvious question of all: ‘How did you come to have it?’
Nobody asked. Not once. People judged the photograph without reading the caption.
They saw the emblem. They never asked for the backstory.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that many misunderstandings begin with incomplete information.
We see someone’s holiday but not the years they spent saving or the tough year they have had.
We see someone’s smile but not the tears they have cried.
We see the blessing but not the burden that preceded it.
Eventually the criticism became relentless. Not dramatic. Just constant. Like dripping water. One drop hardly matters. But thousands of drops eventually wear away solid rock.
After six weeks Killy and I were emotionally exhausted. With a heavy heart I telephoned our dear friends, explained what had happened and returned the car.
They were heartbroken. So were we.
Instead, we leased a modest vehicle that cost the ministry around £500 every month, plus insurance. Ironically, the BMW had cost us absolutely nothing.
Sometimes what appears extravagant is actually the most economical option, while what appears modest can prove surprisingly expensive.
Appearances can be wonderfully deceptive.
Looking back, I wish I had never returned the car. Not because I wanted a BMW but because it was a gift. I allowed the opinions of people to rob me of the joy of receiving the generosity of friends. I won’t make that mistake again!
Age has taught me that there is extraordinary freedom in living before an audience of One. The apostle Paul discovered that freedom. He wrote: ‘As for me, it matters very little how I might be evaluated by you or by any human authority . . . It is the Lord himself who will examine me and decide’ (1 Corinthians 4:3-4 NLT).
Those are not the words of a proud man. They are the words of a secure man. Paul knew there is only one Judge who knows every fact, every motive, every sacrifice and every hidden act of kindness.
Only God knows the whole story.
Jesus himself said, ‘Do not judge others, and you will not be judged’ (Matthew 7:1 NLT).
He wasn’t telling us to abandon discernment. He was warning us against assuming that we know another person’s motives, heart or circumstances.
One uncomfortable truth I have observed over many years is that jealousy often disguises itself as discernment. It rarely introduces itself honestly. It doesn’t say, ‘I’m jealous.’ Instead it whispers, ‘I’m concerned. It doesn’t look right.’
James exposes what lies beneath: ‘For wherever there is jealousy and selfish ambition, there you will find disorder and evil of every kind’ (James 3:16 NLT).
Jealousy often speaks with a Bible verse in its hand and suspicion in its heart.
Grace delights in another person’s blessing. Jealousy questions it.
Love believes the best. Jealousy assumes the worst.
May I ask a question? Why do some Christians become uncomfortable when missionaries, evangelists or pastors receive generous personal gifts? Why do we instinctively assume that servants of Christ should wear the oldest clothes, drive the cheapest cars and quietly apologise whenever kindness comes their way?
The New Testament certainly calls us to humility, simplicity and generosity. But it never teaches that God’s servants must refuse the generosity of God’s people.
Jesus accepted hospitality. Paul gratefully received gifts from the Philippians and described them as ‘a sweet-smelling sacrifice’ offered to God (Philippians 4:18 NLT).
Receiving generosity with humility is no less spiritual than giving it with joy.
When Mary poured expensive perfume over Jesus, Judas criticised her. Jesus defended her. The criticism wasn’t really about the perfume. It rarely is. Perhaps that’s the greatest lesson I learned.
People judged what they could see. God knew what they couldn’t.
They saw a car. God saw the kindness of generous friends.
They saw a BMW. God saw two weary servants being encouraged for the road ahead.
They saw apparent prosperity. God saw years of faithful service.
They knew the car. God knew the story.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that this is true of almost everyone we meet.
We see a photograph. God knows the album.
We hear one sentence. God knows the conversation.
We witness one moment. God knows a lifetime.
Before we criticise someone, let’s ask:
Do I know the whole story?
Am I interpreting facts or merely appearances?
Would I want someone to reach the same conclusions about me with so little evidence?
Grace is patient enough to ask. Pride is usually too impatient.
Today, if someone handed me those keys again I would receive them with thanksgiving, thank God for faithful friends, and drive to my next preaching engagement with a grateful heart.
Not because I need a BMW. But because I never again want to reject God’s kindness simply because someone else misunderstood it.
One day every hidden motive will be revealed.
Every misunderstanding will be corrected.
Every whispered criticism will be answered.
Every act of generosity will be honoured.
Every backstory will finally be told.
Until then, I want to be slower to judge, quicker to encourage, readier to rejoice in another person’s blessing, and content to leave the final verdict where it has always belonged – in the hands of God.
For in the end there is only one opinion that ultimately matters.
Not yours.
Not mine.
His.
J.John
