Show, Don’t Tell: What Hollywood, Politics, and the Church All Get Wrong
Good stories don’t preach—they show. From Marvel to modern-day politics, we’re seeing the consequences of telling instead of showing. What if the church—and the country—started showing a better way?
Show, don’t tell.
It’s a basic premise in film and moviemaking. Though I’m not a movie guru or particularly artistic person, I appreciate good storytelling—especially good filmmaking.
As a fan of the Mission: Impossible franchise, I was excited about the newest release—until I read some reviews that referenced an interview with the director. According to him, they felt boxed in by the story, so they opened the movie by simply telling the audience what was happening—classic exposition.
Exposition isn’t always bad—in movies or in life. Sometimes things just need to be said. But the issue is that the message usually lands better and sticks longer when it’s shown, not told.
Because I’m so interested in storytelling, I tend to watch more movie reviews than actual movies (getting to the theater is easier said than done these days). A recurring theme in these reviews is the rise of “preachy” storytelling—where messages are no longer implied or nuanced, but overly explicit and in-your-face.
Marvel is trying to do too much
Take the “you’ve got to do better, Senator” line from Falcon and the Winter Soldier, where Sam Wilson scolds a senator for not doing more to address a humanitarian crisis post-Snap.
There’s a lot happening in that scene—probably too much. The creators were trying to address race, poverty, and immigration, while also referencing Isaiah Bradley, a Black super soldier secretly experimented on by the U.S. government after WWII. His story clearly parallels the real-life Tuskegee syphilis study, in which Black men were subjected to unethical medical research without their consent.
In the show, Bradley is a forgotten hero—imprisoned, erased from history, and stripped of dignity despite his service. His character critiques America’s racial legacy, raising powerful questions about who gets to be called a hero, and at what cost.
That said, the same scene—and perhaps the show as a whole—has been criticized for being too soft on the actions of the terrorists. I don’t think that was the writers’ intention, but it points to the problem: the scene is trying to do too much and relies too heavily on exposition. It ends up feeling like a five-minute speech.
I’ve made similar mistakes in preaching—trying to cram too many ideas into a single moment. Early in my career, I still cringe remembering one particular Sunday where I attempted to weave a passage about divorce—probably Matthew 19—into a sermon series on stewardship. The idea, in my mind, was to show that ours was a church where people could wrestle with hard teachings, hold space for questions, and find grace within nuance. And therefore—naturally—it was the perfect time to pledge to our annual giving campaign. I can still picture the blank stares from the congregation. That attempt to tell too much ended up feeling more like a confusing lecture than a compelling story.
What I appreciate about good art is that it’s subtle and subversive.
For instance, I recently read a Substack review highlighting how the original Lilo & Stitch was cleverly critical of tourism in Hawaii. According to the review, the film subtly shows how white tourists were out of place and how extractive tourism harms local communities.
That struck a chord with me—Lilo & Stitch holds a special place in my heart because my wife and I saw it together on a date before we got married. Back then, I wouldn’t have welcomed an overt critique of culture. But maybe even then, those clever critiques were quietly making their way into my heart.
I recently came across a quote from Susan Neiman that captures this perfectly:
"When I bought Maya Angelou's Life Doesn't Frighten Me, with illustrations by Basquiat, as a third birthday present for one of my daughters, I wasn't conscious of giving her a lesson. Decades later, during the BLM demonstrations that prompted discussions and activism in so many families, she told me I had—precisely because I didn't accompany the gift with a lecture on antiracism or the value of diversity. The lesson I didn't give her went something like this: members of other tribes are not the alien Other, but individuals who have thoughts and feelings like you. Angelou's message to face danger without fear resounded to become my daughter's favorite story. Some things are better to show than to tell. Great adult literature always renders the universal in the particular."1
Other movies come to mind that offer this kind of storytelling:
Starship Troopers, with its satirical takedown of imperialism and the military-industrial complex.
