A Lie Never Justifiable: A Study in Ethics. H. Clay Trumbull
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of sore temptation, that light may be accepted as diviner because of its very power to penetrate clouds and to dispel darkness. Being forced to consider, in an emergency, the possible justification of the so-called "lie of necessity," I was brought to a settlement of that question in my own mind, and have since been led to an honest endeavor to bring others to a like settlement of it. Hence this monograph.
In the summer of 1863 I was a prisoner of war in Columbia, South Carolina. The Federal prisoners were confined in the common jail, under military guard, and with no parole binding them not to attempt an escape. They were subject to the ordinary laws of war. Their captors were responsible for their detention in imprisonment, and it was their duty to escape from captivity, and to return to the army of the government to which they owed allegiance, if they could do so by any right means. No obligations were on them toward their captors, save those which are binding at all times, even when a state of war suspends such social duties as are merely conventional.
Only he who has been a prisoner of war in a Southern prison in midsummer, or in a Northern prison in the dead of winter, in time of active hostilities outside, can fully realize the heart-longings of a soldier prisoner to find release from his sufferings in confinement, and to be again at his post of duty at the front, or can understand how gladly such a man would find a way, consistent with the right, to escape, at any involved risk. But all can believe that plans of escape were in frequent discussion among the restless Federal prisoners in Columbia, of whom I was one.
A plan proposed to me by a fellow-officer seemed to offer peculiar chances of success, and I gladly joined in it. But as its fuller details were considered, I found that a probable contingency would involve the telling of a lie to an enemy, or a failure of the whole plan. At this my moral sense recoiled; and I expressed my unwillingness to tell a lie, even to regain my personal liberty or to advantage my government by a return to its army. This opened an earnest discussion of the question whether there is such a thing as a "lie of necessity," or a justifiable lie. My friend was a pure-minded man of principle, ready to die for his convictions; and he looked at this question with a sincere desire to know the right, and to conform to it. He argued that a condition of war suspended ordinary social relations between the combatants, and that the obligation of truth-speaking was one of the duties thus suspended. I, on the other hand, felt that a lie was necessarily a sin against God, and therefore was never justifiable.
My friend asked me whether I would hesitate to kill an enemy who was on guard over me, or whom I met outside, if it were essential to our escape. I replied that I would not hesitate to do so, any more than I would hesitate at it if we were over against each other in battle. In time of war the soldiers of both sides take the risks of a life-and-death struggle; and now that we were unparoled prisoners it was our duty to escape if we could do so, even at the risk of our lives or of the lives of our captors, and it was their duty to prevent our escape at a similar risk. My friend then asked me on what principle I could justify the taking of a man's life as an enemy, and yet not feel justified in telling him a lie in order to save his life and secure our liberty. How could it be claimed that it was more of a sin to tell a lie to a man who had forfeited his social rights, than to kill him. I confessed that I could not at that time see the reason for the distinction, which my moral sense assured me was a real one, and I asked time to think of it. Thus it was that I came first to face a question of the ages, Is a lie ever justifiable? under circumstances that involved more than life to me, and when I had a strong inducement to see the force of reasons in favor of a "lie of necessity."
In my careful study, at that time, of the principles involved in this question, I came upon what seemed to me the conclusion of the whole matter. God is the author of life. He who gives life has the right to take it again. What God can do by himself, God can authorize another to do. Human governments derive their just powers from God. The powers that be are ordained of God. A human government acts for God in the administering of justice, even to the extent of taking life. If a war waged by a human government be righteous, the officers of that government take life, in the prosecution of the war, as God's agents. In the case then in question, we who were in prison as Federal officers were representatives of our government, and would be justified in taking the lives of enemies of our government who hindered us as God's agents in the doing of our duty to God and to our government.
On the other hand, God, who can justly take life, cannot lie. A lie is contrary to the very nature of God. "It is impossible for God to lie."[1] And if God cannot lie, God cannot authorize another to lie. What is unjustifiable in God's sight, is without a possibility of justification in the universe. No personal or social emergency can justify a lie, whatever may be its apparent gain, or whatever harm may seem to be involved in a refusal to speak it. Therefore we who were Federal prisoners in war-time could not be justified in doing what was a sin per se, and what God was by his very nature debarred from authorizing or approving. I could see no way of evading this conclusion, and I determinedly refused to seek release from imprisonment at the cost of a sin against God.
[Footnote 1: Heb. 6: 18]
At this time I had no special familiarity with ethics as a study, and I was unacquainted with the prominence of the question of the "lie of necessity" in that realm of thought. But on my return from army service, with my newly awakened interest in the subject, I came to know how vigorous had been its discussion, and how varied had been the opinions with reference to it, among philosophic thinkers in all the centuries; and I sought to learn for myself what could be known concerning the principles involved in this question, and their practical application to the affairs of human life. And now, after all these years of study and thought, I venture to make my contribution to this phase of Christian ethics, in an exhibit of the facts and principles which have gone to confirm the conviction of my own moral sense, when first I was called to consider this question as a question.
II.
ETHNIC CONCEPTIONS.
The habit of lying is more or less common among primitive peoples, as it is among those of higher cultivation; but it is of interest to note that widely, even among them, the standard of truthfulness as a duty is recognized as the correct standard, and lying is, in theory at least, a sin. The highest conception of right observable among primitive peoples, and not the average conformity to that standard in practice, is the true measure of right in the minds of such peoples. If we were to look at the practices of such men in times of temptation, we might be ready to say sweepingly with the Psalmist, in his impulsiveness, "I said in my haste, All men are liars!"[1] But if we fixed our minds on the loftiest conception of truthfulness as an invariable duty, recognized by races of men who are notorious as liars, we should see how much easier it is to have a right standard than to conform to it.
[Footnote 1: Psa. 116: II.]
A careful observer of the people of India, who was long a resident among them,[1] says: "More systematic, more determined, liars, than the people of the East, cannot, in my opinion, be found in the world. They often utter falsehoods without any apparent reason; and even when truth would be an advantage, they will not tell it. … Yet, strange to say, some of their works and sayings represent a falsehood as almost the unpardonable sin. Take the following for an example: 'The sin of killing a Brahman is as great as that of killing a hundred cows; and the sin of killing a hundred cows is as great as that of killing a woman; the sin of killing a hundred women is as great as that of killing a child in the womb; and the sin of killing a hundred [children] in the womb is as great as that of telling a lie.'"
[Footnote 1: Joseph Roberts, in his Oriental Illustrations, p. 580.]
The Mahabharata is one of the great epics of ancient India. It contains a history of a war between two rival families, or peoples, and its text includes teachings with reference to "everything that it concerned a cultivated Hindoo to know." The heroes in this recorded war, between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, are in the habit of lying without stint; yet there is evidence that they recognized the sin of lying even to an enemy in time of war, and when a decisive advantage might be gained by it. At a point in the combat when Yudhishthira, a leader of the Pandavas,