You have to tell the whole truth, the good and the bad, maybe

Hear the solemn and unyielding words of John Lewis, a warrior of justice and conscience: “You have to tell the whole truth, the good and the bad, maybe some things that are uncomfortable for some people.” In this command lies the essence of integrity: not to speak only the pleasant parts of history or the flattering parts of a story, but to reveal the entire tapestry. For truth is not a fragment, not a half-light; it is whole, and if it is broken into pieces, it ceases to guide us. To hide what is painful or uncomfortable is to betray reality, and to betray reality is to deny the very possibility of healing.

The ancients knew this. When historians of Greece and Rome wrote of kings, they spoke of triumphs but also of failings, of victories and defeats alike. Thucydides told of the glory of Athens, but also of its arrogance and eventual ruin. He wrote not to flatter, but to preserve truth, even when it wounded civic pride. For only in knowing the whole truth could a people learn and grow wiser. John Lewis, standing in the long tradition of prophets and truth-tellers, reminds us of this eternal duty.

Consider the story of slavery and civil rights in America. For generations, many sought to tell only part of the story—the glory of independence, the riches of the nation, the beauty of its ideals. Yet hidden in the shadows was the uncomfortable truth: that these ideals were built on the backs of the enslaved, and that freedom was denied to millions. John Lewis himself bore witness to this pain, beaten and imprisoned for demanding equality. He knew that until the nation faced not only the good but also the bad, it could never walk in true freedom. Only by naming injustice openly could healing begin.

History gives us another example in post-war Germany. After the horrors of the Holocaust, there were those who longed to move on, to speak only of rebuilding, to cloak the past in silence. But the leaders who sought lasting renewal chose otherwise. They told the whole truth, teaching generations about the atrocities, building memorials to the dead, and warning the living. The path was painful, the memories unbearable, but it was only by facing the uncomfortable truth that Germany could begin to walk a road of repentance and responsibility.

Why is this so hard? Because men crave comfort. They wish to remember victories and forget defeats, to celebrate virtues and ignore sins. To speak only the pleasant is to wrap the soul in illusion. But illusions cannot endure. When unspoken truths are buried, they fester like wounds left untreated. When they are spoken, even if they burn, they cleanse and heal. Thus Lewis teaches us: if we love justice, if we love freedom, if we love the future, we must dare to tell the whole truth, not merely the part that soothes.

The lesson is clear: do not shrink from the uncomfortable truths in your life, in your family, in your nation. Speak them with courage, even if others frown, even if it costs you peace in the moment. For silence in the face of reality is complicity with falsehood. Begin with small acts—acknowledge your own failings without excuse, admit the wrongs of your community, honor both the light and the shadow of your history. In this way, your life itself will become a testimony of integrity.

Therefore, let this teaching be carved into your heart: the whole truth must be told. Not the easy truth, not the flattering truth, but the entire truth—the good, the bad, and the painful. For only in the light of the whole can men find justice, nations find healing, and souls find freedom. As John Lewis showed with his life, truth-telling is not comfortable, but it is always necessary. And those who dare to tell it, even in the face of hatred and violence, will leave behind a legacy that time itself cannot erase.