[Dr. Charles Wellborn is Professor of Religion Emeritus, Florida State University, Tallahassee and for 20 years was Dean of the Overseas Campus in London where he now lives.]

Any respectable list of aphorisms must include the time-honored words, "Honesty is the best policy." Most of us pay sincere lip-service to that admonition, but in everyday life the translation of the words into action can often present a puzzling challenge.

I was reared in a Christian home. Again and again my parents instructed me always to tell the truth, and I was sometimes punished when I failed to do so. I identified truth with the facts of the matter, insofar as I knew them. The apocryphal tale of George Washington was a familiar story. "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree," the future "Father of Our Country" declared, to the moral applause of ensuing generations.

I began my formal schooling with a firm conviction that it was always right to tell the truth, but I soon faced a worrying problem. Clearly, to many of my fellows, there was something dishonorable and unmanly about being a "tattle-tale"--telling the truth about some less than honorable act committed by another person. Thus arose one of my first small moral dilemmas. Was it more virtuous always to tell the truth or tactfully to hold one's tongue in certain situations? That this was not just a childish problem was driven home to me in my later years as a college professor when I witnessed students struggle seriously with the decision as to whether to report another student for cheating on an examination.

American high schools, in my day, usually presented a "junior" and a "senior" play each year (some may still do so). I played a small part in my senior play. The play was a popular potboiler entitled "Nothing But the Truth." The slender plot revolved around a decision by a group of people to speak nothing but the truth--the facts--for a specified period of time. As the play progressed, scenes of comedy, chaos, and even tragedy were depicted, all as the result of rigid "truth-telling."

My role in that play did not make me a theatrical star but it did start some wheels turning in my mind. Is honesty always the best policy? Is it universally wrong to tell a lie, regardless of the consequences? Are there such things as "white lies" which are morally acceptable, in contrast to other lies which are not?

Some years after my high school days I became a soldier in the United States Army during World War II. As part of my military training, I was told that, if I should be captured, I was obliged under the Geneva Convention to tell the enemy only my name, rank, and serial number. in certain circumstances it would enemy with false information. As a simple illustration, if I were to be asked about the rate of casualties in my unit, it would be acceptable for me to say that the rate was very low, even if, in fact, more than half of my unit had been killed or wounded in recent fighting. This, I was told, would be a "useful lie." Are "useful lies" morally acceptable?

I have dredged up these random reflections from my own experience in order to make the important point that "truth-telling," as a practical moral exercise, is often far from simple. Christians regard the Old Testament Decalogue as a God-given and dependable basis for moral conduct. The ninth commandment tells us that we are not to bear false witness against our neighbor. At this point we are faced with the inevitable problem of interpretation. The commandment is stated in human language. What do the words mean, when applied to real-life situations? A narrow understanding of the meaning of "bearing false witness" might be that it forbids us to falsify facts when we are giving testimony under oath in a court of law. But both Jews and Christians have understood the commandment to extend much further, placing upon us the moral obligation to tell the truth.

Does this understanding of the commandment relieve us of difficulty by dictating a simple, pun complicated responsibility to tell the factual truth under any and all circumstances? It would be comfortable to think so, but my life experience leaves me with nagging problems. One of those problems is the definition of truth. That, of course, is an age-old question. Even Pontius Pilate asked, "What is truth?" Is there more to truth than simply the replication of facts? And is the ninth commandment our final moral authority in this area? What are we to do if it seems that the obligation to tell the factual truth conflicts with another commandment, such as that of Jesus that we should love our neighbor as ourselves?

In the 18th century the philosopher, Immanuel Kant, dealt with the overall moral problem involved in telling the truth. Relying mainly on philosophical reasoning, he insisted that, indeed, truth is identical with facts and, further, that woven into the moral fabric of the universe are certain moral absolutes which he called "categorical imperatives." One of those imperatives is the obligation to tell the truth under any and all imaginable circumstances. His only concession was to say that it may sometimes be acceptable to remain silent.

Ever since Kant ethicists have debated his conclusions. They have worried, for instance, over a sample application of Kant's position. In modern terms the situation is this. Suppose that you are in the front yard of your house, trimming your hedge. Out of the next-door house runs your neighbor's wife, obviously terrified. She dashes into your yard and hides herself behind the hedge. Seconds later, she is followed by her husband, brandishing a hatchet. He calls out to you, "Did you see my wife? Where is she?"

