Trump Metanarratives

I intend to deliver a paper about rhizo-narratology and the Donald Trump stories to my favorite academic conference, the Southern Humanities Conference, this coming January, 2025. I've been reading and writing about rhizo thought in general since 2014 and Donald Trump narratives in particular since 2020. I've much more material than I need for one presentation, but I do need to begin organizing the material to find a focus for a 12-minute presentation. I will review my research and lift out topics as I come across them, beginning with an overview of the metanarratives about Donald Trump. I will also publish these gathering posts unclosed, adding to them as I come across more material.

By the way, I am using Gemini and Claude to read through the hundreds of blog posts, articles, and PDFs that I've covered over the past decade. Both of these AI tools read much faster than I do, and they can survey a much wider topography than I can and identify patterns that I might not see at all and certainly won't see by January, 2025.

In his Conversation article "Liz Cheney trounced", Vanderbilt philosophy professor Robert B. Talisse explains Republican Liz Cheney's loss to Harriet Hageman as a clear case of partisanship rather than policy: 'Once we recognize the centrality of partisan identities and how they are rooted in lifestyles rather than public policies, it becomes clear that much conventional thinking about how democracy works needs revision." Whereas we tend to think about policy in rational terms, I believe we think about partisan identities in narrative terms. The stories we believe and tell about our heroes and communities trump (pun intended) the arguments we make about policy. I find several common metanarratives about Donald Trump that are frequently used to frame and explain his actions, motivations, and popularity as well as the behavior of his supporters.

Trump as an Anti-Establishment, Outsider Candidate: Several writers have noted how Trump’s initial appeal stemmed from his image as an outsider, a businessman who wasn’t a career politician. He was seen as someone who could shake up the status quo and represent those who felt ignored by the political establishment. This metanarrative resonated with many voters, particularly those who felt left behind by economic changes or disrespected by cultural shifts. In his article in The Atlantic, "The Case for Trump Is Getting More Radical Every Year", David French says of this early Trump story, "While Trump was not the normal politician, the reasons I heard [in 2016] for supporting him were (mostly) conventional, and unsurprising. There’s a long history of different American constituencies feeling disregarded and disrespected. There’s a long history of populist movements in American politics."

It is possible that this more secular narrative about Trump was the main story told early on because most media at the time was blind to the more religious stories already starting to emerge about Donald Trump among his religious supporters. I think that most media sources could not recognize, take seriously, and use the more religious stories to explain the rise and popularity of Donald Trump. It seems to me now that the failure of media to engage these stories has undermined and in some ways continues to undermine our ability to understand Trump.

Trump as a Righteous Warrior Battling Evil: This metanarrative casts Trump as a divinely chosen figure fighting against corrupt and malicious forces trying to destroy America. McKay Coppins notes in his article "The Most Revealing Moment of a Trump Rally" that many prayers at Trump rallies “take Trump’s righteousness for granted” and portray him as a divinely ordained leader. This metanarrative has several prominent features that often branch into slightly different stories of Trump, the righteous warrior:

● America’s Covenant with God: Trump's evangelical supporters in particular believe that America has strayed from its covenant with God, leading to the nation's decline. Coppins says:

• The scripture verse that’s cited most frequently in the prayers [at Trump rallies] comes from 2 Chronicles. “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” … Trump’s supporters attribute America’s fall from grace to a variety of national sins old and new … The premise of all of these prayers is that America’s covenant can be reestablished, and its special place in God’s kingdom restored, if the nation repents and turns back to him. … What’s new is how many Christians now seem convinced that God has anointed a specific leader [Trump] who, like those prophets of old, is prepared to defeat the forces of evil and redeem the country

  They view Trump as a divinely chosen leader, akin to biblical figures like Esther, Solomon, or David, destined to restore America's righteousness and its place in God’s kingdom.
  ● Trump as God’s Instrument: The sources highlight a shift in perception among Trump's supporters from initially seeing him as an "unlikely vessel" like Cyrus the Great, who served God's purpose despite personal flaws, to believing in his inherent righteousness. This is evident in prayers at Trump rallies, which often assume his goodness and implore God to aid him in his preordained mission. Coppins reports that in recent Trump rallies, "rather than asking God to make Trump an instrument of his will, most of the prayers start from the assumption that he already is. Accordingly, many of them drop any pretense of thy-will-be-done nonpartisanship, and ask explicitly for Trump’s reelection.”
  ● Spiritual Warfare and Demonization of Opponents: The sources depict a belief system among some Trump supporters that frames the political arena as a battleground for a spiritual war. This narrative casts Trump as a warrior battling demonic forces, particularly targeting figures like Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, who are portrayed as agents of evil. Coppins says, "It’s easy to see the danger in internalizing the concept of politics as spiritual combat. Trump’s rallies become more than mere campaign events—they are staging grounds in a supernatural conflict that pits literal angels against literal demons for the soul of the nation. Marinate enough in these ideas, and the consequences of defeat start to feel existential.”
  ● Trump's Persecution as Proof of his Righteousness: The sources point out the tendency among Trump's supporters to interpret the numerous accusations and legal challenges against him not as evidence of potential wrongdoing, but as proof of his victimhood. This persecution narrative reinforces their belief that he is a righteous figure opposed by nefarious forces. French writes, "When you understand that people really, truly believe the state of political and spiritual emergency outlined above, then a lot of other cultural phenomena start to make sense. … Why would Republicans immediately rally around Trump after the FBI search? Because their entire story of the past six years teaches them that Trump is persecuted, he’s God’s instrument, and the Democrats (and “deep state”) are thwarting God’s divine plan."
  ● The “Deep State” and the “Liberal Media” as Enemies: The sources identify the belief in a "deep state" and the demonization of "liberal media" as integral to the narrative of Trump as a righteous warrior. These entities are portrayed as actively working against Trump and his supporters, reinforcing the sense of a cosmic battle against evil. In their article "Conservatives feel blamed", Smith and Jones explain conservative's mistrust of the liberal media: "Many conservatives are deeply skeptical of journalists’ motivations. Our interviewees view mainstream news outlets as part of a group of liberal institutions dedicated to making conservatives into pariahs. The misinformation often at the heart of conservative responses to COVID-19 is a symptom, rather than a cause, of this distrust." French explains the conservative antipathy to the deep state this way: "Here’s the new narrative: The Trump presidency exposed the true evil of the left. They persecuted Trump more than any other president in history. First, there was the Russia hoax, then the impeachment hoax, then they shut down the economy and schools to destroy Trump; they shut down churches to destroy the Church. They burned cities. They hollowed out our police forces. They were tyrants. They forced us to wear masks that didn't work and to take an experimental vaccine that has killed tens of thousands of vulnerable Americans. [Italics in the original]
  
  These elements combine to create a powerful narrative that resonates deeply with Trump’s most ardent supporters. By framing him as a righteous leader chosen by God to battle evil, this narrative provides a framework for understanding current events, justifies unwavering loyalty, and fuels a sense of urgency and existential stakes in the fight against perceived enemies.
  

Trump as a Victim of Persecution: A common metanarrative among both religious and secular Trump supporters is that he is a victim of relentless attacks from the left-wing media and political establishment (French and Taussig and Nadler). This metanarrative portrays him as a persecuted figure, unjustly targeted by his enemies because of his efforts to "save the nation." According to this story, investigations into Trump, such as the Mueller investigation and the January 6th indictment by Jack Smith, are merely hoaxes designed to discredit him. This story is used to explain away any negative information about Trump and to solidify his image as a fighter under constant attack. As Hans A. von Spakovsky says in his editorial for The Heritage Foundation: "The indictment of former President Donald Trump by special counsel Jack Smith—with the full approval of Attorney General Merrick Garland—is an attack on the American political system and fundamental rights protected by the First Amendment to freely discuss, debate, and contest serious election and political issues. It represents the ultimate weaponization of the Justice Department, a transformation started by President Barack Obama’s attorney general, Eric Holder, and completed by Garland, to take out a viable political opponent of Garland’s boss and political patron, President Joe Biden. Nothing more, nothing less."

