Let's Cancel Falseness

Let’s Cancel Falseness

Somewhere along the way, kindness got confused with silence. The old cliché fails us: if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. That idea trained us to think being kind means being agreeable. Easy. Don’t upset anyone. Don’t say the thing that might make the room uncomfortable. Keep your voice low. Smooth the edges. Let it go.

And let’s be honest. Speaking up takes effort and courage we don’t always want to spend. It’s easier to stay quiet and call it kindness. Truth then gets mislabeled, dismissed with words that usually end in ism. Racism. Ageism. Sexism. Elitism. The label shuts down the conversation so the truth never has to be examined.

So kindness slowly morphs into avoidance. Can’t we all just get along?

Real kindness doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it disrupts. Sometimes it forces a hard look in the mirror. The truth is not always kind, and pretending it is doesn’t make it loving. It just makes it quiet.

We’ve trained ourselves to believe that if words hurt, they must be wrong. That logic falls apart fast. Surgery hurts. Resetting a bone hurts. Pulling out a splinter hurts. Pain alone doesn’t tell you whether something is harmful or healing. It only tells you something real is happening.

People like to imagine Jesus Christ as endlessly gentle, always soft-spoken, always reassuring. That picture leaves out half the story. He was compassionate with people who were wounded and worn down. He was not gentle with hypocrisy, performative faith, or excuses that kept people stuck.

He called religious leaders a brood of vipers. He called them blind guides. He compared them to whitewashed tombs, clean on the outside and dead inside. That isn’t polite language. It’s confrontational on purpose. Soft words wouldn’t have pierced armor that thick.

Then there’s the man lying by the pool.

Thirty-eight years. Almost four decades waiting for healing. Jesus doesn’t begin with sympathy or commentary. He asks one question that lands hard: “Do you want to be healed?”

That question isn’t gentle. It’s unsettling. The man doesn’t say yes. He explains why he can’t. No one helps him. Someone else always gets there first. Timing. Circumstances. Other people.

Jesus doesn’t debate him. He doesn’t soothe the excuses. He says, “Get up. Pick up your mat and walk.”

No buildup. No cushioning. No permission to stay where he is.

Later, Jesus finds him again and says something sharper still. Stop sinning or something worse may happen to you. That line makes people bristle, but it’s often misunderstood. Sin isn’t just a list of forbidden actions. Sin is the acts and thoughts that drive a wedge between you and God. Anything that pulls you out of alignment. Anything that keeps you disconnected, distorted, or stuck.

Jesus wasn’t denying the man’s suffering. He was refusing to let suffering become the man’s identity.

Healing comes with responsibility. Restoration changes how you live. You don’t get back on your feet and then keep walking the same crooked path that put you on the ground in the first place.

By modern standards, people would call that harsh. They might call it unkind. But what Jesus did was interrupt a story that had become a way of life. After that many years, lying by the pool wasn’t just the man’s condition. It was his role. And Jesus refused to let him stay there.

We like kindness that soothes. We’re less comfortable with kindness that confronts. We prefer words that feel good over words that demand movement. But comfort doesn’t heal everything. Sometimes it preserves the very problem we claim to care about.

Clear words are a form of respect. Speaking plainly says, “I trust you with the truth.” It says, “I won’t manipulate you with softness.” Calm and direct beats polite and misleading every time.

What people often object to isn’t the tone. It’s the loss of control. Clear truth removes hiding places. It names things out loud. It ends plausible deniability. That makes people uncomfortable.

Kindness without truth is hollow. Truth without restraint is reckless. But truth spoken clearly, to the right people, at the right time, is not unloving. It’s necessary.

If your definition of kindness requires silence in the face of harm, it’s not kindness. It’s compliance.