I Cannot Tell a Lie

Ever since six-year-old George Washington cut down his father's favorite cherry tree and then, when confronted, said "I cannot tell a lie," the pressure has been on us early-American descendants to follow George's example: always tell the truth. But the truth is that cherry-tree story is not true.

In 1809, ten years after George Washington died, Parson Mason Weems wrote a biography about the first president of the United States, and you might say he, well, exaggerated the truth a little. Okay, he lied! Are you happy now? Mr. Weems really, really, really liked George, and he wanted others to see what a great man George was, so he altered the facts a bit. Okay, he lied! Geez! You don't have to be such a stickler with the truth, do you?  Maybe, just maybe, Parson had inside information: A little old neighbor lady who saw young George confessing to his father was this author's source for the story. It could happen. I met a little old lady once who knew things about Santa Claus that would knock your socks right off the fireplace mantle, but she would only tell her stories to those who were willing to pay for them, and I didn't have my checkbook with me that day at the nursing home.

Here's my question: Is bending the truth, exaggerating the facts, fibbing a little--okay, lying--bad if the end result is good? Doesn't the end justify the means? Doesn't Mr. Weems' exuberance for and fabricated story about George Washington--the incredibly amazing Commander in Chief of the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, the first and very likely the best president of the United States, one of the great founding fathers of this country--inspire you to always tell the truth? Good. I was hoping you'd say that. At least you're inspired. That's a start.