I gave the motorcyclist the horn as he swerved with perilous bravado from a side street into the lane in front of me. He gave me the finger in response. An alarmist, blaring horn and an assertive, quiet hand gesture. We both got the message.

After the billowing, brownish exhaust fumes swept over my car like a swelling wave engulfing a seawall, I decided to enjoy the show.

I found myself to be the caboose of an artistic creation of pure, attention-grabbing drama. Something was being spoken in unharmonious pulses of form and color. The biker was wearing severe-looking black leather gear. His jacket was peppered with macabre and messianic memorabilia. He was wearing his religion on his sleeve—with background noise from esoteric slogans, symbols and decorative accessories. He looked to be saying a fusion of feelings. On the back of his bike, above a glittering bumper, an unconvincing, sixties-era peace symbol pleaded to be noticed among competing religious emblems and Earth-centered identifications—problematic contradictions that designated him as a Christian and a pagan. The cyclist tribal look was intimidating, but I reminded myself that looks are deceiving. Was he simply an energized spirit, hungry for attention—or the prisoner of a consuming identification?

A roadway intersection was coming into view. The biker, confident and cool, doubled his speed, elbowed his way through the traffic, and high-tailed it through the juncture. I watched his pestering fumes dissipate into the landscape.

The traffic signal changed from a cautionary yellow to an adamant red as I approached.

My eye was drawn up to the radiance of the red light hovering from the heavens.

STOP.

My attention then shifted from the commanding red light above to the reminding red taillights below on the two cars in front on me. Motionless, serenely in place, they parked perfectly parallel with each other—one in the right lane, the other in the left. Both drivers sat rigid behind their steering wheels, appearing from the back as identical replications of each other: male, same hair color and theme—heavy on gel—begging to be noticed.

My eyes dropped to the bumper stickers on each of these white sedans. Bumper stickers—begging to be noticed. This is the silent, deliberate work of these sticky-paper appendages: Pleading to be paid attention to … announcing … declaring. Some even command you to honk if you agree. The goal is to be influential. They are not interested in open-minded conversations. Both stickers were stuck on the right side of their respective bumpers. Both stickers were stuck tilted to the right. Both stickers were right—just ask the drivers.

Directly ahead of me in the left lane, on the Subaru, in black and white: “Know Jesus, Know Peace; No Jesus, No Peace.”

Across the delineating line, in the right lane, on the Chevrolet, in green and white: “Find Peace with Islam.”

Each man was wearing his religion on his bumper. Each was making a case that “peace” can be found in the belief of a particular, singular, religion.

I held the words close with my eyes. I read the words out loud with solemn enunciation, and then listened to the answering silence inside my vehicle. I looked at the words again. What was I seeing now? Verses. Holy books came to mind. Christians believe the Bible is the true Word of God. Muslims believe the Koran is the perfect Word of God. The Bible says those who do not believe Jesus is the Son of God are condemned (John 3:18). Mohammad said that anyone who believes Jesus was divine will spend an eternity in hell (5:71-75; 19:30-38).

The assumptions now in my face were familiar. Still, I pondered the silent, coincidental “collision” of religious vehicles before me. Both these faith-labeled vehicles, heading in the same direction and endorsing the same direction, found “peace” from two different directions. Both worshiped the same deity, but from different routes. Both categorically put the kibosh on questions or doubts. The two drivers were fastened to beliefs … beliefs in no uncertain terms.

In my mind, Faith was about merciless uncertainly … about hazy things … a specified blurriness. Organized belief makes life completely understood. Be gone ambiguity! All matters of the world are put in their proper place.

I think it is natural to wonder about things. Life is ambiguity. Life is questioning. What would happen to me if I did not live with doubt? I would disappear into belief. Where is that? In the topography of the land called security. Security is comforting. But in this safety-zone, could my true self emerge?—not my dedicated, aspirant self—my valid self? How would I know if I was I working things out for myself?

Peace. They were sitting ten feet apart, and it was safe to presume both drivers had found it—however they each defined it—no yardsticks to measure it.

The traffic signal turned green.

GO.

The Subaru and the Chevrolet proceeded on their way. Neither driver had ventured a curious look at the other during the pause while facing the light.

I watched them as they accelerated. They remained shoulder-to-shoulder. I wondered who would defer to the other when the road merged into a single lane up ahead. I wondered if the follower would then note the other’s sticker and ponder … anything.

How to wring every trickle of meaning out of this unexpected cathartic experience? Was peace the substance of something or the absence of something? I then remembered myself as a youngster at wakes or funerals hearing my older relatives, in calm voices, describe the deceased as, “at peace”.

I listened to my heart beat—softly steady, cleanly calm. My right hand left the steering wheel and I ran a finger across my brow. My heartbeat spoke again. I would call this voice Peace.

I was in motion. As I passed under the traffic signal I looked and pondered the compelling and commanding green light—and what I would look like if I had hair heavy on gel.

The light evoked associations of power, control and order—with an angelic glow. We unconsciously obey even a light bulb. Towering above me, the light grounded me. A seagull lingered overhead—holding its own in the articulating airstream. He or she was in the midst of noisy traffic and looked to be untroubled.

“Passion and peace can never live together”
—Source unknown