Like the above metanarrative about Trump as a righteous warrior, this persecution metanarrative is developed through several key themes that can branch into distinct expressions of the story:

• The "Deep State" and "Liberal Media" as Antagonists: Many Trump supporters believe in a shadowy "deep state" apparatus working to undermine his presidency and a “liberal media” dedicated to portraying him negatively. These entities are presented as inherently opposed to Trump's mission to "make America great again," representing a corrupt establishment resistant to his attempts to restore the nation to its former glory. 
• Trump's Legal Troubles as Evidence of Persecution: Trump supporters often interpret the various legal challenges and accusations leveled against him not as legitimate concerns but as proof of a coordinated effort to silence and discredit him. This persecution narrative is particularly evident in the reaction to the FBI search of Mar-a-Lago, which was immediately framed by many Republicans as politically motivated and further evidence of the “deep state” working against Trump. As David French points out in his Atlantic article "The Case for Trump": "Why would Republicans immediately rally around Trump after the FBI search? Because their entire story of the past six years teaches them that Trump is persecuted, he’s God’s instrument, and the Democrats (and “deep state”) are thwarting God’s divine plan." David Frum adds that this framing serves to deflect attention from the potential validity of the accusations and strengthens the image of Trump as a victim of his enemies' relentless attacks.
• The "Big Lie" and the Stolen Election Narrative: Many Trump supporters hold the pervasive belief in the "Big Lie," the false claim that the 2020 presidential election was stolen from Trump. Sarah Longwell reports that "Some 35 percent of Americans—including 68 percent of Republicans—believe the Big Lie, pushed relentlessly by former President Donald Trump and amplified by conservative media, that the 2020 presidential election was stolen." This belief is presented as more than just a political disagreement; it's a core tenet of the persecuted savior narrative. By portraying Trump as the rightful winner of the election, supporters cast him as a victim of a vast conspiracy involving widespread voter fraud, manipulated voting machines, and a coordinated effort to suppress his votes. This stolen election narrative further solidifies the image of Trump as a target of powerful forces seeking to prevent him from achieving his mission to save the nation.
• Attacks on Trump as Attacks on His Supporters: The sources suggest that some Trump supporters view attacks on him as attacks on themselves and their values. This perception is fueled by the belief that Trump is a true representative of their interests and aspirations, a champion fighting against the same forces that they perceive as threatening their way of life. [11, 12] This shared sense of persecution strengthens their loyalty to Trump and fuels their determination to defend him against his perceived enemies.

By framing Trump as a persecuted figure unjustly targeted for his efforts to "save the nation," these narratives serve several key functions:

• They solidify his image as a righteous warrior: By portraying him as a victim of shadowy forces and a corrupt establishment, these narratives reinforce the belief that he is a force for good, standing against evil and fighting for the interests of ordinary Americans.
• They justify unwavering loyalty and support: If Trump is engaged in a battle against evil, then any criticism or opposition to him can be easily dismissed as being part of the problem, further justifying unwavering support among his base.
• They create a sense of urgency and existential stakes: By framing the political landscape as a battleground for the soul of the nation, these narratives instill a sense of urgency and existential importance in supporting Trump and his mission. This further motivates his supporters to view the fight against his perceived enemies as a fight for their own values and way of life.

Trump as a Symbol of Conservative Grievance and Resentment: Much of Trump’s popularity is fueled by a deep sense of grievance and resentment among many conservatives. In their article "Conservatives feel blamed", Doron Taussig and Anthony M. Nadler argue that conservative distrust of mainstream media stems from a deeply held belief among conservatives that the media seeks to blame, shame, and ostracize them and their values. Conservatives see Trump as someone who understands their frustrations and will fight back against those they perceive as their cultural and political enemies.

These narratives, often amplified and reinforced by conservative media outlets, have created a powerful suite of metanarratives around Donald Trump and his presidency, which has, in turn, made it difficult for many of his supporters to accept information that challenges their worldview, such as the outcome of the 2020 election.

BTW, the images were generated by Google's ImageFX in my attempt to capture the emotions of each metanarrative.

Rhizo Narratives as Nonlocal Hyperobjects

This post looks closer into Timothy Morton’s concept of hyperobjects as nonlocal. As I discussed in my previous post, hyperobjects are entities that are massively distributed in time and space, often exceeding human comprehension. Morton calls this massive distribution nonlocality.

In quantum physics, nonlocality refers to the instantaneous connection between two particles regardless of the distance separating them. This nonlocal entanglement defies classical notions of objects, space, and time. Morton borrows this concept to explain that hyperobjects are not confined to a specific location; rather, they exist simultaneously in multiple places and times. This nonlocality means that hyperobjects stretch across distances, past, present, and future. It also implies that our understanding of hyperobjects must be nonlocal. I find that tricky, and applying nonlocality to the Trump narratives helps me understand both nonlocality and the stories better. I hope.

Consider the Trump as King Cyrus story. This story does not exist solely in our present place and time. Rather, it stretches over millennia, something like a fossilized human footprint. It existed already for the ancient Israelites in Babylon, and it stretches across the centuries to echo again in twenty-first century America. Moreover, while its effects are already being felt here and now, its full consequences may well be realized in the future. Moreover, as the story gains traction and resonance within its community, it perturbs countless individuals (believers and nonbelievers alike) and ecosystems (political, social, economic) simultaneously. Thus, the Trump as King Cyrus story exhibits both spatial and temporal nonlocality.

Morton’s use of nonlocality is crucial for understanding the elusive nature of hyperobjects such as narratives. It challenges our intuitive understanding of objects as localized things. We want to think of a narrative as a thing – a book in hand, for instance, or in the case of the Trump as King Cyrus story, as a sermon delivered by a beloved pastor this past Sunday or as a blog post we read online. While it is each of these things, it is also all of them and more, including all those countless, indeterminate things of which we are not yet aware. And it is those things yesterday (still yesterday, today), those things today, and those things tomorrow (already those things tomorrow). 

Nonlocality invites us to conceive of narratives that are interconnected, distributed, and entangled with the environment in complex ways. This shift in thinking is similar to Morton's shift in how to think about Nature: not as a thing out there, a problem for us to solve sooner or later, but as air in which we live and through which we exist.

Consider this: if a hyperobject is nonlocal, then our understanding of it is also nonlocal. We cannot fully comprehend a hyperobject from a single perspective, at a single point in time, as a single thing. To begin to understand a hyperobject, we must adopt a more interconnected view from inside the hyperobject itself. This is precisely contrary to the usual way of approaching narratives, which work from outside the narrative to define its limits: a story begins here told by this author, in this form, to those particular people, about a particular character and event, for this purpose. It's as if the practiced literary critic is pushing all the muck and slush of an emerging narrative into a coherent lump to mold it into a discreet thing, delineating its form and function and how well they work together to convey the single, focused message of the story. It's as if an author is doing that.

Of course, both authors and critics believe that is what they are doing, and such an effort from the outside has great efficacy and explanatory power. However, this outside-in approach blinds the author, reader, and critic to the nonlocality of the narrative. Only when working from inside the narrative can one push outward, mapping connections from the here and now across realms – gone, now, and yet to come – toward the horizons of what we can see and say, all the while confident that the rhizomatic narrative is always already beyond our horizons, unpredictable and indeterminate, waiting to be mapped, perturbing us anyway.

This nonlocality can be felt even in the here and now. For instance, even before we heard the story about Trump as King Cyrus, we may have felt the perturbations of that narrative, often with the consequence that we are confused. We encounter Trump adherents who appear to almost worship the man with a religious fervor, which is inexplicable for those of us who do not have much or any respect for him. We sense the ripples and hum of the cosmic background radiation of the King Cyrus narrative without actually knowing the story itself. Not only are we entangled with the stories about Trump, but we are entangled with the story of a Persian ruler of 2,600 years ago. That's nonlocal entanglement, or as Einstein called it: spooky action at a distance.

