to every house in the village and drop a feather in oach yard.” The peasant did as he was told. Returning to the monk, he asked if this completed his penance. “No,” said the monk, “ you must now lake the empty bag, go back to every house, and pick up the feather you dropped there.” “ But that is impossible,” protested the peasant, “ for by this time the wind has blown most of them somewhere else.” “ And so it is with your slanderous stories and evil words,” replied the monk, solemnly. “They are easily spoken, but, no matter how hard you try, you cannot bring them back again.” That is the warning that I beg you to see in the unpleasant figure of Gashmu. There are Gashmus in every community and church. God forgive their sin! But — let it be said reverently — God Himself cannot undo all the effects of their sin. * * * Let me add a more positive note: Gashmu can render us service not only as a symbol and a warning, but also — if you will forgive an overworked word — as a chal lenge. Examine Ourselves The bad example of Gashmu should serve as a stern summons to examine ourselves and our speech. Ourselves! Why? Because the habit of gossip often reveals much more about you than it does about the per son about whom you are carrying on your tittle-tattle. Many a woman has said concerning another woman who has a larger wardrobe than she, “Don’t you think she overdoes her dressing?” without realizing that what she is really saying is, “ I’m envious of her.” And many a man has jibed concerning another, “ Look at him — always hogging the limelight!” without understanding that his real meaning is, “ Look at me — I’m uncomfortable because his success is greater than mine!” The M irror of the Cross This behavior in people of the world is bad enough; in Christians it is serious. It comes from our not holding before us the mirror of the Cross long enough for us to see — and be horrified at — this wretched ego-minded- ness. Then, with self-awareness and conviction, to sur render wholly to the power of the Cross! Calvary is so hot a flame that when we consign ourselves to it, it sears to a cinder the self-importance that lies behind our gossipy tongues. And then our speech — that, too, should be examined in the light of Gashmu’s sorry spectacle. Live on the Heights Put your speech about others to three tests, said Alexander Whyte, if you want to live on the heights with your Lord. Test one: is it true? Do I know it to be true? If it is hearsay, the test is not passed. If it appears in print, the test is not necessarily passed. Many a misrepresentation has found the light of print that belongs to the darkness of the pit. Test two: is it necessary? Granting that it is true, is there any need of its being made the subject of idle chat ter in this situation or before these people? Test three: is it kind? How does it fit in with our Saviour’s statement of the second greatest commandment: “ Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself?” How does it harmonize with Paul’s appeal to the Christians of his day: “Accept life with humility and patience, making allowances for each other because you love each other. Make it your aim to be at one in the Spirit, and you will inevitably be at peace with one another?” (Ephesians 4:2, 3, Phillips)
provable. Did that stop him from spreading the tale? Not at all. He persisted in encouraging the fanciful charge. “ In the multitude of words,” says Proverbs 10:19, “ there wanteth not sin.” It is worse than poor judgment. It is more sérious than innocent error. It is sin. There is guilt involved. Dr. R. F. Horton once said, “ I would not allow a known talebearer to come to the Lord’s table.” It was that seasoned minister’s way of conveying how deep a sin he felt it to be for one person to spread unverified tales about another or to make unChristian use of them even if verified. Deadly Sins Medieval Christianity worked out a list of what it called “The Seven Deadly Sins:” pride, anger, envy, im purity, gluttony, slothfulness, avarice. Not so familiar to most of us is a list of deadly sins in Judaism, with idolatry first, adultery second, murder third, and in fourth place, gossip. Gossip, moreover, is defined in this list as any sort of rumor or report that would defame or mar the reputation of another human being. Whether you put it in one position or another in the scale of sins, certain, it is that we’ll never deal with it seriously enough unless we see it as a wrong to be con fessed and not merely as a weakness to be lightly ad mitted. It’s ugliness and viciousness in God’s sight must be faced. “ It is reported . . . and Gashmu saith it,” is one of the devil’s trademarks. Words A re Deeds He stands as a warning against the mistake in think ing that words are only words. The fact is that words are deeds. We dismiss the matter far too superficially when we say, “Words, just words! It’s action that counts.” Or when we give out with the remark, “Well, say it. You might as well say it as to think it!” From one point of view — God looks into our hearts — that may be true. But from another viewpoint it is quite wrong. Once you have said it you have, in some measure, committed it to the public. You have loosed it into the stream of history. For the inescapable fact is that a word is a deed. Furthermore, Gashmu stands as a warning that gossip is a way of doing damage that goes beyond all possibility of repair. Hear me carefully. I did not say that it goes beyond the possibility of your repentance or of God’s forgiveness, but only that it exceeds even God’s ability to wipe out its consequences. The Worm of Suspicion Take an example of how subtle and far-reaching this can be. An army chaplain said that one day he was talk ing to another chaplain about a third — a colleague of both of them. When he remarked that the absent chaplain had been very fine and co-operative on the post, the chaplain being addressed replied, after a few seconds’ pause, “Well, he feels that you have the ear of the higher- ups, and he’s bucking for a promotion.” What was the effect? The chaplain said that, although he resented such a remark and had no reason to believe there was the slightest truth in it, he found that the worm of suspicion had been placed in his mind. In spite of all he could do to talk himself out of it, he was forced to admit that it spoiled something fine in the friendship he had enjoyed with the comrade who had been downgraded in that momentary remark. It’s the old story of the peasant and the monk. The peasant, having told an unkind story about another, asked the monk what he could do to atone for his sin. “ Fill a bag with chicken feathers,” said the monk, “ then go
OCTOBER, 1963
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