My awkward lesson on the sin of gossip

I’d been very much looking forward to a decent meal. Kay was in the hospital recovering from childbirth, and so I had been at the mercy of my own culinary limitations. Here I understate the gravity of the situation: I had created some of the worst dishes known to humanity, and my tendency to spontaneously add to recipes with a dash of this or that had not helped matters. Don’t read any sexist ‘the wife does the cooking’ stereotype here; it’s just that in terms of culinary skill, Kay has plenty. I do not. 

A kind couple, not members of our church, had heard that I was walking a pathway of self-poisoning, and so invited me over for dinner. Seated at their table, I eyed the delightful spread eagerly. The food was melt-in-the-mouth good, but there was also a more delicious side dish available. 

Our chatter turned to a question. “So, Jeff, tell us about your time at Bible college. Did you have any preaching engagements in local churches as part of your training?”

I affirmed that, yes, preparation for ministry meant that I was assigned to a nearby congregation for a term, and that I had shared a sermon there once or twice. 

“Really? Which church was that?”

I identified the town and the name of the church. Sharing dinner that evening, we were hundreds of miles from that location, and they were from a different denomination. They wouldn’t know anybody who attended there, now, would they?

The gentle questioning continued. “What was the church like, Jeff?”

It was at that moment that the tempting side dish was presented. Scripture says: “the words of a gossip are like choice morsels” (Proverbs 18:8). Without thinking, I decided to take a nibble. 

“Well, I liked the church, but there was this one chap there, he was a deacon, and every week he would give the announcements. He was soooo boring! He would just drone on and on, it was utterly numbing…”

“Really?” murmured the hostess, now strangely interested in my comment. She asked what the rather dull gentleman looked like, and then what his name was. Fearing now that I had opened my mouth too wide and had duly inserted my size eleven foot, I blundered on. 

I named him. “Why do you ask?” I ventured. “Do you know him?” 

There was a chilling pause, and the still smiling lady put down her knife and fork, for which I was grateful. 

“Yes, I do know him”, she said, very slowly. “That’s my father.” Crimson-faced and mortified, I stammered out a profuse apology. 

Gossip in general and putting others down specifically is tempting. Like a piece of fine Belgian chocolate, it can feel delicious as we give the impression that we are in the know, that we are superior, that we are in possession of a rumour. 

Getting a cheap laugh at someone else’s expense can be inviting. And we Christians have the added weapon of being able to disguise gossip in the garb of concern. “Please pray for Fred,” we murmur piously, while passing on news of Fred’s latest moral lash-up. Believers don’t gossip; we share. 

Meanwhile, back at that table, the hospitable couple were stunningly gracious – in stark contrast to my blabbering self. “Don’t worry, Jeff,” smiled the potentially aggrieved daughter. “We know that Dad can be just a little ponderous at times.” 

Grateful, I went back to enjoying my meal and the rest of the evening passed uneventfully. But how I wished that I’d left that tasty side dish well alone.