There are the stories told to a child at bedtime. There are the old worn stories that good friends will listen to just one more time. There are the stories that are briefly captured in the newspaper before they are brushed aside by the next day's news, and enduring stories that have been read by generations. All those stories.

And the stories that fill our lives are not just ways to pass the time, mere diversions. They have a meaning and power beyond anything we usually recognize. All stories reveal underlying assumptions about the way the world works, what is important in life and what is not.

Listen to our stories. Who is the villain and who is the hero? Who succeeds and who does not? What is the object of life and how does it all turn out in the end? The stories we tell give an answer to all of those questions, and more. And so, we live by stories, all of us do—not by creeds or by principles, as much as by stories.

In our time, the stories that most occupy us, and may most influence us, are the stories that come to us through the media, particularly television. These are the stories of our culture, the stories that tell us who we are and what we are to value. The news programs and soap operas, the sporting events and situation comedies—they have become the default catechism for our children. There may be some good things on television and some bad things on television, but, in the end, they are all the same in this respect—they are brought to us by people who are trying to sell us things. The underlying story that unites them all is the message that we are supposed to learn how to be good consumers. That, it seems, is the purpose of life. That is our duty and our joy.

Rarely is it stated this bluntly. But sometimes it is, as in a bumper sticker I saw a while back, which read: "The one who dies with the most toys wins." It is both shocking and somehow refreshing finally to see it spelled out so starkly. "The one who dies with the most toys wins." Sometimes that seems to be the dominant story of our culture. As a recent ad campaign has it: "Drink a lot of Pepsi, get a lot of stuff." What is the story? Life is a contest, a game, in which the play involves the accumulation of entertaining and diverting possessions. Life is our chance to get a lot of stuff.

The question to ask of such a story, or any story we live by, is this: does it hold up in the end? Does life really work that way? Does getting and spending really produce satisfaction? Let's be honest: it does, up to a point. For instance, if I have had a particularly difficult day, sometimes I can be cheered by simply walking into a record store or book store and acquiring a few more items to add to my collections. It works—for a time. I recently read that the average young person spends an hour and a half and more than twenty-six dollars every time he or she goes to a shopping mall. Why? Because it is fun. It is an enjoyable diversion that kills the pain of boredom and gives us something to look forward to.

But is it a story that is big enough to live by, especially when the tough times come? Can it hold the weight of a human life? In a moment's reflection we all recognize that it cannot. That is why, finally, it is another story that saves.

In the Book of Acts, the Biblical account of the early church, we read a story about the Apostle Paul and another follower of Jesus named Silas. They are in Philippi for the sole purpose of telling the story of Jesus. While they are there they encounter a slave who is possessed by some tormenting spirit that the slave's owners claim allows her to foresee the future. And so, the slave owners are able to make a good living from that poor woman's terrifying condition. But Paul, taking pity on her, heals her. This angers the slave owners because, now that the woman is healthy, their money making scheme has collapsed. Most people can be quite decent and hospitable until you begin to mess with their economic interests. Paul and Silas crossed that line, so their clothes are torn off, they are badly beaten and thrown in jail.

But how do they react to this experience—the damp stone, the chains, the bruised limbs, the rejection, the defeat of their plans? They hold choir practice. They sing. Their voices echo off the stone walls, fill the jail and runneth over into the street outside.

Would you do that? Would you sing under those circumstances? Paul and Silas can sing because they live by a story that can be set to music. Their hymns are love songs that tell the story of God's love, a love that can reach into any place and circumstance, even to condemned prisoners chained to the wall of a jail cell. They sing the story of one who entered the dark corners and prisons of our lives so that we might join him in his freedom and victory.

That seems to me a good test of the stories we choose to live by: Can I take this story to prison with me? Would it sustain me even then? Many other stories may be sufficient when life is gentler and brighter. But what story will hold up to reality when life is hard and rough?

If we have the right story, the songs will come. After all, only some stories can be set to music. I doubt, for instance, that the line, "The one who dies with the most toys wins," will ever become a song lyric. We will not soon hear hymns to self interest and rising net worth. Don't look for a new hymn, "Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Ourselves," any time soon.

No, there are many stories that simply will not fly as a song. It is as if the music refuses to carry stories that are unworthy. I once saw an interview with a song writer who had written hundreds of songs. He was asked to name one in which he did not use the word "love." He was stumped! He could not think of one. So many of our songs, in whatever genre, are about love. Love is a story that can be set to music.

But not all stories and songs about love are sufficient in every circumstance. A couple of years ago my wife Karen and I celebrated our anniversary by spending the evening in the newly renovated Rainbow Room, atop Rockefeller Center in Manhattan. Even if you have never visited the Rainbow Room, I am sure you have seen it in movies from the thirties and forties. It is everyone's picture of an Art Deco nightclub, the tables set in tiers around a revolving circular dance floor, a big band playing and the lights of Manhattan providing the backdrop for the whole scene. It was a wonderful evening. I don't usually enjoy things at which I feel clumsy or inept—but dancing is an exception. Fred Astaire is one of my idols. It has always seemed to me that he is an enduring icon of grace.

Anyway, the music that night was strictly Gershwin, Cole Porter and the like—all about love, of course. Everything seemed to fit: the setting, the music, the words about love filling the air.

Then the band played one song that transported me to a very different time and place, a funeral service I attended the year before. The person who died loved the old standards and requested that a few of her favorites be sung at her funeral. And one of the songs that was sung was the one to which people were twirling around the dance floor in the Rainbow Room, "Our Love Is Here To Stay," by George and Ira Gershwin. A beautiful, romantic ballad. You must remember it: "The Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble, they're only made of clay, but our love is here to stay."

