A couple of weeks ago one of my teenagers was super-miffed with my husband and me.
On a car ride home from church, after explaining a biblical position we held on a touchy subject, this unnamed teenager maintained his shock and sudden anger.
Though they actually agreed with our thoughts on the subject, according to the child, we’d told them we were totally in a different place!
How could this be? Traitors! To arms!
My husband and I glanced at each other in one of those honed looks that 21 years of marriage can communicate in a millisecond. This one read something like, Really? I mean, we’ve grown in our understanding, but this is not a new thing. We’ve had so many discussions about this with this kid.
At least that particular discussion was easily (gently) resolved. But in raising older kids and talking with parents of adult kids, I didn’t anticipate how, on a bigger scale, there’s a lot of ways kids can rewrite the narrative in ways particularly painful and long-term.
In fact, they could stick to that narrative with their friends, their therapist, through all the healing they need to do…over some things that may not have happened that way, if memory serves.
Rewriting the Narrative: The Fallout
Can I just say? On a much larger scale than one misunderstood conversation: This hurts.
And sometimes it’s downright embarrassing. It creates potential gulfs of misunderstanding, misplaced blame and/or lack of personal responsibility, and loss, maybe after you’ve worked really hard to raise your kids in a loving, fair, godly way.
It can bring legit anger.
Because the truth does set us free. And it’s so painful when lies are told about us.
(At least we think so. Are we crazy? How could our stories be so different?)
All are rewriting the narrative and fall short of what actually happened.
See the Atlantic’s “How Many Of Your Memories are Fake?” In fact, the previously-considered “indelible” memories from traumatic experiences used in courtrooms are called into question due to scientific study. I’m fascinated by a phenomenon called “fade to gist”, where details fade, our brain fills in the gaps, and we only remember the general idea of what happened.
I find both refuge and a degree of fear in the reality that God is my judge.
- Yes, his all-seeing-ness–represented in heaven by creatures covered in eyes (Revelation 4:2-8, also pictured in Ezekiel)–means he’s my truthful refuge.
- But he’s also the possessor of mercy I need. Because my own memory is fallible, searingly limited in perspective, and partial to myself. I am not covered in eyes; I am not the impartial judge.
Perhaps more important than truth being told: Compassion for the perspective.
The Bible confirms truth matters immensely. Consider, for example–
- “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.” (John 16:13)
- “Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth.” (John 17:17)
- “God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” (John 4:24)
- “Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.” (Proverbs 12:22)
- “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” (…Including your parents. [Exodus 20:16])
We love best when we walk in the truth. Ephesians speaks of “speaking the truth in love” (4:15)–and Jesus came from God in both “grace and truth” (John 1:14). We get the idea from the whole of Scripture that truth without love isn’t the full truth; that grace and truth are two sides of the same coin.
But here’s something also truthful: When it comes to loving someone, an inaccurately perceived experience matters. The story they experienced is intensely personal and often very shaping to them.
So saying, “Well, that’s not how it happened”–based on what we know about our own infallible memories–can sidestep the need for someone to receive our hurt. To heal.
I am confident God does not confront me about every sin throughout the day, every way I’ve failed to see him clearly or act in that knowledge. It would overwhelm me–and overwhelm my ability to perceive his love, I’m afraid.
More important than ourselves being justified or perceived accurately or without blame is regaining connection and reconciliation. Sometimes a minor injustice can be absorbed in the name of unity; of coming back together.
We see this in a Jesus who temporarily submitted himself–of his own volition–to dozens of injustices in his own trial with fallible humans, to bring us close.
He’s patient for justice; has a bigger goal in mind.
God himself, at times, temporarily defers to us rewriting the narrative.
Rereading Luke 15 last week fascinated me. Remember the story of the prodigal son?
Catch the interchange between this Middle Eastern father, who’s just left his own party and lowers himself once again (after an unheard-of all-out run toward his repentant prodigal son as the son came home), deferring to his belligerent oldest son. I’m told the elder son had already defied tradition, foregoing the need to bring his younger brother back home.
Watch how the elder son mischaracterizes the father:
“Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!” (vv. 29-30, NIV; emphasis added)
The ticked-off son says his father is a slave-master. He disassociates from his brother (“this son of yours”). His father’s scales of justice are off.
We could be together
But I’m equally amazed at the father’s response:
“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”
As in,
- My son = You’re mine.
- You’re always with me. = We have a relationship. We’re together. You’re missing out on our companionship.
- Everything I have is yours. = We can share rule and enjoyment of this place together, if you choose.
I see a dad taking the hit here amidst his hurt, angry son, despite the father not committing wrong. Despite the father’s failure existing only in the son’s perspective, while his son’s rewriting the narrative. I see the dad lowering himself, gently correcting what he can, and extending an olive branch.
We could be together.
I know I’ve been on the mischaracterization side of him myself more times than I like to admit.
And God does hold us accountable for ways we’ve failed to truly know him; see the “Parable of the Talents” and how this man’s tyrannical narrative of God led to fateful decisions.
Maybe, like me, you feel a little backhanded by the misrepresentation of your child or even by a friend of yours–someone rewriting the narrative about a situation close to your heart, maybe with some blood, sweat, and tears mixed in.
Hope you find promise, like I do, in a God who consistently–temporarily–allows some misrepresentation for the sake of restoration.
