“I’m doing fine,” she told me. “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m sure,” she insisted. “Okay,” I said. It was almost like dancing, a step here, a turn there, social skills twirling us across the space between our cell phones. But as I hung up, I knew she wasn’t fine, and I ached. I think she did too. Two polite people saving face and not seeing the other’s face. The real face. The real problem. The real pain.

Why do we lie in times like these? Times that deserve an honest heart?

“How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine.” Before thinking, “I’m fine,” just flies out of my mouth.

My father-in-law died two days ago, but I’m fine.

It’s so much easier to be fine than to be vulnerable with others. Heaven forbid, we become uncomfortable and people see we’re broken and then we all have to deal with it.

Fine is so much better than uncomfortable with people.

Isn’t this why we lie? To keep our relationships comfortable?

Fourteen years ago, I gave my life to Christ, and the church became my home. I was raw and real and people accepted this. She’s a baby Christian, I’m sure was whispered. Birth is messy. Babies are messy. Babies cry and poop all over themselves.

But babies grow up. Older Christians aren’t supposed to be messy. There’s no “finer” place than in church. Everyone is fine. Everyone smiling in their fine church clothes. Shaking your hand and shaking the world away for an hour or two and more than a few shaking with fear someone might see they really aren’t fine this bright Sunday morning.

That maybe they’re sad.

Or fighting with their spouse.

Or yelling at their kids.

Or eating everything in the pantry to feed the beast within.

We all have a beast within.

Don’t we?

The screaming flesh or the whispering devil or both of these combined inside of us.

And we lie to cover it up. I don’t want to feel uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable so let’s just agree we’re fine and not talk about the uncomfortable truth.

But uncomfortable truths don’t go away. I’ve tried to get into the habit of not asking someone how they’re doing unless I really want to know how they’re doing. Unless I’m ready to hear the truth. Ready to meet the need. Or if I can’t meet the need, ready to point that person to Jesus.

Because the biggest need we have is Jesus.

It was Jesus who said, the truth will set you free.

There is nothing private in the Bible. Many biblical stories are cringe-worthy. Noah got drunk. Judah got seduced (by his daughter-in-law Tamar). David got another man’s wife pregnant. Then killed the guy (a really heroic guy in David’s army) to cover it up. And these three men walked with God. God didn’t insist on their goodness, he insisted on their honesty. And God exposed their sin for all the world to see. And learn from. Not because God was mean, but because he loved these men and wanted to heal them.

So why do we lie?

Is our comfort more important than the truth?

I think for many of us, especially when we’re hurting, we want to be comfortable. But we were created to be free. And comfort will not free us. Comfort is a cage. Only the truth can set us free.

But with the truth comes accountability. By sharing our struggles, we open ourselves up. To people. To God. And to healing.

The truth really does bring healing.

I’ve never been in a twelve-step program, but I know people who have recovered beautifully there. The gist of this program: admitting the truth (you have a problem), leaning on a higher power (God), examining the error of your ways with the help of a sponsor (a recovering addict with more experience than you), making amends for your errors (forgiving and seeking forgiveness from people), learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior, and finally, helping others who suffer from the same problems you are overcoming. In a nut shell, you open yourself to the truth, to God, and to people, and healing comes.

Healing comes.

Isn’t this what we long for more than comfort? To truly be healed?