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"In the end, people appreciate frankness more than flattery."—Proverbs 28:23 (TLB)

Day 179, I'm still wrestling with the no-lying commandment. It's brutal. But the Bible says to tell the truth, no matter what. People appreciate frankness. I need to follow the lead of those biblical heroes who take enormous risks to tell the truth.

Consider the prophet Nathan, who confronted King David. It's one of the Bible's most dramatic tales. The background is that David had wronged his loyal soldier Uriah by sleeping with Uriah's wife, Bathsheba, while Uriah was away at war. David got Bathsheba pregnant. To try to cover up his act, he arranged for Uriah's death.

So Nathan, one of the wisest people in the kingdom, told David a parable: There's a rich man and a poor man. The rich man has a vast herd of sheep. The poor man owns but one lamb. One day the rich man gets a visitor. What should he feed him for dinner? The rich man decides to slaughter the poor man's only lamb and serve that for dinner.

When he heard the parable, King David had the reaction most people have: The rich man is a horrible person. He's greedy and pitiless. At which point Nathan reveals to King David: You are the rich man. Nathan's point was, King David had everything—including multiple wives and concubines—and still chose to steal Uriah's wife.

Nathan was taking a huge risk—criticizing the king to his face could have backfired. But in this case, the truth worked. King David realized the prophet was right. He had acted evilly.

As you might imagine, I'm not the prophet Nathan. So far, my truth-telling hasn't laid bare the hypocrisies of great men. But I have managed to slash my total production of white lies by one-third.

Sometimes this works well, other times not so much. Tonight, Julie, Jasper, and I go for a five o'clock dinner at Homer's, a greasy spoon tastefully decorated with a flat-screen TV playing nonstop Nickelodeon.

I'm busy cutting Jasper's hot dog while simultaneously making sure not to touch the skin myself, as it's impure. At the next table, as at pretty much every other table, is a family. A dad in typical Upper West Side khakis, a mom with a ponytail, a three-year-old girl busy with some Crayolas.

"Julie Schoenberg?" says the ponytailed woman.

It's an acquaintance Julie hasn't seen since college. Hugs are exchanged, compliments toward babies are extended, spouses introduced, mutual friends discussed.

At the end of the meal, we get our check, and Julie's friend says: "We should all get together and have a playdate sometime."

"Absolutely," says Julie.

"Uh, I don't know," I say.

Julie's friend laughs nervously, not sure what to make of that. Julie glares at me.

"You guys seem nice," I say. "But I don't really want new friends right now. So I think I'll take a pass."

A few weeks ago, I read a book called Radical Honesty, which was about telling the truth in all situations. It talks about the scary thrill of total candor, the Six Flags-worthy adrenaline rush. I felt that. I heard myself saying the words, but they seemed unreal, like I was in an off-Broadway production.

Julie is not glaring at me anymore. She's too angry to look in my direction.

"It's just that I don't have enough time to see our old friends, so I don't want to overcommit," I say, shrugging. Hoping to take the edge off, I add: "Just being honest."

"Well, I'd love to see you," says Julie. "A. J. can stay home." Julie's friend pushes her stroller out of Homer's, shooting a glance over her shoulder as she leaves.

From The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs. Copyright © 2007 by A.J. Jacobs. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Copyright © 2007 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.

The Year of Living Biblically is available from Amazon.com and other retailers.

A. J. Jacobs' website has more on the book, including an excerpt about the progress of his beard.

Books & Culture and Al Hsu reviewed the book.

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November (Web-only) 2007, Vol. 51