The Lie

Not enough people hate me here, so.... Here's a story that may, or may not, be fiction.

 

 

 

 

 THE LIE

 

 

 

  How long ago that lie was told. Yet still, its ripples sweep onward through time. How gentle a lie it was, and how protective. It was meant to shield, not harm, no different, in intent, than dozens like it told every day. But how great was the effect of this thoughtless string of words.

 What she looked like, none can say, though it is claimed that she was beautiful. We know she had a man who loved her, and that she loved him enough to want to shield him, as well as herself.

 Her husband was a workman, a skilled craftsman, and one of the few qualified to work within the Temple, a fact that explained his long absences from her side. The holy city was far from where they made their home.

 It was a difficult time in which to live, one of long hours, scant food, and endless backbreaking work. The honor of his position brought a little glory but not a flake of extra gold to the family purse.

 Why he did not move to the city in which he spent so much time is unstated in the legends. Perhaps she or he had family in the village where they made their home. That tie to clan was dreadfully important in those times, when the only form of social security was a large and protective family--one to provide for your care when old age took you in its ungentle grip.

 The laws of their people stated clearly that a man must return to his wife each week, and that he must be given the time to reach his home before the sundown on Friday. But the law said nothing about paying a man for time not worked. The trip home would have occupied most of a day's travel in each direction, and would cost the man two day's pay for a single day spent with his family, and the requirements of Sabbath prayer would have occupied a goodly portion of that day. Then, too, the way home was long, and dangerous for the unwary traveler. He was no fighting man, only a simple worker, weary after a long week's labor. And so, there were many times--perhaps most times--when the law was honored in spirit and loneliness rather than by action. There were long weeks when she wondered and worried about his absence. This time, though, he was gone for several months, taking his weekend meals with the bachelors and those like himself, far from home.

 She was lonely and without comfort; with no one to hold her in the darkness. Without even the busy-work of raising a family to occupy her, she must have had a great deal of time on her hands, especially at night. Friends and relatives may be sustaining, but who would warm her nights with loving?

 How it happened no one will ever know, but happen it did. She became pregnant. Was it rape? Did a man of property, one of those who would laugh off the accusation, find her attractive? Was he a married man, one who would suffer as much as she, if the truth was known? Who and why are not important; that she was pregnant and that her husband was missing, was. The local women were uneducated in many things, but they could easily count the months of her pregnancy and come up with a number less than nine.

 In her distraction and fear she invented the lie. It was, however, far from unique. Woman have said that same thing many, many times, both before and since. Only once however has its use changed the lives of so many people, because this time the story was believed, and that changed the course of history. This time the story worked. We live every day with the results of that lie.

 How did she tell her husband? We cannot even guess. We can only know that he was a good man. He let himself believe, and for her sake, became part of the lie himself: His wife was about to give birth to a baby--one fathered not by her husband, but instead by the divine being. An angel of the lord had come to her in the night and told her so. This child; her child, was also to be God's child.

 The lie was not for her husband, for we can assume that he was not a stupid man. It was instead, for the endlessly wagging tongues of the village gossips--for those who thrive on the misfortunes of others, and whose razor edged organs of speech can shred a woman's reputation in just a few wordful seconds. For them the lie must be maintained. For them Joseph must join in the telling and the wonderment. He must make them believe.

 Did they believe? Would you?

 But words once spoken cannot be returned to the mouth. Once the lie had left their tongues it was forever free, and a tiger was grasped firmly by the tail. They could either insist on the truth of that tale, and embellish it with each telling, or face the stigma of what was then a disastrous word: Adultery. Adultery, the unendurable; adultery, the unthinkable. And at that time and place, adultery, the deadly. The crime was punishable by stoning. Either way, lie or truth, the result was a separation from the life of the village. Either way was pain. But a life of pain is preferable to the pain of death, and the loss of a beloved. And so, the lie took on a life of its own, for once grasped, the tail of the tiger may not easily be released.

 We can suspect that the story wasn’t believed by all, because there’s a tale of their leaving their home just before the birthing. Who would do such a thing willingly? Who would leave home and family except to escape the clinging poison of gossiped words? What man would bring his woman on a difficult journey at such a time? It is said that he had to go to that place and pay his taxes. But who brings a wife, one so close to her delivery date, on a trip to pay the tax man? Who travels to a distant town to do so? Who takes his wife from familiar midwife and family for such a trivial thing?

Were there no tax collectors in their town? The tax men throughout history have made it a point to find their clients, not the other way around; the better to judge how hard to squeeze their purse.

 Some suggest that the taxes could be paid only at the birth-place, for a counting of the people--a census. But had both Joseph and Mary been born in Bethlehem?

