Basketball

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As the loose ball bounced low across my path, I reflexively lifted up my leg ever-so-slightly and re-directed it into my hands.

Well-versed in the rules of basketball, my brain immediately registered what had just happened. That’s a “kick.” I had intentionally used my legs to manipulate the ball, which, even in a pick-up game, should result in a stoppage of play and the other team’s possession.

And yet, perhaps in less of a decision than an instance of in-the-moment autopilot, I played on. My nearest opponent, however, had seen what had happened, and vocalized the same conclusion that I’d already drawn but didn’t act upon.

“That was a kick, wasn’t it?”

Now I was in trouble, caught in a double-team between the truth and my own fragile sense of self. I had already played on. To admit that, yes, I had used my leg to move the ball into my hands would be to both forfeit the advantage that my team had gained, but also to admit to my fellow ballers that, at best, I was sloppy or ignorant of the rules, and at worst, a cheater.

And so I lied.

“No, it wasn’t intentional,” I said with some forced confidence, hiding behind the fact that if the ball hits a leg or a foot inadvertently, there’s no “kick” to be called.

“Oh, maybe I didn’t see it clearly,” responded my interlocutor, probably rightfully dubious of my claim, but not looking to push the issue.

Play moved on, and aside from some discussion about the finer points of “kicks” and “non-kicks,” the incident was largely forgotten and seemingly inconsequential. I don’t think it affected the outcome of that game, and I doubt any of the guys I was playing with remembered it.

But I did. In truth, the fact that I’d lied stayed with me all morning, as I sat in the acid bath of an unsettled conscience. Obviously, it wasn’t that big of a deal, telling a bit of a fib in parish pick-up basketball game with friends. But then why did I do it? Why did I lie?

I’ve already alluded to the immediate underpinnings of the lie: the perceived threat to myself, my reputation, my status in the eyes of others, that acknowledging that I’d kicked the ball and kept on playing would’ve entailed.

But that line of thinking itself is built on another lie, a more fundamental lie. And that’s the lie that reality — the facts and circumstances in which I find myself — is not “for me,” but is somehow opposed to my well-being. God, according to this lie, is not a Provident Father, and I therefore need to provide for myself, even if it means deceiving others and putting myself at odds with the truth.

I think this big lie underlies all other falsehoods in our lives, be they the malicious and intentional kind or the “little white” variety. Someone who lies to gain an advantage or to hurt another clearly does not trust the providence of God, but the same could be said for someone who tells a mistruth out of a desire to avoid confrontation or unpleasant feelings.

In the Catechism’s treatment on lying (2482-2486), a significant focus is on the harm done to others by our lies. As University of St. Thomas philosophy professor Greg Coulter would say in class, lying is more morally significant than we often think it is, because it distorts another’s vision of reality and therefore their ability to engage with it. (I hope politicians and members of the media are listening!)

But I think it’s hard to ignore the damage done to the one telling the lie. Every lie told allows the false logic that providence cannot be trusted to take greater hold in the liar’s heart, preventing his ability to adhere to reality — the basis for freedom — and replacing the capacity for receptivity, wonder, gratitude and joy with a grasping, clutching for control that is ultimately rooted in fear.

Because lying both stems from and also perpetuates a falsified relationship with God as Father, this is where our focus needs to be for overcoming our tendencies to tell lies, big or small. Daily or frequent prayer, which gives thanks to God and acknowledges his love and his power, allows us to root ourselves in the fundamental truth that he is provident — in control of all the circumstances of our lives and even more desirous of our good than we are ourselves. Only from this posture of trust in the Father can we embrace the truth and adhere to reality — even when doing so might have unpleasant consequences.

So, Joe, I’m sorry. You were right. I kicked the ball.

Liedl writes from the Twin Cities.