Rhizo Narratives as Viscous Hyperobjects

As I was finishing my post about the decentralized nature of narrative, I began to see the connections between rhizo narrative and Timothy Morton's concept of hyperobjects. In this post, I intend to explore those connections to see what emerges.

Morton begins his 2013 book Hyperobjects by defining hyperobjects as "things that are massively distributed in time and space relative to humans" (location 104, Kindle edition). He provides some examples such as the Florida Everglades, all the styrofoam ever produced, and the solar system. These are big things, and they fit quite nicely with the prefix hyper, but they unfortunately suggest that hyperobjects must be big relative to humans. Bigger is, of course, one shade of meaning for hyper, but not the only one. I prefer beyond. Hyperobjects recede beyond us both into the infinitely large and into the infinitesimally small, into the past, through the now, and into the future. Thus, a quark is as much a hyperobject as is a solar system.

And this fits better, I think, with Morton's object oriented ontology (OOO) which suggests, among other things, that no object ever fully reveals itself at any one time to any other object, including us humans. Full disclosure appears not to be part of the universal order, if OOO is correct. Thus, all objects are hyper, including stories.

Fortunately,  Morton provides us with some characteristics of hyperobjects that can aid our thinking about this slippery concept:

1. Viscosity
2. Nonlocality
3. Temporal Undulation
4. Phasing
5. Interobjectivity

Of course, as a hyperobject itself, the concept hyperobject does not exhaustively reveal itself with these five characteristics, but we can begin to find some handholds and landmarks that can help us understand this concept.

Viscosity is all about entanglement. In his blog Ecology without Nature, Morton says of viscosity, "the more you know about a hyperobject, the more entangled with it you realize you already are." Hyperobjects engage us skin to skin, breath to breath. Sometimes they rape us, sometimes they make love, but mostly they are just around us like air that we don't notice until it moves … or stops. Air is a viscous hyperobject pressing in, around, and into us at all times.

Trump's 2020 Stolen Election story is a viscous hyperobject. Not on the same scale as air, perhaps, but it shares the same kind of viscosity as air. Whether you accept the story or not, the story is always already there wherever you are, rattling at you from beneath some rock, buzzing at you through the ether, on your smartphone, by the breakroom, in your dreams. You cannot escape it. If you manage to forget it for awhile, you will be suddenly reminded of it in an overheard conversation in a restaurant, and you realize that while you were distracted the story was still circulating, resonating through the social and political ecosystems. Like Harry Potter or a garden weed, it appears like magic, already realized, as large as Hagrid. The story is rhizomatic.

When you first heard the story, it was already there. It was already there for Trump, assuming he might have been the first to tell this particular version of the story, but the story was already there: a deserving, blessed hero (usually a man, in this case, Trump) is denied his just rewards by an evil character or cabal (the antagonist, in this case the Deep State and/or Democrats) against which he will wage holy war and win. You know this story and have told it yourself, perhaps many times in countless iterations. The narrative is always already there.

The very large hyperobjects force us to realize that we are within the object and the object is within us. There is no exterior, only interior. The only way to experience the story is inside the story inside us. We have no vantage point outside the story from which to analyze it. The scientific, objective point of view is a psychological trick we use to keep reality at a distance from us, to keep from being overwhelmed by the massive black holes pressing in from all sides and imploding within our guts. The objective point of view seems to work at times, but life — its energies, materials, information, and organizational strategies, its stories — interpenetrate us, tying us together. We are a knot in a web, a crossroads, and when the knot unravels, we cease.

The concept of hyperobjects, as introduced by Timothy Morton, offers a useful lens through which to examine the complex and pervasive nature of narrative. By understanding stories as hyperobjects, we recognize their immense scale, temporal depth, and inescapable influence. Like the air we breathe, narratives are viscous, entangled in our lives, shaping our perceptions and actions. The Trump 2020 election story, for instance, or the Trump as Cyrus story serve as potent examples of a hyperobject narrative, demonstrating its ability to permeate our consciousness and resist containment, regardless of whether or not we believe the stories. As we delve deeper into the characteristics of hyperobjects, we will uncover how this framework illuminates the rhizomatic structure of narratives and challenges traditional notions of authorship, objectivity, and linear progression.

In subsequent posts, we will explore the remaining characteristics of hyperobjects—nonlocality, temporal undulation, phasing, and interobjectivity—to further unpack the implications for narrative theory and practice. By examining how these qualities manifest in storytelling, we can gain a more nuanced understanding of how narratives shape our world and how we, in turn, shape them. Ultimately, this exploration will invite us to reconsider the boundaries between storyteller and audience, between fiction and reality, and between the past, present, and future.

Finding Hope in Babylon: The King Cyrus Narrative and Evangelical Identity

Narratives play a powerful role in shaping how communities understand themselves and their place in the world. This post explores how the story of King Cyrus from the Hebrew Bible functions as a shared narrative for some modern American Evangelicals. They see themselves as facing similar challenges to the Israelites in exile and draw hope from Cyrus, a seemingly unlikely figure chosen by God to liberate his people. By analyzing how Evangelicals interpret and use this narrative, I gain insight into how narratives can reinforce group identity and purpose.

My rhizo narratology asserts that humans and human groups use narratives to make sense of their place in the world and the events unfolding around them. Narratives can take on particular salience as a means of finding deeper meaning and optimism in difficult circumstances when a group feels embattled or oppressed. Modern Evangelicals believe themselves to be embattled and oppressed by an increasingly secular America, and they use the story of Cyrus to help them cope with this existential threat. From a narratological perspective, the enduring power of the Cyrus narrative lies in its ability to confer meaning and optimism on a community facing existential threats. No matter how dire the circumstances or how unlikely the source of deliverance, the narrative suggests that invisible, divine forces are still at work, vindicating the moral righteousness of the believers.

In the story of Cyrus from the Book of Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible, the Israelites had been conquered and exiled to Babylon. They felt forsaken by God and oppressed by their captors, yet the prophet Isaiah foretells that their deliverance will come through the most unlikely of sources - Cyrus, the Persian king who was not a believer in the Israelites' God. Isaiah 45 declares: "This is what the Lord says to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I take hold of to subdue nations before him." Isaiah portrays Cyrus as an instrument of God, despite himself being ungodly and ignorant of the true God. Through this narrative, the downtrodden Israelites found hope that God still had a plan for them, to be delivered even by those who did not worship Him.

We can see echoes of this narrative today in how some modern Evangelical Christian communities have interpreted the presidency of Donald Trump. The Cyrus parallels allow them to overlook perceived moral failings in their leader and instead focus on the ways Trump supposedly undermined secularism and enacted conservative policies they see as aligned with Christian values. Despite conceding that Trump is an ungodly, immoral person in his personal life and behavior, many Evangelicals nonetheless view Trump as ordained by God to protect their interests and to be an instrument for godly policy initiatives, just as the ungodly but ordained Cyrus did for the captive Israelites.

The story of King Cyrus, then, provides a narrative structure that Evangelicals can use to make sense of the miraculous victory by a political newcomer over the politically seasoned and hated Hillary Clinton, or the miraculous undoing of Roe v Wade to stop the wholesale murder of babies, or the heroic struggle at the border to stop the pollution of illegal aliens. The story also makes sense of the rabid response of demonic Democrats to undermine the Champion of God, Donald Trump. Clearly, the Forces of Hell will do anything to stop God's Man of the Hour, just as they tried to stop King Cyrus, but God will prevail.

It's a great story that helps Evangelicals define themselves and their relationships with the world.

