Your narratives shape your politics, religion, friendships, relationships

By David McElroy · October 10, 2013

What you believe about this picture is determined by what you’ve been told about Adolph Hitler. There are very few people left alive today who can personally tell you their experiences with him, so why are you so sure that you know enough about him to have an opinion about the man?

Almost everybody today knows that Hitler was a monster. That’s what I believe. That’s almost certainly what you believe. We’ve seen all the pictures from concentration camp victims and we’ve heard his hateful rhetoric about Jews. We’ve been told that he was responsible for millions and millions of deaths. So that’s what we believe.

But why did the Germans in the picture above adore the man? Why did they see him as their hero, not as a monster? The difference is that their narrative was very different from the one we’ve been given. Because they believed a different story, they saw him as a hero.

What is a narrative? It’s just a story. When you think about what you believe — about anything — you probably tend to assume that you’ve carefully looked at all the facts and come to a rational decision. The truth, though, is that you know a tiny fraction of the facts regarding anything, even things very close to you.

It’s impossible for the human mind to observe and assemble all the facts, so we unconsciously pick and choose. Our existing biases determine which facts we notice and what we remember. And our minds unconsciously assemble those selected “factoids” into a story — and we believe that story represents reality about that subject.

To the Germans, Hitler was someone who was standing up for them and making them feel proud of their country once more. At the end of World War I, the victorious Allies imposed very harsh sanctions on Germany. As a result of having to send so much money in reparations to the victorious countries, the German economy fell apart. At least, that’s what the economic problems were blamed on.

Either way, the payments were harsh and humiliating to the Germans. Their national pride was hurt. Their pride in who they were was hurt.

But Hitler told them the problems weren’t their fault. Their problems were caused by Jews and (to a lesser extent) communists. In very strong language, Hitler built up what the non-Jewish German people thought of themselves and gave them excuses for their problems. He gave them enemies to blame. He told them that the Jews had created these problems and that other countries were mistreating them. He told them that they were special and that they were destined for national greatness.

Do you blame the Germans for believing what they wanted (and psychologically needed) to believe? Is it that different from what every politician does in this country? They tell people a story about what’s going on — but it’s a selective story designed to appeal to what the people want to hear.

This is why Democrats and Republicans can both tell essentially truthful stories, but the stories don’t match. Democrats tell part of the facts. Republicans tell a different part of the facts. Each side believes that its version is the truth. Each side believes that the other side is either evil or lying. But in most cases, it’s simply that the two sides have different stories they’re telling themselves about reality.

The same hold true with religion. There is an objective truth. Some people would disagree with me, but I think it’s plain that truth exists, even if it’s difficult or — in some cases — impossible to know. But what we believe is based on what we’ve been told is true and on our own experiences.

Every religious group has a story. Even among Christians, the narratives differ about what truth is. Some people see the New Testament and emphasize a narrative of obeying Jesus by denying ourselves and helping others. Other people see the same book and emphasize Paul’s view of what the Gospel meant. And there are dozens of variations within those. (Try to get denominations to agree about what baptism means — or even what it is. You’ll see what I mean.)

If you’re an American Christian, did you ever consider whether the Buddhists are right? What about the Muslims? Or the Hindus? Except in very rare circumstances, you didn’t. In the same way, the people who grow up in those cultures almost never consider that the Christians have the truth. And if you’re an atheist, you tell yourself an entirely different story about how there can’t be a God.

All of us start with the stories we were told, whether it’s about politics or religion. We then reject some of what we’ve been told and keep other parts. You might have been raised Catholic and became a Baptist. Or you could have been raised Pentecostal and decided it was nonsense and became an atheist. Whichever path you took, you believe your conclusion is the obvious reasonable one. What’s hard for you to understand is that everyone else believes that his conclusions are equally reasonable. They started with different narratives. They had different experiences, which then modified their narratives in very specific ways.

But in the end, whatever you believe now is the result of the narrative you’ve selectively created for yourself. You don’t have proof of the objective truth of what you believe. You have a narrative. It might be a great narrative. You might believe it with all your heart. But it’s a narrative, not a provable representation of absolute truth.

You like the people you’re friends with, presumably, but other people see those same people and can’t stand them. Why? You and those other people pick and choose different facts to see about the people who are your friends. And you tell yourself a different story about them. You might excuse certain things that other people find inexcusable.

You might say, “Yes, John is rude to people and he’s a bully, but he had a bad childhood and he’s always been good to me. He’s just rude and nasty to people who deserve it.” There are a million things that you could unconsciously use to form the narratives you have about your friends. You and the people who hate your friends can see the same facts, but come to entirely different conclusions because of the selective interpretation and the resulting narratives.

It’s even true in romantic relationships and marriages. For instance, how often have you seen a woman date someone who was a jerk or was mean to her in some way, but she saw things entirely differently? You might dismiss cases such as this by saying that love is blind, and it’s true that emotions come into play. But people tell themselves different stories depending on what they need to believe. If the woman loves the man — or believes she can’t do any better — she will naturally invent a narrative that explains the jerk’s behavior. In order to believe the narrative, she has to selectively see reality and she has to interpret what she sees in ways that allow her to find the story believable.

And what about couples who are miserable married to one another? Some have a narrative that says, “Well, the way it works is that you promise to stay married to someone no matter what, so I can’t break that vow. I have to keep it my entire life, no matter what.” If someone believes that narrative — for religious or cultural reasons, for instance — her narrative defines what she must do.

