It’s one thing to press play and sing the song of the redeemed when we’re standing on the banks of the Red Sea. God has delivered us, and our enemies are dead. That party is pretty easy to start.

But here’s the problem: Life doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes the Red Sea stays closed. Sometimes instead of our enemies getting their lunch handed to them, it’s we who find ourselves feeling defeated. What do you do when the test results come back, and it really is as bad as you feared? What do you do when he says, “I just don’t want to be married anymore”? When you pray and pray and you still end up where you started?

In those dark hours we are faced with a choice. Do we press play? Or do we press pause?

“Wait a second, God. I don’t like this story anymore. This isn’t what I signed up for. I signed up for the good parts — the Red Sea parts — the deliverance parts. I don’t want to play this role. Time out. Somebody hit the pause button.”

That thought has probably occurred to all of us at some point in time. But it is those rare, brave souls who somehow muster the strength to press play in the midst of darkness, pain and confusion — they are the real heroes of faith. Mother Teresa. Paul and Silas. Jenny Runkel. Job. Terry Giboney. Polycarp. Men and women — some famous, some not — people of quiet strength whose choice to press play cranked up the volume on the soundtrack for the story of God in a way so people who never would have otherwise had a chance to hear it would.

You know people like that. You may be a person like that. We all have the choice — when the darkness closes in and the path is hard to see, harder still to climb — will we press pause? Or will we press play?

Every group of people has a song. Americans stand for “The Star-Spangled Banner”; it’s our song. Schools have fight songs. Certain denominations have songs that they rally behind. Baptists I know love “Great Is Thy Faithfulness”; I like it, too, even though I’m not Baptist. The song I grew up with was called “Our God, He Is Alive”. It was song #728b in our hymnal, and all the song leader had to do was call out that number. Everyone knew the words and knew that we would be standing for this one. My friend Dane will always stand and sing whenever he hears “Hail to the Redskins”; it’s his song.

For some it’s “Brick House” by the Commodores. For others it’s “Baba O’Riley” by The Who. “Imagine” by John Lennon. “It’s Raining Men” by The Weather Girls. Each of these songs is associated with various friends.

For the record, when Jill and I got married, our song was “My Romance” — the old Rogers and Hart standard. It’s a little obscure, but we’ve never really been what you would call mainstream.

Every group of people have a song, and their song reveals something about who they are and what’s going on in their story. When certain things happen in your story, somebody press play and let’s hear “our song”!

The people of God are the same. We have a song; it’s called “The Song of the Redeemed”. It’s been sung in various places — a wilderness near the Red Sea, a jail cell in Philippi, an opulent cathedral, a tiny church building. The tune changes — as does the instrumentation — but the song remains the same. It is the soundtrack to the story of God — the song only those who have been redeemed from slavery and despair and certain doom can sing.

Tonight I get to go and talk to a group of teenagers about this song. I’m in a place where churches are still wounded and confused by the worship wars that swept through Christianity a few years ago. Suddenly, the old songs didn’t work anymore. The lyrics were archaic and hard to understand. The tunes were hard to hear and sing. The melody lines were quaint and difficult. So, new songs were invented.

I would have hoped that older people would be mature enough to know that this isn’t about them. The songs we sing (or don’t sing) don’t have to be their favorites. New songs are just as good — in some cases much better than the songs I grew up on. I would also have hoped that younger people would be thoughtful enough to know that this isn’t about them, either. That tradition is something we should honor. Old songs still have much to teach us — deep truths that we neglect at our own risk.

Sadly, neither of these was the case. Old people got mad. Young people got mad. Churches split. Communities were torn apart. Families chose sides, and none of it honored God very well.

Old songs — new songs — the song is the same. We all sing “The Song of the Redeemed”, and the question really isn’t do you like the music? The question is how attached are you to the story? The songs we sing are sung in response to the story of God that is unfolding around us everywhere all the time. When certain things happen in our story, somebody press play and let’s hear our song!

I’m in Gautier, Mississippi. Who knew it’s pronounced go-shay?

Anyway, I’m here spending some time with my friend John Dobbs, and in a couple of hours I have the challenge of trying to explain to a group of teenagers that life is not all about them. I’ll try to tell them that they’re significant and that their lives have meaning and purpose and all that. But I have to be truthful and emphasize the fact that there is a much bigger story playing out around them.