Shared History

First, Trump as Cyrus reinforces what Evangelicals see as a shared history and legacy. Contemporary American Evangelicals see themselves as Children of God, in a line that extends back through the ancient Israelites to Abraham. By retelling and reinterpreting a story such as King Cyrus restoring the Israelites, Evangelicals reinforce a sense of shared history and legacy both among themselves – they will be restored – and between themselves and the ancient Israelites – they will be restored as the ancient Israelites were restored. This shared story creates a feeling of belonging and strengthens the bonds among Evangelicals and it strengthens their identification with the ancient Israelites who, they assume, worshipped the same God that they do. It clarifies for them who they believe themselves to be: the Children of God, descended spiritually if not physically from Abraham.

This identification with ancient Israelites might be difficult to accept by non-Evangelicals. After all, even a casual review of the historical contexts of ancient Israel and Judah and modern American Evangelicals highlights for me the differences between the two groups rather than the similarities. However, Evangelicals can find common ground. Both groups faced hardship and discrimination. Ancient Jews did in fact endure exile and captivity. While Evangelicals have not been physically exiled from America, they tend to see themselves as an oppressed minority facing secularization and opposing social values. The secularization of American culture is an indisputable fact, as recent research from the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI) documents. Unaffiliated is the fastest growing category of religious identification in America. As Derek Thompson notes in his Atlantic article "The True Cost of the Churchgoing Bust", "More Americans today have 'converted' out of religion than have converted to all forms of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam combined. No faith’s evangelism has been as successful in this century as religious skepticism." It's important to note that White Evangelicals have lost fewer adherents than the other American faiths; however, Evangelicals are still losing adherents. America is becoming more secular, and this is, in fact, an existential threat to Evangelicals. Of course, most Evangelicals are White, and the demographic shift in America from a majority White America to a majority Brown/Black America is just as clear. Finally, the representation of Evangelicals in the mainstream media is insulting and threatening to most Evangelicals, as Taussig and Nadler explore in their online article. Evangelicals see general praise and commendation for Colin Kaepernick taking a knee on the football field to protest the national anthem but only condemnation and ridicule for Tim Tebow taking a knee on the field to praise God. White Evangelicals see themselves as a threatened, persecuted minority, and they are frightened by it. The Cyrus story helps them to understand their plight.

Then, Evangelicals believe that they are the devout remnant holding onto their faith during times of hardship, just as a remnant of Israelites did. Some Jews in captivity clung to their traditions and scriptures, while Evangelicals see themselves as continuing that tradition of unwavering faith. The more attacked they feel from the secular world, the more tightly the true believers cling to their faith. In notes for his religion class at Furman University, Alfons Teipens notes: "Within ten or fifteen years (if not sooner) the vast majority of the Israelites had assimilated into the Babylonian culture and intended to continue there as part of the over-all population. It is not clear what Israelite rituals they retained. There was, however, a core group of Judeans who remembered their land and Temple and cult with great longing." While it is possible or even likely that many currently religious people, including many Evangelicals, will assimilate into the secular American society, a remnant will cling to their faith, identifying all the more strongly with each other and with those ancient Israelites who also kept the faith. The Cyrus story helps them clarify that identity.

It is obvious to me that the King Cyrus story strengthens the Evangelical view of themselves as a chosen people with a special mission, similar to how some ancient Jews viewed themselves. In her Unbound article "Ezra, Nationalism, and the Toxic Theology of 'God's Chosen People'", Brenna Zeimet explains her own upbringing in the nationalism of White Evangelicalism and its identity as God's chosen people:

I spent much of my life in the Assemblies of God Church, a pentecostal wing of the White Evangelical movement. I was steeped in a theology born of nationalism. Nationalism is in the roots of who they believe God is and who they believe Israel was and now who they believe themselves, and in many cases, America, to be in the biblical narrative of God relating to Their people. I was taught constantly that I was part of “God’s Chosen People”, that of all the nations on Earth, God chose us to be “His Royal Priesthood”, that “He would give the nations in our stead”, that the promises of the Bible for Israel were the promises of the Bible for me. “Though 10,000 fall at your side”, God will protect only you and let the others be demolished. All these “truths” were supposed to make up how I saw myself and how I related to the world around me. I was supposed to root my identity in the knowledge that God picks me over everyone else.

This identity as a chosen people is perhaps best expressed by a current Evangelical minister. In the YouTube sermon entitled "Who Are God's Chosen People?", Pastor Allen Jackson of the World Outreach Church in Murfreesboro, TN, says at minute 36:00: "Just as certainly as the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were the chosen people of God who were delivered from the slave pits of Egypt, everybody who by faith receives Jesus as Lord is included in the People of God and is an heir to the covenant that was made with Abraham." The hour-long sermon includes many observations from Pastor Jackson that express the implications of being the Chosen People of God, but the assertion underlying Pastor Jackson's sermon is that Evangelicals are, in fact, the spiritual descendants of Abraham, God's Chosen People.

Finally, modern White Evangelicals identify with the ancient Israelites who held onto hope for a better future,  for deliverance. As the Jews yearned for return to their homeland, many Evangelicals see themselves working towards God's kingdom on Earth, the rapture. Pastor Jackson's sermon linked to above expresses many admonitions about stepping up as a witness to the Kingdom of God, which is imminent in the Rapture of the End Times, an eschatological teaching about the return of Jesus to set up God's Kingdom on Earth. The Rapture is a widely shared belief among White Evangelicals that this corrupt world is about to end and be replaced by the Kingdom of God, in which faithful Evangelicals will figure prominently and which will exclude the unrighteous, who unfortunately are most of the world's population, because "strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it" (Matthew 7:14), "for many are called, but few are chosen" (Matthew 22:14).

This Evangelical identity is based in large part on the Evangelical tendency to interpret the Hebrew Bible (the Old Testament) literally. They tend to see passages about the Israelites' captivity as factual, historical examples of their own struggles. They see the Babylonian Captivity as a punishment for the Israelites' disobedience; likewise, they see today's societal problems as a similar warning and punishment from God demanding repentance from His Chosen People. The Bible contains prophecies of the Jews' return to Israel, and Evangelicals see in these prophecies a foreshadowing of a future triumph of their own faith.

Of course, I must remember that not all Evangelicals view history and the Biblical stories as I have presented here. I have painted somewhat extreme views to highlight my point. However, Evangelicalism includes millions of people (the Pew Research Center says about one-quarter of all Americans identify as Evangelical) with different theological views, and some may not emphasize the connections I explore above. Still, even if they do not agree with this particular interpretation of the Cyrus story and are not followers of Trump (according to Pew, about 15-20% of Evangelicals no longer support Trump), almost all Evangelicals will be conversant with this version of the Cyrus story. It is prevalent amongst Evangelicals, even amongst those who don't believe it.

As do I, many Evangelicals likely recognize that the historical context between ancient Babylon and modern America is different and that the situations of the ancient Jews and modern Evangelicals are not directly comparable. They likely understand that the connection between ancient Jews in captivity and modern Evangelicals lies in perceived shared themes of persecution, faith, hope, and deliverance. Still, they use the story to mark their identities as Evangelicals, whether they are emphasizing differences or similarities.

Values and Beliefs

In addition to expressing a shared history and legacy, stories can embody a community's core values and beliefs. Echoing the Cyrus story in the character of Donald Trump allows Evangelicals to claim these values for themselves and future generations. The story of King Cyrus in the Bible offers a potent metaphor that resonates with many modern Evangelicals and informs their values and beliefs.

First, King Cyrus is a divine instrument of God. The book of Isaiah portrays Cyrus, a non-Jewish king, as chosen by God to liberate the Israelites from Babylonian captivity and allow them to rebuild Jerusalem (Isaiah 44:28). This idea resonates with Evangelicals who believe God works through seemingly unlikely figures such as King Cyrus, King David, and Donald Trump to achieve his purposes. Also, they might see themselves individually as instruments of God's will in a secularized world.

