Plague of Lies

I have a huge problem with lying.

When I was little, I lied to get out of trouble with teachers. I lied so my parents wouldn't find out what I'd done, or so I wouldn't get beaten for it. The lies were small and urgent, a way to duck under the consequences of being a child.

As I grew older, I lied to my partner, my work, my friends, my family. And I told myself the same thing most of us tell ourselves: after all, we all do it. What's the big deal?

The real cost

Well, lies can cause deep damage. They break trust, create doubt, leave lasting wounds in relationships. A lie doesn't disappear once it's told. It sits in the room afterward. It spreads like a plague.

In scripture, Paul addresses this in Colossians 3:9-10. He is writing to new believers, explaining what changes when a person follows Jesus. "Do not lie to each other," he says, "since you have taken off your old self with its practices and have put on the new self." Lying isn't listed as one sin among many here. It's described as clothing, the old outfit we're supposed to have already taken off. Which means every small lie is a bit like digging that old shirt back out of the laundry basket.

What replaces it

In Colossians 3:12, 15, Paul doesn't just say stop lying and leave it there. He describes what replaces it: compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience. And then peace, the kind that "rules in your hearts." I used to read that as a nice list of virtues. Now I read it as a description of what trust actually feels like from the inside. Peace isn't the absence of conflict. It's being able to believe the person across the table.

Elsewhere Paul gets even more practical. Ephesians 4:25, 29: "stop telling lies" and "tell your neighbours the truth," then adds that our words should be good and helpful, an encouragement to whoever hears them. Not just true. Helpful. That's a higher bar than I usually hold myself to. I can tell the truth and still use it as a weapon. Paul seems to want something gentler than that: truth that builds a person up rather than simply correcting them.

A smaller question

Here's what strikes me about all three passages. None of them treat lying as a minor social lubricant, the kind of thing you do to smooth over an awkward moment. They treat it as corrosive. Something that eats at trust the way an earthquake reshapes ground you thought was solid.

I've started asking a smaller question before I speak: is this true, and is it going to leave the other person better off for having heard it? Most days I still find a way to fudge the answer. But I'm paying attention now, which I wasn't before.

Where has a small lie cost you more trust than it seemed worth at the time?