"Don't try to play God!"
It's an unanswerable statement. And really bad advice. Because that's exactly what we do. It's exactly what we should do. I played God a couple of years ago because I happened to be in the right place at the wrong time. Or perhaps the right time. I was shanghaied by a church school teacher at the top of the basement stairs.
"I need your help. Now!" she said, and led me by the arm into one of the Sunday School rooms. The problem was obvious. Young Peter was dressed as a shepherd for the Christmas pageant, and he was using his shepherd's staff to hold the entire class at bay. He was swinging it around while the rest of the children cowered in a corner.
"Give me that stick!" I ordered from well out of range.
"Go to hell!" said Peter.
I walked closer. Peter swung the staff at me, I caught it in my hand. It hurt. But I hung on and so did Peter. I pulled him toward me, threw both my arms around him, and I held him in a bear-hug while he struggled. He struggled long and hard and shouted obscenities at me. I simply hung on, my arms wrapped around him. Eventually his struggling and his curses dissolved into tears. He released his hold on the staff and it clattered noisily to the floor. Gradually the bear-hug turned into a human hug.
"You're going to beat the shit out'a me, aren't you?" Peter finally asked.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because that's what my dad always does."
"Does he do that often?"
"Yeah. He comes home drunk all the time and beats me and my mom and everybody except the baby."
"I don't want to beat you, Peter. I want to be your friend."
"Nobody wants to be my friend. Whenever I get a friend I hit them and then we're not friends anymore." Peter began to cry again. By this time he was sitting on my lap, my arms still around him, but making no attempt to leave. I wondered if this was the first time he'd ever been cuddled by a man. Did he know that men can love as well as hurt?
"Are they going to kick me out of the church play?" Peter asked.
"We'd like you to be in the church play, Peter. But we don't want you to hit people. Can you promise not to hit people?"
"No," said Peter. I'd never heard such sadness in a child's voice. "No, because I just start hitting when I get something like a stick in my hand."
"Peter," I said. "Maybe I can help. I'll sit right in the front row during the Christmas concert. And when you feel like hitting somebody with your shepherd's staff, you just look at me. And then we'll both pretend that I'm giving you a nice, warm hug. Do you think that would work?"
Peter and I exchanged knowing glances several times during the performance. And he got through the Christmas concert just fine. And I ached for him and his family, knowing the phone calls that had been made and the interventions that had to happen. Family violence must not be allowed to continue, and sometimes there needs to be the pain of justice, before we see the "Peace on earth!" which the angel in that pageant promised.
 On the way home, it came to me. I've been playing God! God doesn't zap with thunderbolts or bully people into decisions. God simply offers love, in all sorts of forms. Christmas, Good Friday and Easter are at the top of the list. And then God sits there, in the front row of our lives, smiling and encouraging and helping us find the internal strength to do the right thing. One of those right things is to play God. Just as often as we can.