No harm came to anyone by not telling the truth, unless he counts himself—and his conscience
By George Valadie
I lied. I’m not proud of it. I’m a little embarrassed and a little ashamed. Why on earth would I do that?
It’s not like I planned to. I actually surprised myself.
And then Father’s homily piled on a little more guilt. “It’s not complicated. You can choose good, or you can choose bad. And you already know what awaits at the end of both those choices.”
He was right. I can choose, and I do know. But I lied.
Thankfully, no harm came to anyone in the telling of my lie. Nor did I gain anything I didn’t deserve. And I would have lost nothing had I owned up to the truth. There were no victims. Unless you count my conscience and the greater world of “truth.”
I was there for what I knew would be no more than a five-minute appointment. I’m on some meds that do battle with my acid reflux, and right now my meds are winning.
But when I don’t take my daily pill, my esophagus closes down, food gets caught where it shouldn’t, and more than once I’ve found myself in an operating room with a doctor stretching my esophagus.
This was my annual “check-in” (not “check-up”) allowing my doc to write another prescription to get me through the 365 days ahead. We’ve done this seven or eight times now.
“How have you been doing?”
“Fine.”
“Having any issues?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to change anything?”
“Nope.”
“Do you still use the same pharmacy?”
“Yep.”
“OK, here you go!”
Five minutes would be stretching it.
But the deed had already happened when the nurse and I were strolling back to the exam room. That’s when she casually asked, “Do you want to climb on the scale, or do you know what you weigh?”
I absolutely knew. I had weighed not 30 minutes before when I climbed out of the shower.
My desire in life is to weigh 190 pounds. I’ve been working—30 years or so—to get back down there. And I had been creeping closer.
Until recently. Things haven’t been going the way I’d like, and the facts stared me straight in the face.
196.3 pounds. Up a few. With the holidays looming.
And the scale? Well, it never lies.
“Do you want to climb on the scale, or do you know what you weigh?”
“I weighed this morning,” I offered. “195.”
I lied.
Why? I do not know. I hid 1.3 pounds from my nurse. She still doesn’t know.
Given this special time of year, I broke out grinning on the drive home. It occurred to me that if it had been 60 years ago and my mom had heard me tell such a fib, she likely would have warned, “Santa can see everything you’re doing!”
And no, the irony is not lost on me that we parents tell our kids lies to stop them from doing the same.
But it also occurs to me that this is also the season when a good many of us tell a lot more lies—perhaps white ones if there are such things—but lies all the same. And I’m proud of us.
“This casserole is amazing. I’ve never had beets and broccoli together. I’ve just got to have this recipe. Be sure and send it to me when you get home.”
“Look at what that crazy elf did last night! Do y’all think I’d mess up my own kitchen? Especially after I spent all day yesterday cleaning it up?”
“Well, Santa can make it all across the world in one night because his sleigh is supersonic fast.”
“I absolutely love this shirt. Do I want the receipt? No way. It’s my favorite color, too.”
“You got me a gift? Well, thank you! I have to confess I ordered one for you, too, but it just didn’t make it in time.”
“Don’t cry, honey. I know we don’t have a fireplace. But Santa is magic and can go wherever he wants.”
“I won’t ask you to do anything else.”
On the other hand, it’s not uncommon for us to pretend (lie if you will) life and outlook are better, nicer, more joyous than they might actually feel. Way better. Odd perhaps, given what that first Nativity was like.
It was joyous for sure but also simple and messy and innocent. The shepherds who came didn’t claim to be anything they weren’t, and they didn’t scurry to bring anything they didn’t have. It’s OK if ours feels the same.
But I read an article by a religious commentator asking the question, “Instead of embellishments and white lies, wouldn’t it be better if we embraced the simplicity and humility of the first Christmas? By focusing on the truth, we open the door to deeper connections with loved ones and a more authentic celebration of Christ’s birth.”
Maybe, but I’m not totally convinced.
Relationships are hard enough. Divisive enough. Painful enough. And I can’t think of a single connection that would be made deeper if the “truth” would make someone sad.
Yes, we absolutely can and should help our kids focus more on Bethlehem than the North Pole. But there is room enough in a kid’s world for both the magical and the miraculous.
And what can possibly be gained with an honest appraisal of another’s food or gifts? People have feelings. Words matter. And honestly, I’m not sure we embellish enough.
“Grandma, I just love it! I absolutely love it!”
Thankfully, no harm would come to anyone in the telling of this lie. Nor would anyone gain anything they didn’t deserve. There would be no victims. Unless you count conscience and the greater world of “truth.”
We can live with that, can’t we?
Dear God—You know our heart; not everyone needs to. Amen.
George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the newly released book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”
