The Invention of Lying

Ricky Gervais did not invent lying, I did. It happened in a confessional booth in a Catholic Church somewhere in the Midwest. I had experienced a long battle with a priest in Catechism classes (will get to that in a bit), and something gave way one day in confession. At least it was my first set of premeditated, mitigated lies. My rationale was elegantly simple: I was deeply ashamed of my sins and/or circumstances, so I figured if I told the priest I had done something worse than I actually did, I would be covered.
This turned out to be an involved process - not only did I need to itemize my sins, I had to quantify them and find feasible alternates that were just a touch worse. This was of course a great precursor for when I taught Human Nature and Ethics courses forty years later. It went on for a few months until I realized I was spending more time on this exercise than I was on my homework each week - I gave up both endeavors.
At eleven, I began my brief but heated battle with the Catholic church. I don't think I started the fracas, but once it started it did not end until my inevitable ex-communication (from Catechism class anyway). It began with a lesson on Hell, and ended with a debate over Jesus and the concept of sacrifice. I can honestly say I was trying in the beginning, but I think the devil made his way into the mix eventually, and it all became too much fun. Unfortunately, I continued to enjoy this kind of activity for far too long.
Hell - During a discussion about Hell one day, it occurred to me that the priest had insinuated that my mother might not be going to Heaven as she had been divorced. This offended me on many levels: One, I was upset that he seemed to believe that my mother was going to Hell and agreed with the judgement; and Two, I couldn't understand why he would believe I would want to go to Heaven without my mother. He tried to explain that I should be concerned with my own afterlife, and I just stared at him. Things were to get worse.
Jesus and Sacrifice - The concern over my afterlife continued with a reminder that Jesus had suffered and died for my sake, and that alone should make me want to go to Heaven. At that point, I made the mistake of doubting the level of the sacrifice. I had seen graphic images of the Vietnam war on television, and it had a profound effect on me. I told him that I didn't understand the sacrifice, as Jesus was back in Heaven at God's side after a short period of time (relatively speaking) on Earth suffering much of the same torture that millions of people had before and since. I knew my logic was flawed, but I couldn't stop myself. It was the last conversation I had with him, and my last Catechism class.
I learned two things from those encounters: Unyielding dogma is a tool from the past, there are better ways to influence and guide people, and the more specifically you spell out your faith, philosophy, or politics, the easier it is for someone to question and attack it. I continued to confront ideas and people with the same type of questions, thinking myself clever. It took me many years to realize that questions have more utility when they are designed to enhance and strengthen ideas, not to destroy them. And as Karma often dictates, it wasn't long before I was on the other end of this dynamic as a teacher, administrator, and parent.
Epilogue - Years later, as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I worked with many Catholic missions in countries like Jamaica, Yemen, and Tanzania. My experiences were fantastic, and the priests and nuns I worked with were far different from the priest I had dealt with in my youth. I learned about compassion, real sacrifice*, and social justice from these people, and I will be forever grateful.

*As a Peace Corps Volunteer in Yemen, I would leave my remote village every few months to go to the larger seaport town of Hodeida. There I would unwind and spend time with friends. Every other visit or so, I would go down to the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa's order) to lend a hand. The nuns there were incredible! They were humble, austere, and passionately dedicated to the destitute Yemenis in the area. I would come by and paint a wall or fix some wheelchairs. The were very polite and pleasant, but too busy to socialize. I admired the people I met there, and hoped I could ever gain that much dignity and poise. Eight years later, a gunman attacked and killed three nuns, Sisters Tilia, Anetta, and Michaela as they were entering the compound after returning from the local hospital. He believed they were working to convert Muslims in the area. I know different.