Of course, as is always the case for me, this message will be filled with self-talk. I need to hear this message probably more than they do.

In life, I have a couple of options. I can choose to be the star of my own story. It’s a relatively small story with a tiny budget, and I have to write, direct, produce, act and do my own hair and makeup. I’m exhausted just thinking about all that.

Or I can choose to play a supporting role in someone else’s story. To be precise — God’s story. His story has no beginning and no end, it has an unlimited budget and the wrap party promises to be something we can’t even begin to imagine.

The only problem is I don’t get to be the star.

Of course, it’s a much better movie, and — because there’s someone else writing, producing and directing this thing — I won’t run myself ragged and drive everyone around me insane.

So, the choice is mine. Do I want to star in my own little story? Or do I want to play a supporting role in the greatest story ever told?

Where am I today? I’m in Gautier, Mississippi. I’m at a crossroads. I’m the same place I am most days — caught between wanting to be the star and wanting to experience the rest and fulfillment that God promises if only I’ll turn loose of this thing called life and let him write me a part.

Samuel was the last judge of Israel in the Old Testament. He was also called a seer and prophet, and his life marks a major transition in the history of God’s people. After the people reject God’s leadership, Samuel is called upon by God to anoint a young man named Saul to be their first king. God’s desire to create a people unlike any other — a people who stand on equal ground before their Ruler and God — a people who will be a beacon of light in an otherwise dark world — a people marked by generosity and care for the marginalized — God’s dream of forming a community through whom he could bless the entire world is momentarily put on hold.

When Samuel dies, the people mourn. They weep because they knew the spiritual water level receded a little without him. They wept tears of gratitude because of his passion for God, courageous leadership, fiery honesty, his love and devotion for them. The wept because of the man he had been.

A few chapters later, Saul dies, and when he does the people weep again. But this time they have to be commanded to weep. They don’t really mourn the loss of Saul as much as they mourn the man he could have been — the man he never became. He was 30 years old when he became king. He was tall and strong and full of so much potential. He was humble and stood head and shoulders above everyone else. The Spirit of God came upon him, and he was beautiful to behold. So much promise. So little to show for it.

He didn’t set out to be evil. But bit by bit, choice by choice he just drifted for 42 years allowing his anxiety to get the best of him time after time. Anxiety becoming fear becoming paranoia becoming envy becoming hatred. In the end he takes his own life and dies estranged from his family and from the God who made him king. He had been out looking for donkeys when God interrupted his life with this amazing opportunity. And Saul threw it away because he would not surrender his anxious heart to God.

What might have been? What might the nation have become? That’s why the people mourn.

I did my grandfather’s funeral yesterday. And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own mortality. That’s what funerals do, right?

I’ve been wondering: When I die, will people weep for the man I was or for the man I never became?

He called my grandmother “Fuji”. Something about the pants she wore cut off just below the knees reminded him of a wrestler named Mr. Fuji. At least that’s the story I always heard.

He loved wrestling before it was all glamour and steroids. He loved the Atlanta Braves before they were any good. He would sit there muttering to the television as images of Bruce Sutter and Bob Horner and Phil Neikro filled his small set.

He drank and smoked and cursed and got in fist-fights and yelling matches with people he loved and people he did not understand. He collected aluminum cans — big stacks of them. And he wore overalls.

He was the first person I ever knew who didn’t know how to act in church. Didn’t know any of the songs. Didn’t know when to stand up or sit down or how to turn to Isaiah or Galatians.

He battled demons and never could get a handle of them. He was on his own from the age of 11, isolated and abandoned by those who were supposed to watch over him. That’s probably why he self-medicated so much.

We thought he was going to die back in January of 1983. My family was on vacation. We had gone to New York City to see Yul Brenner’s last dance in The King and I. Then we drove down to visit some of my parents’ best friends in West Virginia.

That’s where we were when my father’s secretary tracked us down.

We drove all night to Atlanta and got to the hospital thinking he would die any moment. He didn’t. Instead, the doctor told him he had to stop drinking and smoking. I suppose he figured he’d rather die if he had to give all that up. The problem was his body wouldn’t cooperate. So, he just stopped living. Just sat there all day and all night watching The Price is Right; Walker: Texas Ranger; In the Heat of the Night.