Then, the King Cyrus story has a peculiarly Evangelical take on religious freedom: Cyrus's decree allowed the Jews to return to Jerusalem and practice their faith freely (Ezra 1:1-4). Evangelicals prize that religious liberty in terms of religious expression in public life. Many Evangelicals feel that their free expression of their Christian faith is too often curtailed and ridiculed in the increasingly secular public sphere. For instance, they greatly resent the perceived ban on prayer in public schools. They want to be able to lead students in Christian prayer. Of course, they do not want to extend this same religious freedom to Jews, Muslims, or Hindus. Both Evangelicals and political liberals would be outraged by a muezzin's call to prayer in the local high school, though not for the same reasons.

With its rebuilding of Jerusalem, the Cyrus story can be viewed as an act of social justice that restored the Israelites' homeland and way of life. Similarly, some Evangelicals might see themselves as agents of social justice, working to create a more righteous and Christian society according to their faith. Of course, this is social justice with a Christian twist: Christian law, not Sharia law.

This concept of social justice segues into the strong Evangelical commitment to reaching the lost.  Evangelicals often have a missionary zeal to proselytize, to spread their faith. For many Evangelicals, the most compassionate and just way to engage non-Evangelicals is to convert them to Evangelical Christianity. For Evangelicals, the primary reason for engagement with non-Evangelicals is conversion: every lunch served to the poor includes a testimony and a call to repentance. Non-evangelicals can easily mistake this for rank aggrandizement, but that is often incorrect. Reaching the lost is not simply about numbers for Evangelicals. It's a core expression of their faith, and it is mostly motivated by love, obedience, and a desire to share what they believe is the ultimate truth, despite the televangelists who use conversion as a means to build their financial empires. King Cyrus's role as a facilitator for the Israelites' return can be seen as a metaphor for witnessing to those outside the faith. Trump, then, is removing the barriers to Evangelical witness in the public sphere. He's making it okay again to raise Bibles in public to a very Christian God.

Finally, the Cyrus story gives Evangelicals hope for restoration after a period of suffering. Evangelicals facing political, social, and economic challenges can find shared solace in the idea that God can bring about positive change through unexpected means. He did it with Cyrus, and He can do it with Trump. He IS doing it with Trump. This shared hope is so powerful that Evangelicals will overlook any fault or defect in Trump in order to cling to this hope. When the rumor spreads through Evangelicals that Pres. Biden is replacing Easter with a celebration for the LGBTQ+ community, then they can only cling more tightly to their hope that Trump will reverse this abomination.

In conclusion, the story of King Cyrus offers a powerful allegory for some modern Evangelicals. They see Trump as a divinely chosen figure who champions religious freedom and facilitates an Evangelical form of social justice. These themes inform their values and motivate their actions in the world. However, I must keep the historical context of King Cyrus in mind. Cyrus's motivations for aiding the Jews were likely complex and political rather than religious. Moreover, I must remember that not all Evangelicals emphasize the above interpretations. Some may focus more on the evangelistic message, while others might highlight social justice aspects.

While I find the Evangelical use of the Cyrus story highly problematic, I can see the benefits that such a shared narrative can afford, and I can see that any shared narrative can bring similar affordances to any social group. When Evangelicals highlight how Cyrus, a pagan king, was unknowingly chosen by God to liberate his people, they demonstrate how Donald Trump and they themselves are instruments of God's work in the modern world, promoting morality, fighting for social justice causes they believe in, and helping those in need of God's deliverance. It is convincing evidence that God is still on His throne and in deft command of history. This is a strong counter to the frequently derogatory narrative and identity that they see in mainstream media.

Why Trump as King Cyrus?

I'm exploring the positive effects of shared narratives. Specifically, I'm looking at the narrative of Trump as a modern-day King Cyrus that many Evangelicals believe and share. I have a habit of thinking about these stories in a negative light, as harmful or false in some way, but I think that is in part because I do not identify with Evangelicals. Thus, I have tried to define and understand such stories from the outside, which tends to focus on the distinctions and differences between Evangelicals and myself. I'm trying to explore these stories in a more positive light, more from the inside. My first question is why the Trump as King Cyrus narrative at all? Why has this story gained traction in the Evangelical community?

My approach to this question borrows heavily from Walter Fisher's narrative paradigm, which I explored in several posts in late 2020, starting here. Fisher's paradigm still makes sense to me, and I use it liberally in many of my posts. Key to Fisher's thinking is the idea that narrative lies at the heart of human identity and human community. Fisher claims that we all can think through narrative rationality, while not all of us have a command of formal rationality. To my mind, this narrative rationality is more a matter of being rather than knowing, ontology rather than epistemology. Our stories define who we are and how we live more than what we know about ourselves and our world. Though both forms of rationality can overlap and complement each other, they can as easily conflict with each other. For this post, the key idea is that stories can define from the inside who we are as individuals and as a community. I think the Trump as Cyrus story helps Evangelicals do just that: define who they believe themselves to be. Stories also define from the outside. Non-evangelicals can learn much about Evangelicals by exploring the stories that they share among themselves.

Cyrus cylinder, after 539 BC

For instance, the King Cyrus story (I recounted the Evangelical version in my previous post) can be read in other ways, and the reading by Evangelicals says as much about them as it does about the story or about King Cyrus. Largely Evangelicals have emphasized a couple of points in the King Cyrus story: persecution and deliverance, but this is not the only possible reading.

The Cyrus Cylinder in the British Museum has provided archaeologists and historians with a different reading of the same story. According to the British Museum website, this clay cylinder is "a Babylonian account of the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus in 539 BC, of his restoration to various temples of statues removed by Nabonidus, the previous king of Babylon, and of his own work at Babylon." Written from a Babylonian perspective, the cylinder appears to be propaganda to justify and praise Cyrus' occupation of Babylon and reversal of some of the policies of the previous Assyrian rulers, all under the divine guidance of Marduk. Though Cyrus was not a worshipper of Marduk, the god of Babylon, the god uses Cyrus to relieve the Babylonians of the harsh Assyrian rule, which tried to destroy the temples and worship of non-Assyrian gods, including the Israelite god Yahweh. Cyrus reversed this policy, among others, allowing conquered people, including the Jews, to worship their own gods.

This telling of the Cyrus story emphasizes the Babylonians and their god Marduk rather than the Israelites and Yahweh, as we might expect of a Babylonian story, but the story has also been read in different ways by modern scholars. The British Museum notes: "Because of its references to just and peaceful rule, and to the restoration of deported peoples and their gods the cylinder has in recent years been referred to in some quarters as a kind of 'charter of human rights'. In his article "Cyrus the Great, Exiles, and foreign Gods: a comparison of assyrian and persian policies on Subject nations" (2014), R. J. van der Spek of Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam notes that Cyrus:

has a good reputation … among modern historians [who] stress his tolerance toward the countries and nations he subdued. It is mentioned time and again that he allowed them freedom of religion, that he behaved respectfully toward Babylon and its temple cults, and that he reinstated several cults, especially that of the god of Israel in Jerusalem. … [A replica of the Cyrus Cylinder has] been on display since in the UN headquarters in New York as “the first declaration of human rights.” A state-organized conference intended as homage to Cyrus was held in shiraz. In the same vein, Cyrus’ tolerance was treated by Cyrus Masroori in a volume dedicated to religious toleration. (233-234)

Van der Spek praises this reading of the Cyrus story by academics as a corrective to "the usual Eurocentric approach to the history of the near East in traditional scholarship, which tends to see all the blessings of modern civilization as coming solely from Greece and Rome"; however, he goes on to show how these changes in policy were likely the result of political expediency rather than a shift in thinking about political tolerance and the rights of individual citizens. It appears, then, that academics are quite capable of creating their own stories that introduce anachronistic elements such as social tolerance and individual political rights when it suits their own identities. For this post, the main point is that any community can repurpose a narrative to meet its own needs and to clarify its own identity. Evangelicals are not unusual in this respect; rather, they are typical.

