The Limits of Honesty

telling the truth and lowering the rope of love

I was at work and one of my favorite lunch regulars (there are *many*) was struggling. After knowing him for ten years, I can reliably assess his state from across the room. I see it in his gait. I see it in what he is literally carrying. By the time he’s close enough to chat, I know what to expect. One item on the list: I expect my heart to break.

There’s a new crisis management line in town. You call it when mental health professionals are needed, as an alternative to calling the police. It’s a good thing. Two separate times that day, I saw them working with B. In a facility filled with vulnerable people, it’s necessary to evaluate if everyone is safe. That becomes challenging at times, particularly when someone’s filter has come loose.

Are words themselves a danger? Are they true? Does it matter?

Eight years ago, when Cory and I were in Michigan on a rare weekend getaway, B called from the landline at The Window. I knew about The Window at the time, but had never even visited. “I just needed to hear the voice of someone positive,” B said into the receiver. When I joined the staff a couple of years later, I started to see B often. He’s usually reserved, but friendly. He doesn’t like crowds. He’s always hungry. Sometimes, as he’s receiving his lunch, he’ll rattle off Cory’s phone number to me. “It’s the only number I have memorized.”

When B is struggling, he becomes paranoid. It’s harder to follow the conversation. He talks about being chased. Last week, it was lions. Fortuitously, Cory stopped by for lunch that day. I asked him if he’d had a chance to speak with B. “Yeah, but it was hard to hold a conversation. I’m not sure what he was saying, or if he could understand what I was saying.”

Lunch service was over for the day, but B was still in and out of the building. Still hungry. Still scared. Drawn to the safety of the very place doing its best to keep him safe along with everyone around him. He wandered in a final time, bolting toward the dining room where I was cleaning up, and dropped to the floor, sobbing.

I asked if he was okay, unsure if he even knew who I was in that moment. “Cory saw me outside and told me he loved me,” he said, anguished. “Why did he tell me that?” He continued to sob.

I gave the only answer I knew, “He told you he loves you because it’s true.”

~

In this whatever-eth week of Lent, I find myself compelled toward ridiculous honesty. Unbridled honesty. It turns out, I cannot stomach half truths in the last days of March. I’ve shared more doubts this week than normal and I have felt both the sideways gaze of concern and level look of mutual understanding.

I believe in God, even if I can’t rationally explain why. I feel comforted by God, even while I can’t make sense of things. Lately, I feel pretty angry with God.

Is that too honest to say out loud?

We live surrounded by struggle. This is nothing new. But it’s felt compounded this week. Yesterday, I spoke for an hour to a neighbor whose son was murdered last month. She has a chronic illness but lost her disability when she was working two many hours cleaning up messes at the hospital. When her son was murdered, she lost her job. When she lost her job, she lost her health insurance. She’s due for an infusion that costs $4k out of pocket. She doesn’t have a car, much less that kind of money. What would an empathetic friend say to someone in this situation?

Is it okay to be mad at God?

I think so. The alternative would be lying to God.

I could write thousands more words detailing the impossible situations Cory and I (and you) encountered in just the past five days. It has felt endless and overwhelming. I’m harrowed by the continual spiral of our government. Last evening I shared on Instagram Stories about the Tufts University student (legally in the US on a student visa) who was arrested in broad daylight by plain-clothes officers concealing their faces. So far, she has not been charged with a crime, just shoved into an unmarked car and presumably detained somewhere for deportation. It begs the question, how often is this happening but we just lack the footage to turn it into headline news? (Secretary of State Marco Rubio says they are revoking student visas “more than 300 times,” and that they are trying to do so “every day.”)

My Story was immediately removed by Meta, the same company that recently swore it is against censorship. Was what I said too honest?

Lent lays us bare. It forces us to get a little more truthful, like the tress and the cold morning sky. It is time. If we’re not already alarmed by the dishonesty of an administration who lies to our faces daily, it’s time. If we’re not speaking out against institutions silencing the truth-tellers, it’s time. If we’re not a safe place for people to voice their doubts and their worries, especially if they make us feel uncomfortable, it is time.

Whenever I get the chance, I sit by the living room window in the morning and read actual books while I drink my tea - a profound solace. Honest texts only.

Here are two lines that stood out to me this week:

“‘The people’ are God’s people. They are already living in the holy city of God. They’re out in the streets encountering Jesus, Mary, saints, demons, angels, themselves, and one another - sometimes a lot more intensely than is comfortable. They’re out there praying, sinning, repenting, blessing, being baptized into the muddy river of new life. They’re not waiting for missionaries with the correct theology to save them. God is saving them, and, God willing, will safe me, too, from my own pretensions, and keep on forging us into members of one body, for the common good.” City of God by Sara Miles

“Here is the Good News: The God we most deeply want IS the God we actually have, and the god we fear is, in fact, the partial god we’ve settled for. God looks at us and is ecstatic. This God loves the sound of our voices and thinks that all of us are a magnificent work of art. ‘You’re here.’ God’s cheek, resting on ours. God’s singular agenda item.” The Whole Language by Gregory Boyle

Yesterday, Cory ran into B again. This time, inside the walls of the jail. B was both lucid and confused. His system has settled, but he’s being charged for a serious crime for words he allegedly said out loud during a crisis. I don’t know if this is right or wrong. I only know it breaks my heart.

Cory told B he loves him again. Because it’s true.

I told my neighbor I love her again. Because it’s true.

Several friends listened to my heartache this week. They didn’t try to solve my wobbly faith. But they told me they loved me. I am left with no other defenses but to believe that it’s true.

Here we are, all God’s people, struggling in different ways at different times, taking turns pulling each other out of the pit with a rope woven entirely of love.

The God we most deeply want IS the God we actually have.

I know it’s true. I see the catchlights everywhere.

---

Start with Hello is on sale for less than $4. Find your copies here. The message has never been more relevant. (Spring is a great time for a book club!)