I occasionally hear myself make this mistake in an argument: When I describe my own view, I describe an ideal, a vision for how we should think and live. But when I describe my opponent’s view, I describe how that view is lived out in real life. My argument thus becomes a comparison of my highest ideals with my opponent’s worst examples.

So, for example, arguing for Anabaptism I describe it in terms of following Jesus in everyday life, peacemaking, and being a church of committed believers. That’s obviously a sweet ideal, regardless of whether anyone can live it out. But in comparing Anabaptism to, say, Calvinism, I talk about how their theology leads to complacency in mission, despondency in assurance, and an arrogant leadership style. On my side is my ideal, on their side is the sorry way their ideals may be lived out.

On the one side are sordid examples, on the other side a glorious ideal. You can see why I win so many arguments.

This might be more subtle. I might say, “Instead of trying to unite the church around a list of doctrines we should be united by living like Jesus.” On the one side you have the dismal record of churches making lists of doctrines devoid of authentic spirituality and love. On the other side is the ideal of what amazing unity we would have if we actually lived like Jesus. On the one side are sordid examples, on the other side a glorious ideal. You can see why I win so many arguments.

This is related to what conflict mediators call the fundamental attribution error. It explains why people in conflict often arrive at such toxic portraits of the people on the other side and are blind to their own behaviour. It goes like this: If my opponent does something bad, I attribute that to her terrible character; that’s just the sort of person she is. But if I do something bad, its not because I am a bad person, its because I was forced into it by the situation. Maybe I was just so exhausted by the whole mess of conflict. If, however, my opponent does something good, its not a sign of good character—she was likely forced into it. She was cornered and had no choice. But if I do something good, of course that’s just the kind of person I am.

This fallacy accounts in good part for why conflicts can become so entrenched and toxic. Nothing either I or my opponent could possibly do, good or bad, can contradict the story I have made up in my mind about how things are.

We all have a powerful instinct to justify ourselves with mental tricks to make ourselves look like the people we believe we are. Read the book Mistakes were made (but not by me): Why we justify foolish beliefs, bad decisions and hurtful acts by Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson for an eye-opening description of how our brains work overtime to prevent us from admitting our mistakes.

But! We are justified by the grace of Jesus, not by our own behavior. That should change this whole dynamic. My life turns out well, very well, not because I am so right but because I am so graciously loved. As that sinks in, I can risk being humble and honest.