It is worth noting here, however, that Evangelicals do not emphasize the themes of tolerance and individual rights that modern scholars have seen in the Cyrus story. Rather, they emphasize persecution and restoration. While it's likely that none of these themes were on Cyrus' mind at the time he was conquering Babylon, emphasizing those different themes today says more about Evangelicals and about modern scholars than it does about Cyrus. The Cyrus story is a narrative structure, then, that both communities use to define who they are, both internally to themselves and externally to others. That both communities likely miss the factual King Cyrus is almost irrelevant to their use of the story.

That stories can help identify a community is for me reminiscent of McAdams' concept of narrative identity, "a person's internalized and evolving story of how he or she has become the person he or she is becoming", except of course applied to a group rather than an individual. As McAdams notes, narratives, and in our case shared narratives, provide "the [group] with temporal coherence and some semblance of psychosocial unity and purpose". This is an important insight, I think, that emphasizes the personal aspect of narrative identity. Evangelicals see the attacks on their community as attacks on themselves and their families. When they see the government and popular media privileging other social communities such as illegal aliens and LGBTQ+, then they feel personally affronted and threatened not just for Evangelicals but for themselves individually. This personal attack (it feels very much like an attack to them) opens them to anyone (Donald Trump) who will promise restoration, or to Make America Great Again. It also makes many of them willing to fight, to grab their guns and march on Washington to stop the steal of their country and their place in it. As most any psychologist will confirm, threats to one's personal identity are existential threats worth fighting against.

So the first concept I borrow from Fisher is that narratives express the identity of those who share them. A second key concept that I borrow from Fisher involves the good reasons a story must meet to be accepted by a community. As with most all communities, Evangelicals expect narratives to pass three tests:

1. narrative coherence: Does the story of King Cyrus make sense in itself, or as Caldiero says in his article Crisis Storytelling: "Is the story free of contradictions? Does it 'hang together?' Is it consistent (Fisher, 1985, pp. 349, 364)?"
2. narrative fidelity: Does the story fit well with other stories that Evangelicals already know and believe? Caldiero says: "Does the story exist on the same plane as other stories the reader has experienced? What are the “truth qualities" of the story? Is the reasoning sound? How good is the reproduction of the story? What is its value (Fisher, 1985, p. 349ff; 1987)?"
3. narrative context: Both coherence and fidelity are tempered by a person's own "history, culture, and perceptions about the status and character of the other people involved (all of which may be subjective and incompletely understood)" (Narrative paradigm). Both coherence and fidelity — or what we might call the fit or feel of a story — is determined not solely by the characteristics inherent within a story but also by the life history of the people hearing the story. Stories that fit well with what people already know and value are more readily accepted. Those that don't fit require much more persuasion, if not coercion. Thus, we cannot think merely of a narrative argument as a discrete thing itself with its own internal logic and probabilities as we can with a syllogism; rather, we must account for the ecosystem within which the narrative argument is expressed.

Is the King Cyrus story coherent? This is a tricky question when dealing with stories from The Bible, but the short answer is yes, especially for Evangelicals who view The Bible as the literal, inerrant, perfect Word of God. Any perceived inconsistencies and errors in the Word of God are the fault of the reader, not the Text. Evangelical exegesis is primarily involved with ironing out inconsistencies between the two creation stories in Genesis or the four Christologies in the Gospels or the One God among others in the Old Testament with the Three-person God among no others in the New Testament. God's Word is Truth and One. If we modern readers see double, then the fault is with us, not The Bible. For Evangelicals, the King Cyrus story in the Christian Old Testament is coherent and factually true, and they work very hard to read it as such.

But is the Trump as King Cyrus story coherent? Again, yes. If you believe that from time-to-time God involves Himself in the daily business of national politics to alleviate the suffering of His People, as He so clearly did in the Biblical narrative, then it is easy to see the parallels between the persecuted Israelites in Babylon and the persecuted Evangelicals in the United States. In the first case, God used King Cyrus to address the suffering of the Israelites, and in the second, God is using Donald Trump to address the suffering of Evangelicals. The parallels are obvious if one focuses on just a handful of data points such as oppression and liberation and ignores the other salient data points such as political expediency, social justice, or individual rights. This selective focus on just a few points can hardly be criticized, though, as it is a function of all narratives – just ask any story teller. All narratives leave out more than they include, and what is left out of any narrative is just as telling as what is included. We might criticize the points that a narrative includes or excludes, but we can hardly criticize a narrative for not including everything. Narrative coherence requires selection. Otherwise a story would collapse into a wallowing delta and never end.

Does the King Cyrus story fit well with other stories that Evangelicals already know and believe? Again, yes. The story is in The Bible. By default, all stories in The Bible must be accepted as the literal Word of God that tells a single, coherent story about the relationship between God and His People, in this case Evangelicals. I can attest from my own experience that many Evangelicals believe themselves to be God's Only People and that all Biblical stories relate to them.

Which brings us to the third test: contextual relevance. The story of King Cyrus fits well with the life experience of Evangelicals both as a group and as individuals. Evangelicals perceive that their demographic is no longer the dominant group in America, and their experience with both mainstream and social media reveals to them that their group is regularly attacked and denigrated by others. They feel oppressed, just like the Israelites in Babylon. In Evangelical thought, Babylon is routinely used as a metaphor for the World, all of society that is not within the Evangelical community.

Then, the character of Cyrus fits well with the character of Trump. Most Evangelicals know that Donald Trump is not a born-again Christian Evangelical and that he does not claim to be; however, they see the Hand of God in his miraculous victory over hateful Hillary, his defense of strong borders, and his defeat of ungodly abortionists. They concede Trump's failures as a Christian Evangelical, but they accept how God is using him to combat the demonic forces oppressing them – just as God did with King Cyrus.

As improbable as Trump as King Cyrus might seem to me, I can understand why Evangelicals can accept it accept it as historical fact: the narrative expresses who they perceive themselves to be and it has all the good reasons for why an identity narrative should be believed.

So what benefits do Evangelicals gain by believing this story? I'll address that question next.

Rhizo Narratology: The Positive Power of Narratives

As I recover from a total knee replacement, I'm reading the book Your Brain on Art by Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross, and it is forcing me to recognize a serious bias in my thinking about the Trump stories, which I tend to think of negatively as disruptive and destructive fictions and outright lies. In short, they are stories that harm. I must correct this bias if I am to understand the Trump narratives.

Magsamen and Ross take a different, more positive approach to art, which for them includes narratives and other literary forms as well as the visual, musical, plastic, and performing arts. Their book is mostly about how art and our aesthetic responses to art can restore and heal us, and they approach their topic in a manner that works with complexity. In the first chapter of Your Brain on Art, they say:

You may think of yourself as a body moving independently through the world, but you are interconnected with and part of everything around you. You and your environment are inseparable. Your senses lay the foundation for how and why the arts and aesthetics offer the perfect path to amplify your health and well-being. (8)

Note that Magsamen and Ross are framing human identity and health within an enclosing, complex environment. Art is an aspect of the enclosing environment, and our aesthetic response is the interaction between ourselves and this external art. This works quite nicely for a rhizo narratology that considers any entity as a knot of lines of energy, matter, information, and organization flowing from enclosing and enclosed environments into and through the entity to inform and energize it and to feedback into the extra-environments. The art, the artist, and the audience are all entities within a given environment. While I have not yet finished the book (I'm reading slowly and writing even more slowly as I recover), the authors' default position appears to be that arts are generally healing and restorative, more positive than negative, helping entities such as humans to adjust to their enclosing environments.

I believe that a positive approach to narratives as art can work for my rhizo narratology. First, it forces me to explain what I mean by narrative art, forcing the question: are Trump narratives art? Let's see if Magsamen and Ross can help me answer this.

