What About That Tongue?
based on James 3:1-12; Mark 8:27-38
Rev. Karen Goltz

            I find myself going back to the ship imagery we heard in the reading from James.  I grew up near the ocean.  I’ve been on a few boats.  I don’t know my port from my starboard, but I do know my bow from my stern.  I’ve been tossed around on big waves in a tiny little Boston whaler, I’ve operated the thing that controls the rudder—I think it’s called the tiller—on a two-person sailboat, and I’ve sailed on a very large sailboat with about fifteen other people from Marblehead Massachusetts to Rowes Wharf in Boston, and then back again. 

            I understand about rudders, and how they’re so small and yet can still control boats that are so much bigger than them.  But more than that, I’m fascinated by the idea of a large boat in a large ocean being pushed around by fierce winds.  It’s not just the size of the boat that the rudder has to worry about; it’s got to deal with the waves and the winds, too.  Even without bringing the rudder into it, that boat’s moving.  But without the pilot, that boat’s at the mercy of those other elements, elements that dwarf the size of that boat, and render it helpless.  Without the pilot, that boat could be forced further out into the sea, or pushed up on a beach, or slammed into some rocks somewhere.  But the same thing can happen when you’ve got a ship and a pilot, but no rudder.  The pilot and the rudder need to work together.

            I understand why the author uses the ship and rudder analogy to make his point about the tongue.  A rudder’s small, yet it’s responsible for the actions of a much larger vessel.  The tongue’s small, yet it can cause a large amount of damage.  This text goes to great lengths to make the tongue seem like a horrible, terrible thing.  About the only nice thing said about the tongue in this text is that is used for blessing the Lord and Father.  And then even that’s tainted by pairing it with cursing those who are made in the likeness of God. 

And that’s where I have trouble keeping the analogy:  tongue: small, rudder: small.  Tongue: bad, rudder: bad?  The rudder seems pretty good to me, personally.  Pretty necessary, actually.  The wind and the waves may not appreciate it, but I’m sure the pilot does, as do any passengers on that boat, not to mention the boat itself.  So is the only point about the size of the rudder compared to the size of the boat?

But there are other analogies, too.  Horse and bit.  I’ve attempted riding before.  I did really well with the trail horses at Bible camp.  And then I was visiting a farm, and I found out that a farm horse is a little bit different from a trail horse.  The trail horses obeyed me fine.  I wanted them to walk; they wanted to walk.  I wanted the farm horse to walk; the farm horse wanted to gallop.  The farm horse had a bit in its mouth, but it didn’t do me a whole lot of good.  I found out the hard way what happens when the pilot doesn’t know what to do with the rudder.  I think I should’ve stuck to boats.

But anyway, with a rider who knows how to operate a horse’s rudder, the horse can be controlled.  By just a little piece of metal in its mouth.  Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?  Well, I guess that depends on if you’re asking the rider or the horse. 

Then there’s the great forest that’s set ablaze by a small fire.  I spent my internship in South Dakota, just south of the Black Hills.  I saw areas that had been devastated by wildfires.  Some of those fires had been caused by dry lightening, but some of them started with just a tiny spark; a hunter’s illegal campfire that ignited a nearby tree branch; a smoldering cigarette butt carelessly tossed out a car window onto the pavement, only to roll onto the grass by the side of the road.  Tiny little pieces of fire that destroyed thousands of acres of grazing pasture and forest.

So a good rudder, a bad fire, and an ambiguous bit are all compared to the tongue, which is shown in a pretty bad light.  I understand the comparison on the basis that they’re all small, in control of something big, but I really think there’s more to it than that.

The bit and the rudder can shed a little light on this, I think.  I’ve already mentioned the uselessness of a boat and rudder without a pilot, and I’ve mentioned the uselessness of a rider who doesn’t know how to use the bit in a horse’s mouth.  If the tongue is a bit or a rudder, with the potential to create damage on par with a huge forest fire, then who is the pilot?  Who is the rider?  The text mentions the taming of all the creatures of creation by humanity, except for the tongue.  Is humanity supposed to tame the tongue, too?  How?  The tongue is a part of us.  The tongue is a part of those who are in the likeness of God that we curse.  We ourselves are in the likeness of God, as we curse others with that tongue, and as we are cursed by others.  The tongue is what we use to praise God.  Obviously we are not in control of our own tongues.  We like to think we are, but we’re not.  We’ve all hurt someone with words, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.  We may not even be aware of the pain we’ve caused with out tongues.  We’re not the riders, or the pilots.  We’re the horses.  We’re the boats. 

We are the boats.  We’re bobbing up and down on waves that threaten to swamp us at every turn.  We’re surrounded by elements that make those waves worse, winds that batter against us, dwarfing our size, dwarfing our importance.  Rendering us helpless.  If there’s no pilot controlling the rudder.  Where’s the pilot?

Jesus called the crowd with his disciples and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”  This sounds like a hard saying to accept.  We just heard Jesus tell his disciples that his cross to bear is to undergo great suffering, be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, be killed, and after three days rise again.  And we know how the gospel ends.  Jesus quite literally bears his cross before being nailed to it, where he dies.  We may not be called upon to literally duplicate that act, to literally bear a cross, but we are called upon to do whatever it takes to live and proclaim the gospel message of God’s love, grace, and salvation through Christ our Lord.

Whatever it takes.  It sounds tough.  It sounds unpleasant.  It sounds like a bum deal.  But we forget the true ending of the gospel.  When the women entered the tomb after the Sabbath was over, an angel told them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified.  He has been raised; he is not here.  Look, there is the place they laid him.”  Jesus has power even over death and the grave.  Jesus has power over sin, our sin.  Jesus spoke the truth of God’s grace, and Jesus is the truth of God’s grace.  Jesus is the one, the only one, who can pilot the boat through the waves and the winds, who can steer us clear of the beach and the rocks.

Bearing the cross of Christ means letting Christ be our pilot, letting Christ guide us through the chaotic waters of life.  We try to do it on our own, but we just can’t.  The wind and the waves are too much for us, the boat too big.  The good news is that we don’t have to.  We don’t have to rely on our own limited wisdom, or our own limited abilities.  We don’t have to try to tame our tongues; we can’t possibly do it anyway.  And our tongues are not evil.  Without them, we can’t proclaim the love of God in Christ Jesus.  But without giving up control of our rudders and letting Christ be our pilot, we still can’t proclaim the love of God in Christ Jesus.  The pilot and the rudder need to work together.  The rudder is a part of us, and there is only one who can effectively pilot us.  And we’re not it, and when we’re not fighting to control our rudders, we can just sit back and enjoy the ride, confident that the true pilot will bring us safely home.