It matters little. Even had it been true, there were no records of birth and death at that time, so none could say where a man had been born and require him to go there. During census time, travel would have been forbidden, not required.

 Sadly, the trip was a mistake. It was made for the purpose that all such trips are taken; so that the exact day of birth, and hence the time of conception could not be known by the gossips of their town. Sadly, too, the trip would, itself, serve to set the tongues to wagging, as the ruse of travel is a trick as old as time.

 But all of this is unimportant, except perhaps as background. Belief or not belief on the part of the neighbors is not the problem to focus upon. It is sure that the story continued to haunt them wherever they went--their insistence on the truth of the story probably branding them as objects of both scorn and fear. Scorn by those who did not believe. Fear from those few who did. Before the birth wasn't the problem, though. After… only after, was the tragedy to grow. It was the event of birth that brought with it the real folly of her words.

 The problem that the lie caused wasn't theirs to suffer, though suffer they surely did. The true recipient of the lie, and all that followed the lie, was the boy. They did only what had been done many times before, and may be dismissed as caring fools. Forget them. They're unimportant, except for the result of their foolishness. Think long on the effect of their words on an innocent child; one who has been raised from babyhood in the total insistence that he is the son of God. Think of how those endlessly repeated words affected him. Think on the doubts, and also the certainties: "You are here on the Earth to perform a service for your father,” he was told. “You are more than chosen, you are, yourself, divine,” they insisted. “You are the fulfiller of prophesy. You...are...the...Messiah." And those final words would inexorably fix his path toward a painful and tortured death.

 He was deeply religious even in his childhood. There’s a tale that he was once lost from his family, and was found praying in the Temple, claiming he was "On my Father's business." Even as a child he believed.

 How he must have waited for a sign. How he must have suffered at the agony of being no more than a man, living in a man's world; working with his hands, and suffering with the frailties of humanity, when in his heart he knew the time must come for him to put on his mantle of divinity. How he must have longed for that time: To put aside the weakness of body and sickness of spirit that is the lot of humankind; to lead humanity at last to the Kingdom of the Lord, and to know the boundless joy of greeting his holy father when  God, as stated in prophesy, came to the Earth to rule, as king, for ever and ever. That was to be his honor and his destiny.

 But the time did not come, and the call did not come, until, by the standards of the day, he was middle-aged and more, with half of his life spent in the dust of an oppressed people.

 He was unmarried, an oddity at the age of thirty. But who would give their daughter to a poor carpenter, who claimed to be the son of God? He was a fanatic, feared by some, disliked by many. Believed by few.

 At thirty he decided: It was time, and more than time. The Messiah was expected momentarily. The land was in a state of unrest, with dozens claiming to be what he knew himself to be. It was a time of troubles, as predicted before the arrival of the Messiah. But still he had no sign--still his divinity refused to manifest.

Finally, he reached a decision: it was time to stop waiting, and time, at last, to go and seek his destiny. Time to follow the walk of prophecy. Time to go and do what had to be done, secure in the knowledge that his father would protect him, and that whatever happened, it was as always, the will of the Master.

 And make it happen he did. Secure in the knowledge that he was the one for whom the Jews had been so long waiting, he spoke. He witnessed, as a result of his words, the healings and miracles that have always occurred in the presence of a devout and sincere holy-man, and his belief was redoubled. He became charismatic; a healer; a teacher; a threat to the established order. All doubts fell away as he began the process of making the clearly stated prophesies for the coming of the Messiah come true, treading the road that was to lead to his death.

 His single year in the sun was both a glory and a tragedy, one that echoes and re-echoes through the centuries. His year is a cause for rejoicing and a cause for death. It is the reason for selfless devotion to mankind, and also the reason given for bloody battles and cruelty heaped on cruelty. Still, it goes on, ending who knows where or how.

 Though it helps him not at all, and would have been unexpected, on his part, he has become a God in his own right. He knew his role was to have been that of the Jewish Messiah, predicted to be the Chamberlain of the Lord when the Holy Kingdom was finally established here-on-the-Earth. It was a time that was awaiting only the life of one perfect man: himself. Perhaps he would be pleased to learn of his posthumous elevation to an even higher office than Messiah.

 

 A lie. A simple protective, loving lie, but how it echoes onward, gaining force as it goes. Think on the lie, but think not of the teller. Think not on those who heard and those who still hear. Think only of the child. That poor innocent child. Think then of the endless numbers of children who have died in his name, and those who are yet to die. Think of them, and then grieve with me.

 

 

 Amen

Author's Note

The true purpose of religion, in all its many forms, is to provide employment for those who, otherwise, would have to work for a living.

