Let's Be Honest

As a yogi, you should always speak the truth—or should you?

By Sally Kempton

My college philosophy teacher used to make this point with a personal example. As a Jewish child living in Germany, she was saved from being captured by the Nazis because a Catholic family lied to the Gestapo about her presence in their back bedroom. For the family to have told the truth would have brought about her death. It was a small lie for a larger truth.

Another situation in which lying might be ethical is when the truth is simply too harsh for the person who is receiving it. A friend of mine, when diagnosed with breast cancer, told her 90-year-old mother that everything was fine, because she recognized that telling the truth about her condition would create too much anxiety for her already-fragile mother.

Conversely, there are times when telling a factual truth can be an act of disguised or overt aggression. When Fran tells her friend Allison that she saw Allison's husband with another woman, Fran may be speaking out of concern for her friend, but she may also be expressing a hidden hostility or envy. Most of us can remember less dramatic but equally painful examples of bitter truth telling: disclosures made in anger, hurtful comments about a friend's or partner's secret vulnerabilities, revelations that destroy trust. In the past 30 years, especially in certain spiritual communities, there's been a prevailing ethic that privileges full disclosure, public confession, and extreme transparency in relationships. The results have been liberating in some respects, destructive in others. So it seems vital that we each find our own way of balancing truthfulness with other values. One great yardstick to use is called "the four gates of speech," which include the following questions: Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary? and Is this the right moment to say it? When we feel caught between speaking a bitter truth and keeping quiet, these questions help us sort out the priorities.

Tried and True

As I've said, balancing the relative value of, say, truth and kindness, is not always easy, and it requires a high degree of honesty—especially about your own deep inner motives. If the compulsion to be relentlessly honest sometimes conceals aggression, the decision to hide the truth because of kindness, or because the time is wrong, can be a cover for your fears or for the desire to stay inside of your comfort zone. Radical truth telling is simple. You just plunge in and do it, regardless of the effect it has on others. Discriminating truth telling demands far more attentiveness, emotional intelligence, and self-understanding.

So when you experiment with truth, don't stop at factual or even emotional honesty. Truthfulness requires self-inquiry, which is a two-step process of looking into your heart. First, you notice how and when you lie—whether it's to others or to yourself. Then you look at your motives for lying. As you practice observing when and how you stretch or distort the truth, you'll start to see patterns. Maybe you exaggerate to make a story better. Maybe you describe an incident so that it highlights someone else's mistake and conceals your own. Maybe you hear yourself automatically saying "I love you" to a friend or a lover, despite the fact that in that moment you are actually feeling distracted, disinterested, or downright hostile.

Facing Your Lies

As you begin to look at how you lie, it becomes possible to find out why you lie. My friend Alice is getting divorced and is facing a child-custody battle. Her lawyer suggested that she write a description of all the incidents in which her ex-husband had failed as a father and husband. She wrote a series of "He said, then I said" dialogues, highlighting the ways in which her husband had hurt her and their daughter. When Alice reread the document, she realized that she hadn't included her own hurtful words and actions. Part of the reason she hadn't was tactical: She wanted sole custody of their child. But another part of it was her need to feel justified about leaving her marriage. "Once I started to look deeper at these conversations, I could see that both of us were at fault. In fact, there were times I acted like a total bitch. I so much didn't want to see myself that way that my memory would literally distort what happened."

Alice was confronting what most of us would recognize as a particularly insidious form of untruth: the justifications, excuses, and blaming strategies that we use to avoid facing the gap between how we want to act and how we actually behave. For the postmodern, psychologically informed yogi, Patanjali's vow to unconditional truth demands much more than a commitment to factual accuracy. It asks you to become transparent to yourself, to be willing to gaze unflinchingly, yet without bitterness or self-blame, at the parts of yourself that you are afraid to expose to scrutiny. Only when you're willing to look at your areas of falseness can you discover the deepest possibilities of the practice of truth.

Page 1 2 3 4

See All Philosophy Articles »