He wasn’t a bad man. When he met that wild teenage girl named Polly, he did right by her. Their relationship was a trainwreck much of the time, but he didn’t leave. He didn’t abandon her with those hungry kids. He stayed there and did the stuff a man is supposed to do. He provided for his family — working two jobs most of the time to make ends meet. He was kind to animals (especially our family dog Boots). He liked candy and shared it with all his grandkids. He wasn’t a bad man.

He just wasn’t an especially good man.

I don’t know if he had any kind of faith to speak of. I don’t know if he ever found his faith in Jesus. I do know that he spend a lot of time the past few days staring off into nothing. It looked as if something was going on in his mind, but his body wouldn’t cooperate again. I like to imagine he was having some interesting conversations with Jesus. I don’t know.

I can’t judge his faith any more than he could judge mine.

But he’s not so different from any of us. As much as we want to puff out our chests, hook our thumbs in our lapels and say, “I’m not such a bad guy” — the truth is, when I’m alone and it’s just me and my reflection staring back — I know: I may not be a bad man, but I’m not an especially good one either. My guess is that most of us feel that way.

We’re not the kind of people we should be — not all the time. We take out our frustrations on the people closest to us and say hurtful things when we don’t understand. We curse and yell and fight with people, we battle demons, we check out and self-medicate when life gets too hard for us to handle. And for too many of us, we stop living long before we actually die.

Eighty-nine years seems like such a long time, but you and I both know: it’s here today and gone tomorrow. It doesn’t make it easier for those who are left behind to say goodbye. But say it we must. Hopefully, we will be wise enough to learn the lessons his life teaches us.

Goodbye, Pops.

So far we’ve dealt with who, what and where. Anyone want to guess what the next question will be:

“When?”

When will it be over? When will Jesus come back? When will God turn everything that’s upside-down, rightside-up?

I thought more people would want to step up and take a swing at that last question. Maybe Christianity is just one of those things that you know when you see it. Or maybe we don’t know how to explain it in childlike terms.

Okay, here’s your third question:

“Where is God?”

Thanks for the input. Lots of that is going in the book (you’ll all get thanked in the acknowledgments). Especially, thanks to Bob. That story is great! And it solves a problem I was having. I think it’s really important to tell children that they are wonderful and that God treasures them and all that. You can’t tell kids that often enough. But….

If that’s the whole story, why did Jesus have to come? Bob’s story really unpacks that in a way kids can understand (and adults too, for that matter).

Here’s the next question:

“What is Christianity?”

Remember, you’re answering a child.

If a child asks you, “Who am I?” what do you say?

Come on, folks! Help me get this book finished!

There are certain questions conservative Christians don’t like to be asked — especially by our kids.

“How do we know God created the earth?”

“The Bible says so.”

“How do we know we can trust the Bible?”

“God wrote it.”

“How do we know God wrote it?”

“Uh…stop asking those kinds of questions.”

Welcome to the third stage of faith development: the inquisitive stage. This is the part that makes Christian parents really nervous. In fact, as I mentioned in my post yesterday, there are families and churches who discourage children from entering into this stage. They’ll use manipulation, coercion and shaming tactics to get kids to simply accept what has always been taught without thinking.

One reason why it’s so dangerous to discourage your children from fully entering into the inquisitive stage of faith development is that it may lead them to abort their faith altogether. After all, a faith that cannot be questioned is not a faith worth having.

Another reason (and probably far more prevalent) is that their faith development may be stunted, and they may remain in the affiliative stage forever. I get to travel around and see churches of all different shapes and sizes, different denominations, different strategies. And one common theme is a reluctance to try something new and different. Certainly, you could chalk that up to this weird aversion humans have to change in any forum.

But I wonder if that’s just something we hide behind. After all, people my generation and younger are actually somewhat fond of change. We expect it. If things don’t change periodically, something must be wrong. Maybe we’re not as afraid of change as we like to tell people. Maybe we’re stuck in the affiliative stage of faith development.

See, people who are in that second stage believe what they believe, value what they value and do what they do because they belong to a group of people who believe, value and do those things. Anything different brings about a certain level of anxiety. Can I call myself a Baptist/Methodist/Church of Christ/etc. if I don’t do the same things everyone else in that group does?

Q: “How do you know you’re a Christian?”

A: “I believe, value and do the same things as all the other Christians.”

Welcome to the affiliative stage. Welcome to a problem in churches — a problem of epidemic proportions. Welcome to a recipe for disaster.