The Truth about Moonshine

M y dad worked his way up the ladder in the legal profession. First, he was an attorney, then a district attorney, then a Superior Court judge, with a brief stint in the Georgia House of Representatives in between all that. In his early days as an attorney, I was along for the ride one day when he met with a client who had hired my dad to represent him.

Now out on bail, the man had been arrested and charged with making moonshine. I barely knew what moonshine was, just that it was scandalous and that it looked and smelled like turpentine. And I’d never seen a real moonshine still until that day.

Granted, I was just a little guy, but I do remember a few things about that day that have stuck with me all these years. We met the innocent-until-proven-guilty man at his house, which was in close proximity to said moonshine still. My dad asked the man to show us where the moonshine still was. The man walked us through the woods behind his house, about 20 yards through the trees, without any uncertainty about the location. And there it was—a genuine moonshine still, now twisted and busted into pieces by zealous law enforcement officers.

This was the scene of the crime. Suspense still hung in the air and so did the smell of fermented corn and barley. But all the while, the man feigned innocence even though his house was visible through the trees. I was no seasoned detective, but I knew enough to suspect that this guy was lying. Then, my dad asked the man the question that was on my mind too, “This is so close to your house, and you didn’t know about it?” The man shuffled his feet, paused, and unconvincingly replied, “No, I didn’t know about it.” His voice trailed off with his attempt to plead ignorance.

Maybe the man didn’t feel confident about coming clean especially with a wide-eyed, elementary school-aged boy staring him down. So much for leaning into attorney-client privilege under those circumstances. I’m not really sure why my dad brought me into that situation in the first place. Maybe he was hoping the moonshiner would crumble in remorse with my youthful innocence eagerly awaiting his confession.

What happened to the man? Honestly, I don’t remember. I don’t know if I was even told. Maybe he paid a commensurate fine or entered some kind of plea bargain or was just admonished to buy his booze from a respectable establishment in the future.

Whatever the case, that man wasn’t the only one who learned a lesson through that experience. I, too, got an education. I learned that even grown-ups lie. And I already knew lying wasn’t good. Lying had gotten me confined to my room in time-out, with toys confiscated, on at least three occasions. But a grown-up lying, how could that be?

Even the well-intentioned have hearts that can wander from the truth. But we find freedom in the truth. Jesus said, “And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Regardless of the outcome, the truth is liberating. And who doesn’t want to experience genuine freedom?

But there’s no shortage of things to lie about. Our age, our weight, our educational pedigree or how much we spent on Amazon last month. Those are the easy ones. But we can also lie about our thoughts, our motives, our private world, our past. That’s a bit more difficult, so honesty can lose out to reputation. And our vulnerability can be rendered unconscious by pride’s death grip.

Truth-telling can be painful, especially when we’ve done something wrong. But lying can be even more painful, at least eventually. Jesus meets us in our awkward, internal battle. And I think he’s saying something like, “Just tell the truth; I’m with you.”

It’s that grace-filled connection with Jesus that reminds us that no matter what we’ve done, no matter the lies we’ve told or lived, He’ll never leave us. So, maybe it’s time to fess up. Truth always wins.