But someone else in a similar situation might have an entirely different narrative. She might say, “I know I promised to remain with this man for life, but I made a mistake.” Or she might say that he has changed or that he hasn’t kept up his end of the agreement, because he doesn’t give her the love or attention she needs. She might even believe that divorce is bad, but she believes that remaining with the wrong person is even worse. To the woman in the previous example, she might say, “Yes, Jesus said divorce was bad, but He also said that lying and a lot of other things were wrong, but that doesn’t stop me from lying at times — so why is divorce worse?”

My point is that your underlying narrative — about religion, culture, love and other issues — will affect what you believe you have to do in your romantic relationships and marriage. Is your narrative right? Is it useful? Is it consistent with your overall values? Unless you examine it, you’ll never know. You’ll just keep accepting the same story — allowing what you believe to predetermine your decisions — instead of asking what’s right and best for you.

Your narratives determine more of your actions and your beliefs than you realize. As long as you cling tightly to the narratives you already hold — without examining them to see how well they hold up in light of different evidence — you’re going to be pretty narrow minded. You’re going to believe that whatever you started out believing has to be right. You’re going to believe that people holding different beliefs are stupid or evil. (And they’re definitely wrong. There can’t be any value in their points of view, you’ll think.)

I believe that’s the way most people live, at least in some areas of their lives. I also think it’s a boring and dishonest way to live. It’s a way that guarantees that people stick with whatever nonsense they happened to grow up with — or some variation of it.

Although I think there is such a thing as objective truth, I also think it’s very, very difficult to know what it is. I believe I know the truth in certain areas, but I’m constantly questioning myself about what I know and I’m leaving huge questions unanswered simply because I don’t yet have a way to answer those questions.

Are my narratives true? I can’t say for sure. I think so. I hope so. But I’m willing to change them as I need to. I’ve undergone several major changes in what I believe over the course of my life. I’m open to more changes. I’ll be surprised if there aren’t any more.

I’m not trying to tell you that you’re wrong about everything you believe. I’m just saying that you believe what you believe because of the things you’ve selectively chosen to notice and retain — and because of the resulting narratives that have developed from those things. You’re wrong about some of what you believe. You’re right about other things. Just be sure to be open to examining everything.

Seek the truth. Examine your narratives — regularly — with a humility that allows you to change when you come to believe you’re mistaken.

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If you have problems with high blood pressure, I’d like to encourage you to consider making serious changes to your diet. There might be some people who don’t have any choice but to start taking prescription medications for high blood pressure, but I’d like to tell you that I have completely eliminated my issue by eliminating all sugar and almost all carbohydrates. (A couple of months ago, my blood pressure hit 185/144, which was dangerously high — considered stage 3 hypertension.) By completely changing my eating habits, I’m down 22 pounds and my blood pressure is now in the “ideal” range — without taking any medication. In addition, I sleep better and I have more energy. Getting away from the sugar-laden mess that we generally refer to as “highly processed food” has been a life-changer for me. Now my challenge is to avoid slipping back into old habits — by eating in the dangerous ways that almost everyone in our society has come to see as normal.

When I first heard about this, I thought it must be satire. When I discovered it was real, I was appalled, but I still thought it must be a one-time thing from some nutty activist. But it turns out it’s the latest bit of pandering to a bunch of far-left activists who believe that a man can become a woman if he decides to claim he’s a woman. As everybody knows, men have prostate glands. Women do not. Period. End of story. Men can get prostate cancer. Women cannot. But political activists are so eager to pretend that a man claiming to be a “trans woman” is really a woman that they are insisting that “women” be included in public health messages about the issue. This is nothing but political virtue-signaling. If you’re a man, you know which parts you have. You know that you ought to be screened. Nobody is made any safer by dragging far-left gender ideology into simple medical reality.

Every time someone tries to tighten requirements around the use of absentee ballots, I hear screams from Democrats and others on the political left that such efforts are nothing but “suppression of black voters.” These protests have never made sense to me, especially because it’s never been a secret that absentee ballot fraud goes on all the time in certain areas. (Everybody knew it when I worked in politics.) The people who engage in such fraud are rarely caught — often because the local political establishment approves of the crime — but a Democrat who won a primary election in Clay County, Alabama, last year has pleaded guilty to this sort of cheating. Terry Andrew Heflin was running for a place on the Clay County Commission. He was caught ordering seven absentee ballots in the names of various voters and sending them to his post office box — after which he used the ballots to vote absentee for himself seven time. Did he have other people cast additional fraudulent ballots? We’ll never know. But in a primary in which he was able to win with only 141 votes, it wouldn’t take many fraudulent votes to change the election. The next time you hear “civil rights activists” claim that it’s just “voter suppression” to hurt blacks which is at the root of efforts to stop this fraud, remember Terry Heflin. If you care about fair and honest elections, ballot security and voter identity should matter to you.

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The late Steve Jobs was at the center of our culture’s transition from analog to digital. He co-founded Apple Computer. He led the team that revolutionized personal computing with the first Macintosh. As CEO of Apple, he led the development of the iPhone and later the iPad. You would think the children of such a man would be surrounded by technology. But Jobs and his wife Laureen didn’t let their children use iPads. Their home had few screens of any kind. Even though Jobs spent most of his time developing and selling Macs and iPhones and iPads, he was home with his wife and children for dinner when he was in town. The family ate together at a simple wooden table in their kitchen — and there were no digital devices or focus on popular culture. Instead, he’s said to have guided his family toward deep discussions of art, philosophy and education — with no iPads to be found. If the man who guided the development of such products chose a different path for his own children, does that suggest that his digital experience taught him that children need human connection, not screens? And does it suggest the possibility that we might be better off if we made the same choice for our families?

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