Wall-E, which presents an ecologically devastated Earth and a future where humans are lulled into passivity by convenience and entertainment.
What makes Wall-E so powerful is that it doesn’t come right out and say “we’re destroying the planet.” It shows us.
It’s the same thing with Starship Troopers—we’re not told that we’re needlessly sending our young men and women into stupid and meaningless wars. It shows us.
Visual media still drives everything.
For all the jokes about the President being an idiot, in some ways, he’s incredibly savvy. He deeply understands the power of visual media—of showing, not telling.
After he narrowly survived an assassination attempt last summer, he rose and raised a fist. It was a powerful image. From that moment on, I was convinced he’d win the election. Throughout his presidency—especially now—he’s expertly manipulated the media to show America and the world what he wants them to see in order to advance his dangerous agenda.
And to be clear, I don’t admire this. It’s terrifying. But it’s effective.
This is what Democrats just don’t seem to get.
For the last decade—especially the last five years—Democrats and Progressives have spent too much time telling people what’s wrong with Trump and our modern society. And yes, some things absolutely need to be said. But at some point, people tune it out. The endless ALL CAPS posts on Twitter/X are emblematic of this—loud declarations like “FIVE ALARM FIRE,” “END OF DEMOCRACY,” “AUTHORITARIANISM IS HERE”—meant to jolt people awake, but often exhausting or alienating instead. What begins as urgent truth-telling starts to feel like noise.
Exposition isn’t always persuasion. Keep it simple.
The phrase “Black Lives Matter” is a masterclass in showing, not telling. Just three words—simple on the surface—but they carry an entire universe of history, injustice, dignity, and longing. It didn’t need a paragraph. It didn’t need a speech. It showed something—and everyone knew exactly what it meant, whether they agreed or resisted. But over time, many felt compelled to expand it, to tell people exactly what they should be doing or thinking in response.
That shift—often white people instructing other white people—began to feel more like an exercise in control than an invitation to transformation. It became a conflict of wills rather than a call to conscience. I wonder what might have happened if the phrase had been left to do its quiet work—if more space had been given for people to sit with the discomfort,2 to let that story—Black Lives Matter—weave its way into their hearts and subtly reshape their thinking, their instincts, their behavior. That’s the power of showing. It invites. It lingers. It changes us.
People don’t need to just be told why Trump is wrong, people don’t need to be just told why our society is unjust—they need to be shown a better way.3
This is where Jesus was brilliant.
Using the media of his time—storytelling—Jesus used parables to show how the Kingdom (or Reign) of God was different from the rule of earthly powers.
The Mustard Seed (Matt. 13:31–32; Mark 4:30–32; Luke 13:18–19) – A tiny seed grows into a large tree, sheltering birds in its branches. The Kingdom starts small, but its impact is expansive and inclusive.
The Yeast (Matt. 13:33; Luke 13:20–21) – A little leaven works through the whole dough. God's reign works quietly, beneath the surface, transforming everything.
The Hidden Treasure and The Pearl of Great Price (Matt. 13:44–46) – The Kingdom is so valuable, it's worth giving up everything else to gain it.4
Again and again, Jesus painted pictures with words to help listeners see what God’s reign looked like. It was far more powerful than any monologue could have ever been.
If America is going to change course...
...we need leaders who can cast a compelling vision of what’s possible—not just what we’re against. We need to be shown the consequences of our current path and the beauty of a better one.
That’s how you persuade.
That’s how you inspire.
That’s how you lead.
Let’s show them.
Susan Neiman, Left is Not Woke, 55.
The problem became, as so many white people felt the anxiety of the moment, they rushed to react and do something rather than just simply sit and listen and consider.
Most certainly, show the devastating results of the “Big, Beautiful Bill,” but then also give a vision of a better future.
And even here, the beauty of these parables is that they transcend even these interpretations. Such is the brilliance of great art.