A lie. I created one recently. A major misrepresentation of truth. But, you know, a good one. Or, if not good, at least justified.

A lie is: “a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth,” and in case I hadn’t gotten the meaning quite yet, “a falsehood.” Yep. I recognize that.

Well, what the heck. If a conversation lasts more than ten minutes, all people lie at least once, probably more often. That, at least, is the conclusion of a published study conducted by psychologist Robert S. Feldman, University of Massachusetts. Women lie mostly to help others feel better about themselves or a situation. Men lie mostly to inflate their image, or to feel better about themselves. The average person, studies suggest, tells at least four lies a day. A total of 87,600 lies by the age of 60. 

The most common lie we all tell is this:  “I’m fine.” 

Oh, for heaven’s sake! A lie? Come on!

(Did you know typewriters didn’t have exclamation points?)

The story is this. Recently, I lied. Quite significantly. I felt terrible about doing it. I meant to personally benefit by lying. And, after a decision to lie, all I had to do was act upon the decision. 

“To lie” is a hefty verb. It doesn’t need assistance. For instance, “Merry” needs help to be active. I can’t “merry,” I have to “make” merry. Some actions need a kick to get going. Not lying. 

As I walked away from the situation where I did deliberately misrepresent truth, I felt horrible. I very much like truth. But, there it was— decided upon, acted upon, then irretrievable. “Ca-ching! 87,601.

I walked away remembering two situations where the attitude of others toward lying caught my attention.

First, I was a 30-year-old presenting a series of lectures to a large audience on the Minor Prophets of Jewish scripture. Wherever I was in the text, it allowed me to say something like (I mean, it was years ago so I’m not perfectly able to recall how I stated this): “Big or little, a lie is a lie is a lie.” And surely, I must have been suggesting that lying is not a good thing because a woman somewhere in the middle of that audience stood to her feet, pointed her right index finger at me and said, “I live with a lie and it is a good one!”

No amount of preparation prepares a person to have a good point unexpectedly jarred like a boxer’s punch to the jaw. I can’t remember breathing for a bit, but I do remember asking if I might finish the lecture and meet her afterward for conversation—where I learned that she lied to a child about adoption. I don’t know the consequences of her decision. I can only imagine that when truth did finally emerge, it would be difficult.  As I walked away from my own “good lie,” I thought of her. I felt a bit more sympathetic. She had her reasons for misrepresentation.

Thinking of reasons, two years later, I was at lunch in Switzerland, chewing on topics of rational Christianity with people from various nations. The topic of lying came up. 

“Never,” said a man from the Netherlands, “It’s never right.” He had his reasons.

“But, say you were hiding Jews during the Second World War, and Gestapo comes to the door. Would you lie to protect those you have hidden away?”

“No,” came the answer from a man firmly convinced of right and wrong. Flatly. Firmly. A lie is a lie is a lie. A sin is a sin is a sin, said the man from the Netherlands whose priorities shocked me.

I felt better then, about my lie. It was a betrayal of a fact, not a person. It was a good one. Justified.

“I’m fine.”