The facts of the matter are clear. You do know where she is. Are you obligated to tell him the truth? Kant would grant only that you have the option to remain silent. Is that the good thing to do in this situation? Would it possibly be better to point down the street and say, "She went that way"? To say those words would be to lie, in terms of the facts, but it might well give you time to get the wife into the safety of your house and even to call the police. Of course, some "macho" types might suggest that you tackle the irate husband and take the hatchet away from him, but not all of us are supermen. I do not choose at this point to try to solve that moral dilemma. I use the story simply to raise questions.

Some thirty years ago an American theologian, Joseph Fletcher, published a book which for a brief period caused a stir in religious circles. His book was called Situation Ethics and it set forth the argument that what we call moral absolutes are not absolute at all but only general moral guidelines. Fletcher believed that every actual situation of moral choice is almost completely unique. It is the context of action--the "situation"--which dictates the "right" action. What is good in one situation may be bad in another. Fletcher went on to argue that, for the Christian, there is finally only one moral absolute--agape love, the love which Jesus taught.

Fletcher's presentation left large logical gaps, and his critics were quick to point those out. The overwhelming number of human moral decisions are not nearly so unique as Fletcher believed. The similarities among decisions are, by and large, more important than their supposed uniqueness. Fletcher was accused of, in actuality, discarding almost completely the moral wisdom of such dicta as the Ten Commandments. In addition, he seemed to fail to take seriously the ingrained propensity of men and women to interpret his sole absolute--love--in twisted and perverse ways. It is not enough to instruct individuals to "do the loving thing"; that command leaves people with a suspect and highly subjective standard of right and wrong Fletcher's arguments faded into obscurity, leaving only the term "situation ethics" as a sort of "bete noire"--a convenient whipping post, especially for many conservative moralists.

Several years before Fletcher another theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, had raised more searching questions, specifically in the area of truth-telling. Bonhoeffer took as his central concern the question, "What is truth?" Is truth simply a replication of the facts or is it something more than that? He sought to put the understanding of truth within a larger context--the loving purposes of God in the world. Well aware of human sinful tendencies, Bonhoeffer did not discard the moral injunction that it is right to tell the truth. Rather, he refused to identify truth with bare facts. Truth is always and everywhere, Bonhoeffer thought, consistent with the compassionate purpose of God, as revealed in Jesus Christ. To be totally "true", therefore, a word or act must somehow be loving and redemptive.

Like Fletcher, Bonhoeffer argued (on far more solid ground, I think) that the situation or context of action is important in determining the right or wrong thing to do or say. No moral decision can be divorced from the circumstances in which it is made. It is the concrete situation which assists us in applying the love ethic of Jesus and in determining what is redemptive in real-life decisions. Like Fletcher, Bonhoeffer insisted that the final moral imperative is the command to love our neighbor as ourself. But the moral wisdom of the Ten Commandments, for instance, is of indispensable value, if we seek to act in accordance with the redemptive purposes of God. The burden of proof is certainly on us when we decide to depart from the facts of the matter.

How then do we arrive at the truth in a specific decision-making situation? Bonhoeffer argued that one significant component of the truth is that it must be "coherent" with the actualities of the situation. To put this simply, if one is called on to answer a question, it is important to try to understand what the questioner is actually asking. Perhaps this idea can be clarified with some real-life examples, one rather minor and oft-used, the other two more serious.

Suppose that you are a husband, greeting your wife who has just returned from a shopping expedition. She is obviously excited and pleased. She goes into the bedroom and shortly returns, having put on an expensive new dress which is the fruit of her shopping. She models it before you and then asks, "Do you like it?" In this particular situation, imagine that you actually do not like the dress. In fact, you do not like it at all. What do you say to your wife? Do you tell the truth--that is, give her the facts?

Bonhoeffer suggests that it is important in this situation to understand what the wife's question means. She obviously likes the dress; otherwise, she would not have bought it. Is she asking for your honest opinion? Or is she asking for your support for an action which she has already carried out? Would any loving or redemptive purpose be served by your giving her the full blast of your negative views?

Granted, the "right" answer will depend a great deal on the personalities of the two people involved. If the relationship is such that the husband knows that his actual opinion is important to the wife and that she will have no real difficulty accepting that opinion, then it might be best to give her the facts. My judgment is that there are many marital relationships where more harm than good would be done by giving a brutal, honest opinion.

In a more serious situation, consider a doctor attending a patient who is terminally ill, according to all of the available medical knowledge. The patient asks the doctor, "Am I going to die?" What does the doctor say? Does he simply impart the tragic facts, or is there a morally acceptable alternative?

