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Lying
A Sermon Given
by The Rev. Roger Fritts
on September 6, 1998
at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
Bethesda, Maryland
The poet T.S. Eliot once wrote:
Half of the harm that is done in this world
Is due to people who want to feel important.
They don't mean to do harm--but the harm does not interest them.
Or they do not see it, or they justify it
Because they are absorbed in the endless struggle
To think well of themselves.
The Cocktail Party
Forty years ago, in September of 1958, I entered the second grade as a student at Robert E. Simpson Elementary School
in Phoenix, Arizona. I wanted to develop new friends, and thereby (as Eliot would say) think well of myself. The first
day of school the teacher told us the schedule, which included a fifteen minute recess at 10:30 every morning. The
teacher explained to us the borders of our playground. To the west, beyond the school property, was a large open field
filled with tall weeds, weeds as tall as we were. The teacher warned us not to go off the school grounds during the
recess, not to go into the field. This, we were told, was for our own good.
However, I found the playground limited in its opportunities. The school had four classes of second graders, 120
students, and because it was a new school, it did not have much in the way of playground equipment. When a new
friend told me that he had explored the field after school the day before, and that it was really interesting, I did not
hesitate to sneak off the school grounds with him during recess. Soon we were into the tall weeds and we felt like we
were invisible. We could still hear the school bell and when it rang the two of us slipped back onto the school grounds
and lined up to go back to class. No one had noticed our escape or our return. Having done something different than
the other kids, I felt I was important.
The next day at recess we headed out again. The day before, when we walked home from school, we had bragged to
other boys, describing the field. They decided to join us. So instead of two of us sneaking away into the weeds there
were suddenly six or seven of us. We were standing among the weeds talking when a teacher spied us. "GET BACK
HERE THIS INSTANT!" she shouted.
My friends plunged for cover in the weeds, but I jumped to the conclusion that it was better to walk to where the
teacher was standing and face the consequences. I did this although I was afraid that I would lose my friendship with
the other boys. I was, after all, breaking ranks, admitting defeat and surrendering. When I reached the teacher, she
yelled again at the other boys and I looked back in the direction of her shout. My friends were all visible through the
weeds. The belief that thick weeds hid us from the view was an illusion.
My friends soon realized that their efforts to hide were not successful and they also came and joined me. We all stood
sheepishly while she lectured to us about the dangers of what we were doing, and how bad we were.
The image that has stayed with me for forty years is that moment when I looked back at my friends. They were trying
to hide the fact that they had broken the rule and they hoped to avoid punishment. Nevertheless, everyone, the teacher
and the other kids on the playground could see each boy clearly as he struggled to crouch down and hide. What got
burned into my brain that day was a simple lesson in moral development. I learned that when I get caught breaking the
rules, admitting what I have done is better than trying to hide or to lie. When I am tempted to lie about something I
have done, I remember how pathetic my friends looked hiding in the weeds.
"Half of the harm that is done in this world
Is due to people who want to feel important."
T.S. Eliot's words applied to my teenage years. When I was seventeen, I went to a party with some friends and I met
an attractive young lady and we struck up a conversation. She went to a completely different school far across town
and did not know anyone I knew. I thought it was unlikely that we would ever meet again. Convinced that the real me
was boring and uninteresting, I stretched the truth about myself.
I told her that I had been a disc jockey for a radio station at the Junior College where I was taking classes. In truth, I
had never been anywhere near the college radio station and I knew absolutely nothing about being a disc jockey. I told
her that I had hitchhiked to San Francisco the summer before and lived with hippies in the Haight-Ashbury District. In
truth I had never been anywhere near San Francisco. It was all a lie, told to impress. To my surprise, at the end of the
evening she gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. A week later I took her to the movies. After that
first time together, I resolved not to make up any new lies about myself. However, I was already in trouble.
I had difficulty remembering what I had said at the party, and I began to fear that I would say something now that
would be inconsistent with the lie I had already told. I began to fear that when we went to the movies I would run into
someone who knew me. They would know I had never been a radio disc jockey or to San Francisco, and would spill
the beans. I began to fear that she would ask me questions that, based on my lies, I should be able to answer. A
question like: "Where on the campus of the Junior College is the radio station?" I had no idea. My deception began to
preoccupy me to the point that I lived with a constant anxiety that affected my ability to function.
I liked this young woman, but after a few weeks I decided to end the relationship. I could not continue the deception
about who I was and I could not face the embarrassment and shame in telling her how I had lied to her. I could not
even end the relationship in a straightforward way. I stopped calling her, I did not return her calls and I was distant
when she did reach me. After a few days she gave up and stopped calling. By my deception I had ruined what was a
promising relationship.
At least, I thought, she lives across town and I will never see her again and never be reminded of my foolishness. I ran
into her a few months later at Arizona State University and discovered we were attending the same school. She was
dating someone else when I saw her, but she was still friendly to me. We would see each other every three or four
months over the next several years as we walked to and from class and we might stop and chat briefly. Each time
seeing her reminded me of the lies I had told about myself the first time we had met. Each time I felt shame. I know
a mature person would have told her what he had done. However, I was not mature.
In the first experience on the playground I learned that when I try to deceive, I am likely to get caught. In the second
experience I learned that even when I do not get caught, I feel so bad about the deception, the lying ruins any prospect
for a healthy long-term relationship.
I have been talking about myself here, but perhaps these stories remind you of events in your own moral development.
