Richard Wiseman, Teller, and Penn Jillette
Lies are pretty complicated, nuanced things. First, you have the lies that we get tricked into believing—the straightforward “out and out” kind of lies told by those who stand to benefit by convincing us of something they know is false. Canonical examples include Richard Nixon insisting that he knew nothing about the Watergate break-in or, apocryphally, the Greeks telling the Trojans that the giant wooden horse was just a gift to help patch things up. On the flip side, you have the kind of lie told by storytellers and entertainers, in which both the deliverer and the receiver of the lie are in cahoots. We might refer to this as “the willing suspension of disbelief,” such that we can be roused by Alexander Hamilton delivering rapid-fire rap lyrics on a stage or be thrilled by a magic battle between wizards on a screen, despite knowing that none of these things have ever happened or could happen.
There’s also a form of lie that sits somewhere in between, which is particularly pernicious and remarkably resilient: when a lie is believed regardless of whether its teller knows it is false or is indifferent to its veracity. Like the overt lie, it is knowingly fabricated for the teller’s benefit, but much of the burden of persuasion is voluntarily taken on by the audience. Like the willing suspension of disbelief, its acceptance can be inconsistent, hinging on its usefulness: an election was rigged and corrupt, unless our side won, in which case it was free and fair. God is all-powerful and all-good, until there is a massacre at a school or a natural disaster that kills thousands, at which point God’s ways are mysterious.