Reviews

[Mysilentembrace]

That line — “But how great was the effect of this thoughtless string of words.” — conveys so much while saying so little. It’s always a delight to encounter writing that carries such depth and layering.
Your approach to introducing the characters leaves the reader curious, always wondering about the woman, her intentions, and the consequences of the lie. The tension you build has real power, and I loved reading something that offered such a fresh and ethically charged perspective. The exploration of intentions born out of protection — and the unintended harm and long-lasting implications that follow — was especially meaningful. I found the beginning and the ending to be the strongest parts: you capture the reader immediately, draw them in, and close with thought-provoking clarity.

I did feel the middle lost a touch of that intensity and left me hanging. Use of more vision to paint a picture, emotion to convey a tone, and bonded the characters more (for those not already attached to ideas of these humans, as these people would project those onto the story but not be the intended audience). That being said, I appreciated the way you wove in moments of his story that made me wonder whether they were drawn from historical record or crafted for the narrative itself. That interplay enriched the sense of historical fiction beautifully.

As a spiritual non-believer, I also want to say this: I had never quite considered this perspective when it comes to the lies or stories of religion. It’s a valuable and thought-provoking angle, and I’m glad to have encountered it here and would love to read this as it evolves.

[Dee]

My God! Where to start?? It's so utterly dreadful on so many levels it makes a proper review impossible. Perhaps a doctoral student with time on their hands could select this as their dissertation examining the antithesis of good story telling. Actually though, the scars it would leave may not be worth the price of graduation.

Historical inaccuracies? Check. Graphene-thin understanding? Certainly. Bloated, obtuse, sweat-inducing hubris? Damn straight. Mostly though, it's the pomposity of a voice creating such awful prose which jars most.

How can I describe that voice? Hmm. It's as though Lennie Small (Of Mice and Men) is repeating something he's hearing and is captivated by, but has no understanding of what he's saying at all. He keeps getting the words wrong but says them with slow-witted authority because they sound quite impressive. Yeah, something like that.

There are many staggeringly poor lines. "It was meant to shield, not harm, no different, in intent, than dozens like it told every day." What in the hell is this trying to say? You do realise commas, while free as any other punctuation, shouldn't be splattered about like diarrhoea? They are supposed to provide intellectual or emotional clarity, not, be, randomly, vomited. Or perhaps you were just trying to sneak in some random haiku, you cheeky old dog!

"It was instead, for the endlessly wagging tongues of the village gossips--for those who thrive on the misfortunes of others, and whose razor edged organs of speech can shred a woman's reputation in just a few wordful seconds."

How can a single sentence convey zero understanding of grammatical convention, logical drift, weirdly unnecessary wordiness and confusing imagery, all while wrapped in such self-pride and bloviating preachiness? It would be impressive indeed if you'd meant to achieve that. But alas it merely highlights your normal condition.

I'll leave it there. I feel a little sick after reading that tripe. Cheerio.

[JayG]

Good. It got to you. I've got you so fixated on me that you dance, and dance, and dance. But the solution? pray to the kid who was lied to. He's magic, right?

Jealousy oozes from your every pore, while I laugh and laugh.

[Dee]

I wish you could think—or at a minimum select words—critically. Your words aren't so much dust on the wind as fetid air from an ageing anus. You can't even manage a decent damn response and instead waft your stink with the same effort you put into writing.

Quite seriously, you should consider a different hobby. It’s certainly not your profession, though you like to pretend it is. Thinking on it, that’s the one common theme that’s threaded through you like a vein of eroded iron—Lying. So in a sense you chose the correct title for the junk you spewed up. No doubt it was subconscious since you don’t have the capacity for original thought, but calling your truly awful piece The Lie was a master-stroke of self-reflection.

So I’m afraid I will have to reframe your really very basic words. When you recognise what a proper online shellacking is, ‘Jealousy oozes from your every pore, while you lie and lie and lie.’

Cheerio!

[JayG]

Poor baby. You established yet another puppet account just to try to troll me? And you think that will bother me? it just shows how desperate you are.

I could simply delete the comment, or block you. But who takes children that seriously?

[Dale Pavolko]

JayG,

I read “The Lie” twice: once to see what you were trying to do, once to measure how well you did it.

You clearly care about the human cost of religious belief. That is a legitimate subject, and the single authentic pulse in your piece (the repeated plea to “think of the innocent child”) proves you feel it in your gut. That matters. Everything else, unfortunately, works against that feeling.

The story is presented as speculative historical fiction, yet it is built on a foundation of demonstrable errors:

- No Roman census ever required people to return to an ancestral birthplace (a detail unique to Luke and widely understood by historians as a literary device, not policy).
- A betrothed Jewish girl found pregnant was not automatically stoned; the penalty required two eyewitnesses to the act itself (an almost impossible legal bar).
- Tax collectors came to you; you did not travel to them, especially not with a woman in late pregnancy.