Most of us learn through experience that the long term price we pay for deception is not worth the short term gain. I
suspect we each have in our memories, moments when as children we tried to get what we wanted by deception and
discovered that telling the truth was better. In my own life, because of these two experiences, I vowed to make every
effort to be honest.
However, as I grow older, I have found that I can not say that lying is always wrong. I can not apply the rule
"thou will not lie" to all people, everywhere, in all situations.
Consider this example. Bob Anders is the former husband of my wife's sister. Bob lives in London now and he is
retired, but for many years he worked for the State Department. Back in November of 1980 he was stationed in the
United States Embassy in Tehran. As you recall, Islamic students took over the Embassy. They held the America staff
at the Embassy prisoners. Bob Anders happened to be in another building and was able to escape with five others to
the house of a friend who was on the staff of the Canadian Embassy. They lived in the Canadian ambassador's home
for three months until they could leave the country, walking through customs with Canadian passports.
In this situation lies were told, not only by Bob and the other Americans, but also by State Department officials, by
President Jimmy Carter, and by Canadian officials.
Most people in the United States agree that elected officials can lie to protect hostages. One researcher called these
"patriotic lies." Their purpose is to protect our nation, our community or our family. Such lies are especially
acceptable when they are done to help others, instead of ourselves. Lying to a guard about a loaf of bread under our
coat is acceptable, if we have no other means for getting food for our children. Truth telling becomes subordinate to
the greater duty of caring for our family. American attitudes about strict honesty can be puzzling to people with
personal or family memories of countries under alien occupation or communist rule, where lying to dodge the oppressor
was one of the first things parents taught their children.(1)
Roman Catholic moral theologians call lying to protect oneself or others the principle of overriding right. The principle
of overriding right recognizes that sometimes a more important principle than truth-telling is at stake, such as the need
to protect human life.
As I said, I am not a moral absolutist when it comes to lies. With the Roman Catholic moral theologians, I believe in
the principle of overriding right. I believe that there are times when a more important principle than truth-telling is at
stake, such as the need to protect human life. At such times a lie is justified.
There is a second widely accepted form of lying. In the Jewish tradition there is little tolerance for lying. It is always
forbidden in a judicial proceeding. However, some rabbis believe that the Bible may allow "white lying." They cite a
passage in Chapter 18 of the Book of Genesis where God fails to mention to Abraham an unflattering comment about
Abraham made to God by Abraham's wife. From this passage rabbis deduce that some white lies may be acceptable in
preserving family harmony. Many in our society agree.(2)
How often do we tell these white lies? A small study done at the University of Virginia asked 140 people to kept
diaries of the lies they told. The study found that these 140 people recorded in their diaries an average one or two
white lies a day. They told these lies to spare themselves embarrassment or to make themselves look better to others.
With the Jewish moral philosophers, I believe that small white lies are sometimes appropriate, when we mean them to
spare embarrassment and maintain family harmony. Put another way, I believe that love may temper honesty.
However, I also believe that for people living in America at the end of the twentieth-century situations where lying is
justified are very rare. Most of us are never confronted with a situation where we must lie to protect human life. And,
I believe that most of us can get through most days without telling white lies. If the study I referred to is correct and the average person tells one or two white lies a day, that, I think, is too much lying.
One of my goals is be a healthy person, physically, emotional, spiritually for as long as I can, given the limits of life. I
also wish to raise my children to be healthy people. And I want to live in a community that is healthy. To put it in
popular jargon, I want to live in a functional community not a dysfunctional one. Given these goals, all my experience
has led me to conclude that lying is almost always a mistake. To be a religious person, to be a spiritual person, to be a
good parent and a good minister, I have found it essential that I strive for candor and honesty in my relations with
others. This means I try to tell the truth, even when I know that sometimes what I say may not be popular. It also
means that before I do anything, I ask myself the question: If what I am about to do were to become public could I talk
about it truthfully with my family and my friends and my congregation without feeling ashamed? If the answer is no, I
do not do it.
This week my youngest child, my eight year old daughter started third grade at Rock Creek Forest Elementary School.
I have entrusted her with adults whom I assume will not lie to her and who will teacher her, as I have taught her, not to
lie. I assume that she will test these rules just as I did when I was her age. I hope she will get caught, just as I did,
and that she will face the consequences of her actions. I hope she will learn early on that it is best to strive to tell the
truth.
At this time reaffirming our commitment to honesty and truthfulness in human relations is important. It is not
acceptable to say "everyone lies, so what is the big deal." I do not believe that everyone lies and I do think that lying
is a significant transgression. I do not wish our society to become more cynical and I do not wish my children to grow
up believing that lying is not important. If we do not reaffirm the importance of honesty, the result will be a decline in
trust between people and their leaders, and people will be hurt.
Why are we tempted to use lying as a way to feel important? People are tempted to lie because one or both of their
parents or their teachers, or their minister or another adult role model, lied and gave them lying as a model for getting
their needs met. For the future health of this society and this religious community we must to teach our children that
honesty tempered by love, is the best way to live, and we must live out these values in our own lives.
T.S. Eliot wrote:
Half of the harm that is done in this world
Is due to people who want to feel important.
They don't mean to do harm--but the harm does not interest them.
Or they do not see it, or they justify it
Because they are absorbed in the endless struggle
To think well of themselves.
May each of us find ways to feel important in this world, without lying to ourselves or others in the process.
1. Bruce Clark, writing in The Financial Times (February 1, 1998).
2. Janny Scott, writing in The New York Times, (August 16, 1998).
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