You Were Meant To Live for So Much more? Main Character Syndrome

We all saw that woman in Minnesota shot during a confrontation with federal law enforcement officers carrying out their lawful duties. It is a tragedy. Any loss of life is.

This woman did not die because she was faithfully living within her God-given calling. She died because she had convinced herself she was the hero of the story. In her mind, she was not interfering with officers enforcing the law. She was standing in the way of Nazis. She was reenacting a moral drama she had absorbed from years of media narratives, political rhetoric, and cultural storytelling.

When people are convinced their opponents are Nazis, ordinary restraints disappear. If Nazis are the enemy, then resistance becomes righteousness. Interference becomes heroism. Risking your life feels noble. Doing nothing feels immoral. In that mindset, larping as a Nazi killer feels like moral duty.

And that is exactly what happened.

But this is not merely a problem on the political left. It is not confined to activism or street protests. It is a deeper cultural and spiritual temptation that affects all of us.

We live in a society that relentlessly trains people to see themselves as the main character. Movies, television, social media, and even music tell us the same story over and over again. Your life should be big. Your story should matter. You were meant for something more than ordinary faithfulness.

One of the clearest examples of this seeped into Christian consciousness years ago through a popular song by Switchfoot. “We were meant to live for so much more.” In its original context, the song was pushing back against living just for sin. That impulse was not wrong. But honestly, most people didn’t hear that.

What people heard was this. My life is supposed to be epic. I am meant to be the hero. Ordinary obedience cannot possibly be enough.

That message did not remain in pop music. It entered the church.

David Platt’s book Radical was written with, let us suppose, good intentions. At its best, it challenged comfortable, consumeristic Christianity and reminded believers that following Christ costs something. That corrective was needed. But the problem was not merely how the book was written. It was how it was received and applied.

For many Christians, Radical communicated that faithfulness only counts if it looks extreme. That unless you sell everything, move overseas, adopt multiple children, or live in visible poverty, your Christian life is somehow deficient. Ordinary obedience started to feel like compromise. Stability started to feel like worldliness. Quiet faithfulness started to feel like failure.

It was baptized FOMO(Fear of missing out).

Most of the Christian life is not dramatic. Most believers are not called to headline moments, public platforms, or radical gestures that make good stories. They are called to faithfulness in the place God has assigned them.

Working hard at the job God gave you because you serve Christ as King. Loving your wife when no one is applauding. Raising children patiently over decades. Showing up to church week after week. Giving faithfully. Practicing hospitality. Praying when no one sees. Training those who will come after you. None of that feels heroic. None of it scratches the itch to feel important.

But it is exactly how God builds His kingdom.

When people are taught to despise ordinary faithfulness, they go looking for meaning elsewhere. Some chase political causes that let them feel righteous and embattled. Some chase outrage. Some chase platforms. Some chase risk. Others grow bitter and restless, convinced their life should have gone differently.

It is main character syndrome.

Scripture gives us something different. You are not the main character. Jesus, our King is. We are at best side characters or extras in his story.

One such extra was a man named Barzillai found in 2 Samuel.

Barzillai was not the main character of Israel’s story. He appears briefly. He serves quietly at the age of 80. He uses his resources to sustain the king when the king is weak. And then he disappears from the narrative. No monument. No recognition campaign. No demand to be remembered.

Years later after Barzillai has long passed away, King David, on his own death bed, remembers Barzillai and gives command to his son to take care of Barzillai’s posterity.

Barzillai was a great man.

Not because he was visible. Not because he was edgy. Not because he took risks that made good stories. But because he was faithful in his station. He did not chase significance. He did not resent obscurity. He did not confuse faithfulness with theatrics. He acted in a time when David was in need and faded away.

God does sometimes call ordinary people to extraordinary moments. Scripture is full of that. But those moments are rare, and they are never the goal. They come to people who have already been faithful in the slow, quiet work of obedience.

Barzillai did not become faithful when David needed him. He had been faithful long before. And when the moment passed, he went home. He passed the blessing to the next generation and was content to live out his days among his people.

That is the life Scripture honors.

In a culture obsessed with being the main character, the Christian is called to something better. To serve the King. To love what God has placed directly in front of him. To embrace ordinary faithfulness without resentment or restlessness.

You were not meant to live for “so much more” in the way the world defines more. You were meant to live faithfully.

And faithfulness, though quiet, outlasts every counterfeit hero story our culture produces.