These are not obscure scholarly quibbles; they are undergraduate-level facts. When the scaffolding is this shaky, the entire edifice wobbles.

More damaging than the inaccuracies is the form you chose. You have a narrator who lectures for 2,500 words without ever letting us hear Mary’s voice, Joseph’s voice, or the boy’s voice. We are told they suffered; we never feel it. A single dramatized scene (Mary alone at night, counting days on her fingers; Joseph deciding whether to believe the unbelievable; the child overhearing village whispers) would have done the work of twenty pages of exposition. Instead we get a sermon in Victorian drapery.

Then comes the new epigraph: “The true purpose of religion… is to provide employment for those who, otherwise, would have to work for a living.”

That line removes any remaining doubt about intent. It announces, before the story even begins, that the author is not exploring; he is mocking. It turns what could have been a tragic human story into a prolonged eye-roll at two billion believers.

You didn’t write a story that might trouble or move a religious reader.
You wrote a story that flatters readers who already despise religion and reassures them they are smarter than everyone else. That is easy. Doing the hard thing (writing something that forces a believer to feel the weight of the child’s confusion, or an atheist to feel the terror of a teenage girl facing public stoning) would have required empathy, craft, and intellectual honesty. Those are in short supply here.

So the piece fails twice: once as fiction (no scene, no character, no earned emotion) and once as argument (built on errors, sealed with contempt).

I don’t hate you for writing it.
I’m just disappointed, because the one true note you struck (“think of the child”) proves you are capable of better. Next time, trust that note. Dramatize it. Research it. Let the reader live inside the fear and the lie instead of being lectured about them.

Do that, and you might actually change someone’s mind.
As it stands, you have only changed the temperature of the room (and not in the way you hoped).

[JayG]

• No Roman census ever required people to return to an ancestral birthplace

Which is part of the reason I wrote this.

• More damaging than the inaccuracies is the form you chose.

In other words, you didn't like it...which is okay, because you're, clearly, not the audience it was written for.

[Inksmith]

Truly touching . I really need to read this verse of the Bible cause it seems similar to it

[nomoontea]

I think I've heard this story before. It's so familiar.
If you did get it from a different or already written book, without citing the source, that would be plagerism.
I just wish I could remember who wrote it. Oh, that's right it's the word of God.
You stole the word of God and really tried to claim it was your story. The lie within the lie.


hat would be plaugwris

[JayG]

• I just wish I could remember who wrote it. Oh, that's right it's the word of God.

Oh...you mean the magic man who floated in space before creation...who had lungs but nothing to breathe, legs with nothing to walk on, eyes with no light to see with (and nothing to see), a digestive system that needs no food, and sex organs but no wife? That guy? The man who punished the serpent for telling the truth?

I guess you mean the guy who punished Adam and Eve for disobeying, in spite of the fact that they didn't-know-good-from-evil, and so didn't know it was wrong to lie?

Given that he knows what's GOING to happen, and so, knew that they'd give in to temptation, he obviously WANTED them to do it, and give him a pretext to endlessly punish all humans.

So, based on the Bible story of the second reported creation story, he seems a bit of a dick.

But that has nothing at all to do with what happened to that poor kid because of the lie. It's just backstory.

Of course God could sue me for copyright infringement. That would be fun.

[nomoontea]

Yes. That's the guy I mean. Exactly. If you think he's lying about being the Son of God why retell the story?
Write your own story. That one you told must have been told a million times. Besides either people DO believe it's a lie and you're preaching to the choir, or they don't. They believe in it steadfastly as the truth. And in that case you're stirring the pot, trying to get a rise out of them.
Like I said, write your own story.

[JayG]

• If you think he's lying about being the Son of God why retell the story?

Because of what that lie did to him, and those who have suffered as a result of it.

• Like I said, write your own story.

I did. You just read it, and commented on it.

But my story isn't on the events in the Bible, it's backstory on it, and far more likely than the one you espouse.

For example, in the Bible, they say that the wise men followed a star to a specific location in a specific town. But...have you never walked at night and noticed that the stars seem to move with you? So to lead them, that "star" would have to have been no more than a hundred feet or so up, and that's hardly a star. Maybe an alien spacecraft? 😆

My version is a LOT more logical.

And, I've written several along the same line, that will probably upset you even more.

I even founded my own church: The Church of the Really Nice Try.

https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2013/01/01/the-church-of-the-really-nice-try/

And, I took the Jesus origin story to its logical conclusion, in God's Children. If you're view is right, it might come to pass any day now.

https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2019/10/15/gods-children/

[nomoontea]

Hey Jay G. I gave you a scathing criticism somewhere. It was meant for someone else. I'm so sorry. I like your writing very much