A Liturgy for Selling a Car
A Service of Confession, Frustration, and Facebook Marketplace (Messed-Up But Managing #22)
Call to Posting:
Dear Friends and Family, Loved Ones, let us now gather in the presence of the Almighty and the Internet and declare, with shaky hands and a bit of generous exaggeration, that this Jeep is in “great condition.” May the photos be flattering, the VIN be correct, and any issue remain hidden long enough to be someone else’s problem.
Opening Prayer:
Lord, bless this 2016 Jeep Wrangler with only 39,000 miles, an oversized cup holder, and that mysterious rattle no mechanic has ever fixed but which is most likely just the hook on the winch clanging around. May this Wrangler, cared for and loved, and only crashed once, find a new home among the desperate and mechanically inclined.
Confession of Hope:
Let us confess: We believe in the myth of market value. We proclaim that Kelley Blue Book is sometimes true. Let us tell ourselves we can get $22,000 for this vehicle even though deep in our hearts we know it’s worth a ham sandwich and a strong handshake.
The Silence of No Response:
And now, brothers and sisters, let us wait. We shall wait in the sacred stillness and silence of Facebook Marketplace. We shall refresh. We shall pray. We shall wonder if something is wrong with the listing. We shall text our spouse, “Is this thing working?” even though we both know it’s been 30 minutes. And lo, there is no reply.
The First Message of the Stranger:
And on the third day, there comes a ping. A message from someone named “Justin (No Profile Picture).” Let us greet Justin with a holy salutation: “Interested?” And let us welcome his reply, “Still available?” May we respond with enthusiasm and trembling: “Yes.” And let us grieve that Justin is never heard from again.
The Responsive Reading of the Back-and-Forth:
And behold, a new stranger arrives on the scene: Lisa. This sister’s not playing games. She asks for the VIN. We offer it like a gift on the altar. She asks if it’s been in any accidents. We lie the best we can without technically lying. She asks for more photos. We clean the car for the first time in 11 months and discover three Legos, a petrified french fry, and a sock we thought had been raptured.
The Ritual of Meeting:
Now, let us gather together. Let us both agree to meet in a neutral location that feels both safe and a little bit murdery. A gas station parking lot at 6:30pm. Let us arrive early. Let us text Lisa. Let her arrive late. We shall perform the sacred ritual of pointing at the car while saying things like “runs good” and “just passed inspection.” She shall walk slowly around the car like a lion circling wounded prey. She shall point out scratches that were clearly made by God Himself. She shall sigh. We shall nod.
The Reading of Complaints:
In the presence of our Lord, let Lisa test-drive it while we ride along and make nervous jokes about how the brakes just “take some getting used to.” She mentions the alignment. The smell. The faint ticking sound that only dogs can hear. We pretend we’ve never noticed any of it. Even though, as God is our witness, we have. Every single day.
The Passing of the Barter:
Let our hearts be glad that she makes an offer. May it not be taken as the insult it is to both us and our ancestors. Instead, let us laugh. Except Lisa. She doesn’t laugh. Let us counter. Let her frown. She shall say her mechanic can take a look. We agree because our confidence is blind and our dignity is almost gone.
The Pilgrimage to Her Mechanic:
Before God and all creation, let us drive to a random man named Doug who works out of a garage behind a vape shop. He wears a headlamp and speaks in growls. Doug finds five things wrong with the car. Three of them are new to science. Lisa says she needs to think about it. Let us realize this is code for “I’m going to ghost you now.”
The Benediction of Rejection:
And so, we shall return home. No sale. No dignity. Just 45 new photos of our car on our phone. Let us, with a vague sense of spiritual fatigue, wipe the dashboard just as the priest wipes the chalice. And let us whisper a blessing over the Jeep. “Maybe next time, old friend.” And then, let us repost. Again.
The Peace:
And now, turn to you your spouse, nod, and say, “It’ll sell eventually.” Let both of us silently pray that the next person to message us isn’t another rando with no profile picture.
And all the people said:
Amen.