I love that song. And I loved listening to it in the Rainbow Room, but I found it painful at the memorial service. Now, don't think I'm being a grump here. I'm not so much concerned about such music disrupting the decorum of a memorial service. But, you see, it just didn't hold up to the occasion. In the Rainbow Room, where life is sparkling and bright, such romantic sentiments are sufficient. By contrast, at the memorial service, in the midst of harsher realities, we need something more. In the face of such a grim and powerful reality, a ballad about romantic love just seems to blow away like a frail flower in a stiff, cold wind. I like the love songs that are sung at the Rainbow Room. But we also need a different kind of love song in our lives, the kind that can be sung in the dark corners of our lives, at the memorial services and in the prison cells.

You may remember hearing the story about the Greek cruise ship that sank off the coast of South Africa a year or two ago. Soon after the ship ran aground in a severe storm the crew deserted with a few passengers in life boats. The remaining passengers were brought into the main dining room to await the rescue helicopters. There the ship's entertainers tried to help keep panic and gloom at bay with magic tricks, jokes and sing-a-longs. One passenger later recalled, "There we were sitting in the dark, singing songs to keep our minds off the cold and fright. We began with 'We are Sailing,' but decided it wasn't true. We got into 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' and 'Goodbye Love, Good-bye Happiness,' but this did nothing for morale."

Eventually all the passengers were saved before the ocean consumed the ship. But I wonder if, since that experience, any of the passengers have searched for other stories to live by, other songs to sing amid the threatening storms that are sure to return.

When you think about it, it is a remarkable thing. There are Paul and Silas, in prison, in death's waiting room, singing hymns. That doesn't just happen. In order to be able to sing hymns in prison, you have to have already sung them over and over again, in every circumstance, until they can be sung—in a telling phrase—"by heart." That is, in order to bring such songs into prison, they have to nestle somewhere deep in the heart and take up residence there.

Gratefully, the story by which Paul and Silas lived was big enough to take to prison with them. It is a story that could be set to music, because it is a love story. But it is a special kind of love story, a story of God's fierce and tireless love for God's children. It is the story of a God who, through the hell of internal anguish and the high water of external disaster, is with us still.

Now that is a story you can take to prison with you!

Floyd Brown: I truly enjoyed you talk and you really touched me with a great number of things. I started to think about stories and storytelling. A good story is something that stays with you and I’ve tried to think of stories that have stayed with me through the course of the years. Most of the ones that I thought of all began with, "Once upon a time..." Remember? Do you have a favorite beginning or how do you start your stories?

Martin Copenhaver: It was mentioned earlier in your introduction, Floyd, that I wrote a book called To Begin at the Beginning: An Introduction to the Christian Faith. I originally entitled that book, Christianity 101, but somebody else got there first and took that title. I like this title better because to begin at the beginning sounds like your going to tell a story. The Christian faith is really a story. We think of it maybe as a set of ideas or beliefs, but it’s really a story which we not only can hear and receive, but also take our part in it. Jesus, of course, was a marvelous storyteller. He knew how to get people’s attention. He said, "There once was a man who had two sons...," the beginning of the story of the prodigal son. "There once was a man who had two sons...," and everybody is with you, they are listening. If you were to say, "Now, I’m going to tell you why it’s important that you should forgive your errant children..."

How you begin a story is to draw people in. One of the great benefits of storytelling is that if you come at people directly with, "I’m going to tell you a few things now. I’m going to give you a few ideas or facts," people have their defenses up. They know how to receive it and they know how to deflect it. Someone said that a story is like a Trojan horse. People will let it in. If you begin with "There was a man who had two sons...," people will say, "I’ll listen to this. I’ll hear this."

Brown: Let me ask you a question that I’ve thought about many, many times. I sit in the congregation on Sunday and I look at the minister up there and sometimes he talks about how he developed his sermon for a Sunday. A good sermon, I think, always has a good story. I wonder sometimes if it is by some divine process that these stories come to the minister for Sunday morning! How do you get to your story? Do you think of the story first and then build your sermon, or do you begin with sermon and then get the story?

Copenhaver: I’ll try to answer that, but it reminds me of the story of the minister who stood in the pulpit and said, "Before I got in the pulpit only God and I knew what I was going to say and now only God knows!" So where these things come from is sometimes a mystery. I think you begin from—one place or the other—the Biblical story or you begin from the story of our lives. You always work to find where they are intersecting. You want to be in that intersection of the two. Of course, many effective preachers have a wonderful memory for stories and being storytellers. That can be very helpful. It’s taking the Biblical story and our own stories in whatever form and finding where that intersection is.

Brown: I’ve come to the conclusion that ministers lead the most interesting lives in the world because they have the funniest stories. All of those things always seem to happen to them. They never happen to me or maybe I just don’t recollect exactly how they happen. Now I want to talk about titles. The Greatest Story Ever Told may be the best title of them all, I suppose. If you had to come up with a title for today’s times, what impresses you the most as the need for today that you would put into a story?

Copenhaver: For a title, I would say—it’s already a title—Getting to Yes. It’s a title of a book on negotiation. I would write a different book with that title. I would write it as a book that would talk about the need for affirmation, for us to be able to not only affirm one another, but to affirm the goodness of creation. God said it was good and maybe what we need to do is say yes to that. A philosopher was once asked if he could distill his philosophy down to one word, he said, "Perhaps." If I were to distill the Gospel into one word, it might be the word "Yes."