Many years ago, my office was treated to a moment of catastrophe. My father-in-law, a generous man but with a knack for doing things his way, stopped by to borrow our diesel Volvo while his own car was in the shop. Later that afternoon, he dropped the keys on my desk and cheerfully announced as he headed for the door, “By the way, I filled it up with gas. You were dead empty.”
My stomach dropped, an immediate, cold wave of panic. “You mean you filled it up with Diesel, don’t you?”
He looked confused. “No, gasoline. Regular unleaded.”
I knew instantly that we had crossed a mechanical Rubicon. The dealer’s emergency tow truck, the subsequent dismantling of the entire fuel system, and many dollars later, came with a reassuring but hollow guarantee: “It’s as good as new.” It wasn’t. The engine always sounded subtly rougher, the idle always hesitated. We sold that car, one of our favorite automobiles, just six months later, casualties of an honest but catastrophic mistake. Once the wrong fuel is introduced, the system is fundamentally, perhaps permanently, compromised.
I tell this story because lately, I’ve been hearing the same noxious knocking in the engine of public life. It seems that too many people, from our community leaders to random commenters online, are running on the wrong fuel.
They aren’t fueled by thought or reason; they’re running on high-octane meanness. They’re chronically angry, mean-spirited, and quick to ignite, demonstrating a low flash point and a short fuse. Their relational systems are compromised: they sputter in toxic arguments, overheat in moments of minor disagreement, and seize up when patience is required. They were, perhaps inadvertently, filled with the wrong psychological and emotional blend, and yet, no one seems to have suggested a tank flushing. They just keep driving, spreading the fumes of their hostility.
The Symptoms are clear. A healthy “engine” runs cool, efficiently, and with minimal noise. An engine running on anger and hate, however, runs hot, loud, and inefficiently. It shakes the vehicle—the community, the workplace, the home—until the integrity of the whole structure is threatened. We see the equivalent of a blown gasket every day: relationships failing, debates turning into shouting matches, and trust corroding until the whole system stalls.
But here is where the human spirit is superior to my old Volvo. Our system, unlike that compromised metal, can not only be repaired but made better than ever. A good spiritual and ethical flushing, though painful, will not ruin the system—it will cause it to run smoother than any new machine.
We have the power to consciously choose our fuel grade. Substitute the solvent of kindness for meanness, the lubricant of love for hate, and the steady coolant of patience for a quick temper. When we make that deliberate choice to empty the tank of its toxic residue and refill it with a higher-quality blend, our systems stop knocking and start purring. We become the elegant, powerful machines we were meant to be—like an Austin-Healey 3000 in overdrive, effortlessly navigating the road ahead. Our output becomes beautiful noise, not acrid smoke.
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