I have discussed this situation with several of my Christian doctor friends. I am impressed that in every case my friends have said, in one way or another, "It would depend on the patient. It would depend on the situation." They seem to be saying that an important factor in their decision would be "What is the patient really asking?" Some people would be asking for the bare facts of the matter, and they should certainly be given those facts. But others are not asking for that. They require some kind of support, some sort of hope, else their last days may well be horrible and unbearable. Should not the sensitive, caring physician frame his answer in a way that, even though it is not entirely consistent with the facts, contributes redemptively and lovingly to the welfare of his patient?

I would offer one other example which comes out of my experience years ago as a pastor and counselor. A sincere, Christian young man, recently married, came to his pastor for advice. He told me that, as a teen-ager, long before his marriage, he had led a dissolute and promiscuous sexual life. He had become a Christian, had repented his sexual sins, and felt that God had forgiven him and wiped his moral slate clean. Now, his conscience was troubled. Did he have a moral obligation to tell his wife the whole truth about his past?

How would you have counseled this young man? Of course, again, a judgment must be made, imperfect at best, as to the character of the persons involved. Acting on my best judgment, my advice to the young husband was that there was nothing to be gained, in terms of the supreme importance of his relationship with his wife, by giving her all the facts. It seemed to me that such a response might have done irrevocable damage to his relationship. I did not think that his wife either wanted or needed to know the "truth."

I realize how open to criticism I am at this point. There is the possibility, remote but real, that at a later date, the wife may have found out that her husband had not given her all the facts. But I gambled on the belief that, even if that happened, the husband could justify his action on the basis of his love for his wife and his overwhelming desire to maintain the marriage relationship at its best. What seemed to me most important in the situation was not the facts, but the persons involved. Looking back, I feel more comfortable with my decision now, since that particular marriage has happily endured for almost forty years.

I have used these simple illustrations to point up the fact that decisions about "truth-telling" are not always simple and straight-forward. Where does this leave us, as Christians? Are we totally at sea when it comes to deciding whether or not to tell the "truth"? I think not. First, it is clear we are not free to play fast and loose with the facts. The ninth commandment is not only a basic moral guideline, it is also an essential component of society. We could not operate unless we were reasonably certain that, in all ordinary cases, people told us the factual truth. Chaos would result if, when we asked someone on the street what time it was, we had always to wonder whether they deliberately gave us the wrong answer.

The law is essential in the operation of ordinary life. But this does not allow for the extraordinary circumstances which sometimes present themselves. Thus, there is a second basic proposition. The law, however practical in ordinary circumstances, does not cover everything. Legalistic adherence to the letter of the law is not sufficient. Here, Christians must turn, as always, to the teaching of Jesus.

Clearly, Jesus finally put love above law. He said that he had come to "fulfill" the law. To me, that means that he came to give the law new meaning--a meaning that derives from the priority application of "Jesus-love" to the dimensions of the law.

Jesus did not hesitate to violate the letter of the law if it conflicted with the demands of love and compassion. He ignored the Sabbath law in order to heal the sick and suffering. Even more significantly, in the case of a woman taken in adultery, he put compassion first. The law prescribed the penalty of death but Jesus defied the woman's self-righteous accusers and said to her, "Go, and sin no more." He acted redemptively and, thus, "fulfilled" the law.

Strict legalism always involves its practitioners in a maze of conflicting demands and illogical conclusions. In a particular situation two or more laws may seem to contradict one another. And to be certain of rigid obedience to a law, its meaning and implications must be spelled out in great detail, as with the Jewish regulations for Sabbath observance. In practice, if not always in theory, this narrow stance, understanding that, in the final analysis, living persons are more important than dead laws.

What I am suggesting here does not provide a simple method of making moral decisions, either in the specific area of "truth-telling," or in other situations of choice. Difficult judgments must be made. One must not narrow the range of love or unrealistically individualize it. In the case of a crime, for instance, God's love must be acted out, not only toward the guilty criminal, but also toward the victim and, indeed, toward society as a whole. The demands of justice must be factored into the moral equation.

Doing the "loving" thing is, therefore, rarely easy and often risky. One could argue that with the woman taken in adultery, Jesus took a sort of moral gamble, trusting in the redemptive power of love and forgiveness to make the woman a better person. There was no absolute assurance of that actually happening. But Jesus obviously felt that the risk was worth taking. Crucial moral decisions by Christians almost always involve an element of risk, but I believe that we are called to be daring in the name of love.

To return, finally, to our earlier Kantian illustration, I have decided upon reflection that when the angry husband rushed out of his house, I would have said to him, "She went that way," pointing in the wrong direction. Factually, that would have been a lie. But I hope that I am not self-righteous when I say that, at that moment, I believe Jesus might have smiled.

Updated Thursday, December 28, 2000