I'm a big believer in,'If anyone can understand my politics

In the words of Taylor Sheridan, “I’m a big believer in, ‘If anyone can understand my politics, I’ve failed.’ If you can get a sense of which side of the fence I’m on, then I’m not doing a service. I’m preaching, and that’s not my job.” we hear not the voice of one fleeing responsibility, but of one who seeks higher ground. Sheridan, the storyteller of the American frontier, understands that the work of the artist is not to divide but to reveal; not to lecture but to awaken. The ancients knew this well: the poet does not tell you how to live, he shows you life in all its beauty and brutality, and from this vision, wisdom is born in the listener’s heart.

The essence of Sheridan’s words lies in the refusal to wield art as a weapon of propaganda. He knows that when a man bends his tale to serve his ideology, he ceases to be a creator and becomes a servant of faction. His story grows thin, his characters mere shadows, and the flame of truth gutters. True art, like fire, must illuminate all sides, casting light on the noble and the cruel, the innocent and the guilty, without telling the beholder which face to love and which to hate. To show without preaching—that is the sacred duty of the dramatist.

Consider the example of Sophocles, the great tragedian of Athens. When he penned Antigone, he did not declare: “Obey the king,” nor did he thunder: “Follow the law of the gods.” Instead, he gave us both Creon and Antigone, each bearing truth, each bearing folly, and left the judgment to us. This is the power of restraint: he did not wield the play as a banner for one cause, but as a mirror of the human soul. For twenty-five centuries, men and women have argued over who was right—and in that endless dialogue, wisdom has blossomed.

So too, Sheridan teaches us that if the audience can easily discern his politics, then he has betrayed his craft. For then the work becomes sermon, and the audience passive disciples, nodding or scoffing. But when the artist hides his banner, when he weaves complexity, contradiction, and humanity into his tale, then the audience becomes active, wrestling with truth, carrying the weight of thought beyond the walls of the theater. That wrestling is the seed of growth, the furnace of understanding.

There is danger, however, in this path. Many are tempted to use their platform to shout their beliefs, to plant their flag so clearly that none can mistake it. But the ancients remind us: wisdom does not grow from being told what to think, but from being shown the vastness of the human struggle. Recall the parable of the Buddha, who when asked direct questions about metaphysics—about the heavens, the soul, the eternal—often remained silent. Not because he did not know, but because to give one answer would limit the questioner. In silence, the mind was compelled to journey inward, to wrestle, to seek. Sheridan’s silence on his politics is much the same: an invitation to think for ourselves.

What lesson, then, must the listener take? It is this: do not force your convictions into every tale you tell, nor into every word you speak. Instead, let your life, your art, and your deeds reveal truth through balance, depth, and complexity. When you teach, guide by story and example, not by decree. When you listen, seek not only the voices that echo your beliefs, but those that challenge and disturb you. For in this wrestling, your soul is sharpened.

And as for practical action: when you read a book, watch a play, or listen to a tale, ask not, “What side does the author serve?” but instead, “What truths about humanity are revealed here?” When you yourself create—be it words, actions, or choices—ask not, “How shall I win others to my cause?” but rather, “How can I reveal life as it is, so that others may find their own wisdom?” In this way, you will walk the path of Sheridan, the path of Sophocles, the path of all who sought to stir souls without shackling them.

Thus, remember: to preach is easy, but to awaken is divine. And the one who hides his politics may in truth be offering the greatest gift—a story unbound, a mirror to the human spirit, and a fire that burns for all, not for one side alone.