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20. Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out: so where there is no talebearer, the strife ceaseth. {Where no...: Heb. Without wood} {talebearer: or, whisperer} {ceaseth: Heb. is silent}
21. As coals are to burning coals, and wood to fire; so is a contentious man to kindle strife.
22. The words of a talebearer are as wounds, and they go down into the innermost parts of the belly. (Chapter 18:8.) {innermost...: Heb. chambers}
The busy tongue makes work where it does not find it. Such is the despicable trade of the talebearer — employing his time in prying into other people's business, ferreting out secrets, diving into family histories, intermeddling with their concerns; all this with the view of putting himself forward, as a keen, intelligent, and active man. Thus in every way where he can please himself ‘man is naturally his own grand idol. He would be esteemed and honored by any means; and to magnify that idol self, he kills the name and esteem of others in sacrifice to it.’† Real virtue revolts from this base selfishness.
The fire of holy zeal seizes on things nearest home. This is a wildfire scattering its destruction abroad. The talebearer should be looked on as an incendiary. For his “tongue is a fire, itself set on fire of hell.”† His raking up of old and forgotten tales supplies the fuel, without which the fire of strife, as where no wood is, goeth out. To quench the flame, we must take away the fuel. We must remove the talebearer; stop him in his words; compel him to produce his authority; face him, if possible, with the subject of his tales. This decisive course will prevent a mass of slander, and put him to shame.†
Near akin is the contentious man. His mischief indeed is more open. His determination to have the last word is as coals to burning coals, and wood to the fire.† It keeps up the flame, kindled perhaps by a mere angry word or a contemptuous look; and which, but for this constant succession of fuel, might quickly have been extinguished. Do we never aim at the wit of a sharp answer, that “stirreth up anger,” rather than at the wisdom and grace of “a soft answer that turneth away wrath”? (Chapter 15:1.)
The talebearer's wounds are however the most dangerous. They go down into the chambers — the vitals of the heart. One noiseless word may be the stab of death. But, if he escape for a while, his secret sins shall “be set before his eyes,” and his wanton trifling with his brother's character be justly recompensed. (Psalm 50:20; 52:1-5.)
Are we closely watching against these sins? Do we carefully damp the rising flame of contention?† Do we resist the temptation to speak needlessly of the faults of others? Do we dread the character of a polished, well-educated, amusing slanderer? Should we be ready to give up the eclat of telling a good story, from the fear of wounding a good name? We may feel indignant at the charge of talebearing. Yet it requires no ordinary exercise of Christian discipline to maintain the silence of charity, and to regulate both the tongue and the ear within its well-advised limits.
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