“I am affected, not because you have deceived me but because I can no longer believe in you.” 

—Friedrich Nietzsche

This past June, while watching the U.S. Open golf tournament on television, I was inundated with the apology advertising of both Wells Fargo and Facebook. The ads appeared so often that I began to wonder if CBS had run a mea culpa, bulk-ad special for the event.

I was simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the ads.

How fascinating that two of our larger corporations settled on propitiation strategies and a supposed show of “transparency” (I guess my personal skepticism is leaking out with the quote marks) to the customer bases they had exploited. Facebook has repeatedly and consistently violated its customers’ privacy. The company’s ad sought to admit as much—but it quickly moved to touching photos of friends and dads with their babies, etc. The irony of this advertising effort is that the Federal Trade Commission brought these allegations of deception about users’ privacy to Facebook a few years ago, and in a settlement with the commission in 2012, the company essentially promised to do better. It didn’t. Now Facebook’s ad is trying to tell us that this time the company is sincere.

Wells Fargo, meanwhile, in addition to imposing egregious fee and penalty practices in its mortgage and car loan divisions, was also opening deposit accounts and transferring funds without customer authorization, as well as applying for credit card accounts in customers’ names without their knowledge or consent. Customers were hit with annual fees, in addition to finance and interest charges and late fees. The company also created PINs for customers without their consent, and created phony e-mail addresses to enroll consumers in online banking services.

Fade To Black

The Wells Fargo ad starts by reminding us how crucial a role the company has played in our nation’s history, invoking the California Gold Rush and showing a kid at a Depression-era bank counter. In the company’s appeal to unquestionable trust, we hear the words acknowledging the recent scandals: “We always found a way until we lost it.” After fading to black, the commercial resumes: “But that isn’t where the story ends.” The ad goes on to tell us about the company’s “complete recommitment to you.”

This is the part I had real problems with. The neighborly cadence, the slick language and visceral images make the efforts at repositioning all the more suspect. We’re somehow going to repair all the greed-induced scars with a trite confessional advert delivered in a flippant tone. Hmmm. We are a forgiving culture, aren’t we?

In the world of public speaking, we have a maxim we try to adhere to that says, “It’s not what you say, but what they hear.” I wish the companies attempting to deliver apologies would heed this rule of conduct as well. Here is what I heard in both of the ads:

“Our initial intention was noble, but we quickly figured out how to exploit your vulnerabilities. Now that we’ve been caught and exposed, we want you to think we’ve really learned our lesson this time. Come on back now—the water’s fine.”

We all know that this behavior is driven by profit pressures—and the insanity of quarterly reporting on such. I personally feel bad for all the good people I know who work for these corporations and who do their best each day for their clients. Wells Fargo has many such people who seek nothing but the best for clients and have never come close to the sins of their banking comrades. Yet they are suffering for the manifold breaches of trust and will continue to do so.

This column is not about finger-wagging and pontificating about the obvious, but rather figuring out what matters most about money—and nothing matters more than trust. Two thoughts come to mind:

1. What is the proper manner in which to deliver an apology?

2. What promises are we making (or implying) in our practices, and can we keep those promises?

I Was Wrong

I remember being advised years ago in a premarital counseling session: “Here’s the basic formula for getting past offenses: First, admit it by saying, “I was wrong.” Second, say it and mean it: “I am sorry for what I did or said.” And third, ask, “Will you forgive me?”

I can’t think of any counsel better than that. The last thing anyone wants to hear in an apology is a PR campaign at the front end telling people what great people they are— followed by a flippant, “I’m sorry” and concluding with a slightly veiled defense of the action taken. That kind of apology never works.

It’s impossible to be in business for long without offending someone along the way. Offenses are often the result of unmet (and unspoken) expectations. It would behoove us all to be as clear as possible about what people can and should not expect from us. Years ago I interviewed a wise advisor named John Sestina who told me he would point-blank ask a prospect or client, “What are your expectations of me?” while he held a pen poised over a legal pad.

Once clients stated an expectation that he knew was unrealistic, such as, “I want a 10% return on average,” he would gently lay the pen down and say, “I can’t make that promise. I know of some competitors down the road who will tell you they can. I personally cannot and will not.” His punch line when he told me this story was, “It’s easier to appoint than to disappoint.”

Maybe we’re not promising to perform at a certain level, but are we implying we have abilities that we do not possess? Do we engage in conversations that imply abilities of prognostication, timing and selection? If we are predicting (or echoing another’s predictions) about what we think will happen in the markets, are we implying that we have some sort of prophetic insight? If we are comparing ourselves against averages and indexes, are we implying that we will be able to compete with them over time?

The easiest way to never break a promise is to never make one—unless we’re sure we can keep it. That means thinking about limiting our commitments, not embellishing our capabilities, and being careful not to overextend our energies.

Maybe, in the spirit of John’s approach, we should start by telling clients what we cannot do before we tell them what we aim to do:

1. I cannot predict the future.

2. I cannot execute perfect timing (therefore, I’ll employ an all-weather strategy).

3. I cannot beat indexes, averages and competitors year after year.

But …

1. I can and will pay attention to your situation.

2. I can and will adjust your approach according to your life needs.

3. I can and will keep my word to you.

There are so many outstanding people sitting in the seats of financial advice today. There are a much smaller number looking to exploit clients for their own gain. The well-publicized sins of the few practitioners will continue to grieve the honest and righteous, but these stories also provide a necessary contrast to the public. When they read and hear these stories, they conduct a quick comparison of their experience with you and the accounts they are hearing. They will instantly recognize the difference between advice tainted with vice—and that which is designed to help clients improve their lives.

 

Mitch Anthony is the author of the industry best seller StorySelling for Financial Advisors and the groundbreaking The New Retirementality (now in its fourth edition). A highly sought-after speaker, Mitch is widely regarded as a thought leader and pioneer in Financial Life Planning.