The book opens with a quote from San Francisco artist Richard Kamler who says of art:

Art is our one true global language … It speaks to our need to reveal, heal, and transform. It transcends our ordinary lives and lets us imagine what is possible. (ix)

I'm inclined to dismiss as hyperbole Kamler's assertion that "art is our one true global language." He seems to be contrasting the visual and hearing arts with the literary arts, but I'm mostly interested in the literary arts which tend to require heavy and sensitive translation before transcending cultural bounds. Anyway, I've seen and heard lots of art from other places that did not translate so well into my aesthetic sensibilities.

Fortunately for me, Magsamen and Ross do not focus on the universal aspect of art but on its ability "to reveal, heal, and transform" and to transcend "our ordinary lives and [let] us imagine what is possible." First, they tend to speak of art in positive terms. They elaborate on Kamler's definition this way:

You know the transformative power of art. You've gotten lost in music, in a painting, in a movie or a play, and you felt something shift within you. … The arts bring joy. Inspiration. Well-being. Understanding. Even salvation. And while these experiences may not be easy to explain, you have always known they are real and true. (ix)

All of us are, of course, familiar with such joyful experiences of art, but I'm also familiar with art that disgusts, terrorizes, destroys, and otherwise leaves one feeling much less than before one encountered it. I'm familiar with art that can challenge, rearrange, even destroy one's worldview, leaving one feeling and believing much differently. Such art is seldom soothing, but often traumatic as one's firm reality is shifted in light of a new vision. It seems to me that the highest art always has this transformative potential. Such art approaches the salvific experiences that Magsamen and Ross allude to in the quote above, but the authors never face the potential trauma of salvation. Often, salvation can be called healing and bring joy only long after the fact, when the trauma subsides, and one can begin processing the new reality they find themselves inhabiting. So my first problem with Magsamen and Ross' book is its too narrow focus on only that art which heals and transforms.

A second problem is their mixing of art and aesthetics, especially their contention that nature is the ultimate aesthetic experience (15). Perhaps so, but does that make nature art? For me, art is a human activity. People sing, play music, dance, paint, perform, and write. People do not arrange sunsets over the mountains – not natural ones, at any rate. And while much art is mimetic, copying nature in some way, it is still recognizable as a human-produced artifact and largely valued or not as such. Am I to consider nature as God's artwork? Magsamen and Ross certainly don't suggest so, but they also don't help me distinguish between art and nature and our aesthetic responses to each. Are they different? Magsamen and Ross don't say.

Perhaps I'm being unfair to Magsamen and Ross as these questions are somewhat tangential to their argument, but these are things that I need to resolve in future posts if I'm to treat the Trump stories as art. A more complete answer will require more reading and writing in other sources, but I can say now that I believe the Trump stories to be art – if not artifice, but artifice exposes my bias again, so for the moment, I'll stick with art. The Trump stories are human narratives told to express some vision of the world and to elicit from the audience some aesthetic response. Art can aim for other, more practical responses – political, social, religious, economic, and so forth – but I think aesthetics are included in all of those and will persist in the artwork in the absence of those other responses. As far as I can tell, Magsamen and Ross limit their discussion to positive aesthetic responses: those responses to art that in someway benefit the artist and the audience. While I hold to a wider range of aesthetic responses, in this post I'll consider mostly the positive benefits of Trump stories. First, a story.

My brother, a retired Evangelical minister, first told me how Trump is like Cyrus, the Old Testament king who helped restore Israel and the Temple in Jerusalem. In an NPR interview, Robert P. Jones, president and founder of Public Religion Research Institution (PRRI) says that many Evangelicals have compared Trump to:

the Persian king Cyrus from the Book of Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible. And that's important because there, Cyrus is presented as an ungodly king who nonetheless frees a group of Jews who are held captive in Babylon. So by comparison, Trump here is the powerful, strong, authoritarian liberator, someone who by definition and maybe even by necessity is even above the law and who alone is capable of liberating conservative, white Christians from their oppressors.

Jones should have also noted that a number of prominent national leaders and at least one international leader, Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel, have compared Trump to King Cyrus of Persia. The story possibly originated in 2016 with a vision by Lance Wallnau in his article "Why I Believe Trump Is the Prophesied President in which, three days before Trump won the 2016 election, Wallnau says:

This is the proposition I give to Christians who are dispirited by the failure of their favorite candidate to capture the nomination: Don't ask, "Who is the most Christian?" Instead ask, "Who is the one anointed for the task?" … From my perspective, there is a Cyrus anointing on Trump. He is, as my friend Kim Clement said three years ago, "God's trumpet." I predicted his nomination, and I believe he is the chaos candidate set apart to navigate us through the chaos that is coming to America. I think America is due for a shaking regardless of who is in office. I believe the 45th president is meant to be an Isaiah 45 Cyrus.

Whenever and however it originated, the story has gained traction in Evangelical circles and has become an article of faith for many. What does this narrative offer Evangelicals that they will so readily accept it not just as a convincing story but as fact? Using the definition of art from Kamler, I can ask what revelation, healing, and transformation does this story provide to Evangelicals? How does it help them transcend their situation? Or does it do these things? I think it does.

I think that, in general, repurposing an ancient story into contemporary times has several benefits for the community repurposing the story:

• Reinterpretation: Any modern storyteller can retell the Cyrus story in a fresh way. This could be a play or a graphic novel, but in the case of modern Evangelicals, it has been mostly social media memes and sermons. The core message of persecution and liberation remains, but the format changes to resonate with a contemporary audience.
• Local Application: The story can be adapted to reflect a modern community's struggles. I know first-hand – and any reading of modern social media and attention to Evangelical sermons will confirm – that Evangelicals perceive themselves as persecuted by the mainstream society (the World) and media (Fake News). Retelling the Cyrus story with a local twist can spark conversations among Evangelicals about how to confront persecution and to anticipate deliverance through a flawed Trump and by a beneficent and loving God.
• Shared Values: Ancient stories remind us of the enduring human values we share across time. Cyrus's story highlights the hardships and eventual deliverance by an Act of God of the Israelites, a theme that transcends cultures and eras. The story also highlights Cyrus's emphasis on justice and tolerance, rare in ancient times, a justice and tolerance that Evangelicals see for every other social group, but not for themselves – except from Trump. Evangelicals can use this story to clarify their position in the World and to promote internal social cohesion.

Note that in this post I am discussing a specific story (King Cyrus and the Israelites) shared within a specific community (Evangelicals), but I'm convinced that all human communities share stories that provide the same kinds of benefits.

I've still much to unpack about the positive benefits of narratives within communities, but I'll save it until I've done some more reading and more discussion with my AI assistant, Google's Gemini. Yes, I use AI in my writing these days. I really can't imagine that I will ever do without the far reach and rapid response of a competent large language model. As slowly as I've been writing, I would have been much slower without Gemini.

Rhizo Narratology: Narratives and Social Systems

I'm listening to a podcast from Complexity by the Santa Fe Institute entitled "Mirta Galesic on Social Learning & Decision-making" in which Galesic, SFI Professor & Cowan Chair in Human Social Dynamics, discusses her work into "how simple cognitive mechanisms interact with social and physical environments to produce complex social phenomena…and how we can understand and cope with the uncertainty and complexity inherent in many everyday decisions". I think I can draw some important points about rhizo narratology from both her discussion and a couple of her scholarly articles.

Galesic does not address narrative directly; rather, she explores how people work within and through social networks to address issues in their lives. Along the way, she addresses how the beliefs and behaviors of people spread through a social system, informing and perturbing it. Throughout her discussions, she assumes that social systems are complex, self-organizing entities that both inform and outform to create their own identities within their ecosystems. This works very well for my concept of rhizo narratology which posits that narratives are linguistic entities that inform and perturb the complex social systems within which they find echoing expression. Stories encode how a social system sees itself, how it chooses to behave and believe, and how it engages its ecosystems, including other social networks. My reading of Galesic and her co-researchers allows me to express this view of the function of narratives more succinctly than I have until now, but I think I can glean some more nuggets from her discussions. As always, keep in mind that I make no claim that Galesic would approve of any of my ideas about rhizo narratology. Rather, I use her ideas to spark my own.

First, I like Galesic's use of the trade-off between exploitation and exploration to frame how beliefs and behaviors propagate through a social system – or in my case how narratives propagate. This trade-off refers to the dilemma of how to allocate resources between trying new things (exploration) and sticking with what is known to work (exploitation). In their article "Social learning strategies modify the effect of network structure on group performance", Barkoczi and Galesic argue that the balance between exploration and exploitation is crucial for group performance, and that any given balance emerges from the dynamic interactions of the social learning strategies used by individuals, the structure of the network in which they are embedded, and the relative complexity of the task they are addressing. They say: 

We show that efficient networks outperform inefficient networks when individuals rely on conformity by copying the most frequent solution among their contacts. However, inefficient networks are superior when individuals follow the best member by copying the group member with the highest payoff. In addition, groups relying on conformity based on a small sample of others excel at complex tasks, while groups following the best member achieve greatest performance for simple tasks.

I can easily adapt their insights to rhizo narratology: Efficient networks outperform inefficient networks when individuals rely on conformity by echoing the best, usually most frequent stories among their contacts. This makes great intuitive sense to me. As I understand it, efficient social networks are composed of people who share significant characteristics: language, organizations, practices and rituals, dress, goals, worldviews, and so forth. Such homogeneous networks present fewer barriers to the propagation of memes such as stories that embody the group's worldviews. Of course, Evangelicals are an efficient network, but so are neurosurgeons, Starbucks baristas, Cobol programmers, feminists, army platoons, and Man City futbol players. We humans form many efficient networks to harness the power of various groups to play and work, and most of us belong to several or many such networks. Stories circulate quickly within these efficient networks, and because the stories resonate within a group that we choose and identify with, we tend to accept them and retell them. Stories tend not to circulate within a group unless they echo and reinforce the views of the group.

I tend to dismiss this efficient network behavior as an echo chamber, but Barkoczi and Galesic remind me that when a group is addressing a simple problem, a problem with one or very few known, optimum resolutions, then this efficiency makes great sense and works very much in favor of the group. The group can respond quickly to a problem and move on about its business. A group can use its accepted stories to frame an issue and respond appropriately from its point of view. However, this efficiency is undermined when the group mistakes a complicated or complex problem for a simple problem. People are prone to frame an issue as simple rather than as complicated or complex, and groups may be more prone to this behavior.

In her interview with SFI host Michael Garfield, Galesic notes that people are not as biased as we commonly believe, especially about those people in their own social networks. She says:

People are not that biased when it comes to judging their immediate friends. They have a lot of useful information about their friends. And pretty accurate. The biases show up when people are asked about other populations that they don't know so well, and they can be mostly explained by the structure of their own personal social networks. The more biased your social networks are, the more biased your estimates will be about the general population. … these kind of biases of judgements of the broader population can be explained by the structure of [the] social network and not by some cognitive deficits or motivational bias, [by] some desire to be better than others or some idea that everybody's like me or some cognitive deficits that people … are too stupid to understand how other people live. It's really determined by the context of memory — by the content of one's memory, which comes from one social circle.

If she is correct, then I must correct my own tendency to assume and to say that people who follow Donald Trump must be stupid, cognitively deficient in some way, or blinded by some false rhetoric or story. Their simplistic bias toward Trump and away from correct-thinking progressives (my group, of course) is more likely a function of their social networks rather than of their personal intellectual disabilities.

Just as my biases are. Ouch.

Our biases of judgement often follow not from any personal mental defects, then, though such defects do exist, but from the memories we form and rely on within our social networks. Our social networks help us identify which features of our landscapes are significant and how and why – think informal and formal education here – and we usually learn and remember those features within the frame of some narrative, even if it's a narrative as simple as how to get from the house to the food store and back (instructions on GPS) or as complex as how to make a successful life as a young black woman in rural Georgia (The Color Purple). Our social networks give us the stories that we live by, and most of us accept those stories whole cloth. Even if we eventually challenge and abandon our earlier family, school, and church stories, we spend much of our lives working through and within those stories to make sense of our lives.

Our biases are often directed toward those outside our own groups. Galesic says, "People are not that biased when it comes to judging their immediate friends." Proximity has its privileges, and we tend to have rich, nuanced knowledge about those we most interact with. We do not have that same rich network of memories about other people outside our networks. Moreover, we have stories about those people which simplify them into more easily managed and addressed stereotypes that gloss over the paucity of our information about them. And we all do this to some extent, especially when an issue requires an immediate response. In times of crisis, we tend to reduce an issue to a simple binary: fight or flight, good or bad, buy or sell. This can work to our advantage, but in complex human social networks, it can just as often land us in hot water.

Barkoczi and Galesic note that inefficient networks – those composed of diverse heterogeneous agents – are more effective for addressing complex issues with no single, known resolution as inefficient networks are more likely to contain individuals with diverse information and strategies, which can lead to more creative effective solutions. This leads me to believe that inefficient, heterogeneous networks propagate a wider range of stories that are less widely accepted by the people within the network. The advantage of a greater variety of stories is that the heterogeneous social network is able to address a greater number of complex issues than can a homogeneous social network.

However, Barkoczi and Galesic note that this relative advantage of inefficient networks depends on the social learning strategy used by the agents within the network. If individuals are using a conformity strategy, then efficient networks are more effective because they allow individuals to copy the solutions of others quickly and easily. Thus, efficient, homogeneous networks tend to have fewer stories that address simpler issues, and as a result, those networks can act more quickly and decisively than can heterogeneous, inefficient networks.

I'm disturbed, however, by Barkoczi and Galesic's distinction between simple and complex issues. They define simple tasks and complex tasks based on the number of optimal solutions. A simple task is one that has a single optimal solution, while a complex task has multiple optimal solutions, including one global optimum and several local optima. I prefer the more nuanced understanding of Dave Snowden's Cynefin framework which categorizes issues from simple with one optimal approach and resolution, through complicated, then complex, and finally chaotic issues with no optimal approaches or resolutions.

I am troubled by the tendency in society to reduce all issues to the simple domain, often a simple binary: us/them, good/evil, right/wrong, male/female, black/white, and countless others. Popular self-help often advises us to simplify life, to lead a simple life. I understand this drive, as complexity implies a constant tension: intellectual, emotional, social, technological, physical, and so on. Complexity can be exhausting; yet, I believe life to be complex. To my mind, simple systems are the rare exception to the complicated, complex, and chaotic domains. Without constant attention and maintenance, any simple domain will give way to the complicated, complex, and chaotic domains.

It seems to me, then, that stories arise and propagate easily throughout efficient, homogeneous networks, such as Evangelicals, because those networks have few barriers to stories that echo and reinforce their beliefs and because Evangelicals tend to echo the stories that their fellow Evangelicals believe. Evangelicals tend to a simple, binary view of life: good and bad, us and them, saved and sinner, holy and profane, Heaven and Hell. This makes them very efficient and coherent. They are able to respond to most socio-political issues quickly and forcefully, unlike progressives who must muddle through a fragmented world-view. The right stories told well can spread quickly through Evangelical circles. However, Evangelicals are more susceptible to misreading a complex situation and to misapplying a simplistic response.

Obviously, I will need to find evidence to support these ideas, but I think that I can do it.

Finally, it's been months since I last posted to this blog, and I apologize to those who have followed it until now. I have been writing lots of fiction since the summer and fall of 2023, and I've been applying many of the lessons about rhizo narratology to my stories. I won't publish my stories on this blog as that can interfere with publishing them in other venues, but I will begin to discuss the stories in terms of rhizo narratology.