“I only killed one human being in Vietnam,” former US Marine John Musgraves says in a Vietnam War documentary. He continues,
And that was the first man that I ever killed. I was sick with guilt about killing that guy and thinking I’m going to have to do this for the next thirteen months—I’m going to go crazy. And then I saw a Marine step on a “bouncing betty” mine, and that’s when I made my deal with the devil in that I said I will never kill another human being as long as I’m in Vietnam. . . . “However, I will waste as many gooks as I can find. I’ll wax as many dinks as I can find. I’ll smoke as many zips as I can find. But I ain’t going to kill anybody.”
Musgraves’s remorseful confession of his deceptive, euphemistic language reminds us that our words—whether spoken to oneself or to another—matter. Our words can lead us to life and communion, or they lead us to death and isolation—“Death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Prov 18:21).
What Are Words?
The natural law dictates that a thing’s nature, or essence, determines its purpose. We cannot discern what X is for unless we know what X is. To give a concrete example, we know that a car is for transportation by observing what a car is—a box with wheels; and we can, moreover, determine if this car is good or bad by reference to its purpose. Does the car complete its purpose? That is, does the car transport well? If yes, then it is a good car; if not, then it is a bad car. This illustration is a rough outline of the natural law.
Let us apply the natural law to our language. What are words? What is their nature? We can do lots of things with our vocal abilities—cough, cry, blow bubbles, etc.—but when we use our vocal abilities to signify (not just vaguely express), we are using words. Words are significant vocal sounds; they signify concepts of the intellect.
Without society, we would not need words; and without words society would not be possible.
A concept of the intellect (or mind) is a simple being of reason, such as the concept dog or animal. And because these simple concepts are immaterial, they can be in your intellect and my intellect at the same time. Purely material beings, on the other hand, cannot bilocate like so. We can combine our simple concepts of the intellect to make intellectual judgments, like dogs are animals. We can make these judgments known by our words in turn—“Dogs are animals.”
The way our words signify our concepts of the intellect is by means of a linguistic community. We are trained into a linguistic community; we are taught that the sound /dôg/ is used in this community to refer to this given thing—namely, the type of thing that has four legs and barks. There is not a universal, one-to-one relationship between a given word and its corresponding concept of the intellect. We can alter our vocal sounds and still signify the same concept of the intellect. This fact is why multiple languages can exist; table, mesa, and Tisch—quite distinct vocal sounds—can all signify the same concept of the intellect. Thus, Aristotle teaches, words are conventional vocal sounds.
Indeed, society is the occasion for language. St. Thomas Aquinas, commenting on Aristotle, writes,
If man were by nature a solitary animal, the [concepts of the intellect] by which he was conformed to things to have knowledge of them would be sufficient for him; but since he is by nature a political and social animal, his conceptions had to be made known to others. He does this through vocal sound. Therefore, there had to be significant vocal sounds so that men might live together, and thus those who speak different languages find it difficult to live together in social unity.
Without society, we would not need words, and without words, society would not be possible. Language is a social phenomenon. Both Aquinas and Aristotle would be quick to remind us, however, that while words are conventional, our concepts of the intellect are not, for our concepts of the intellect are formed by reality, which offers itself the same to all human persons.
Said another way, because we human persons are presented with the same world, we can form the same thoughts and thereby communicate in a spoken, intelligible manner. Thus, by engaging in conversation, we can enact true communion with our fellow man.
Above all, human communion via speech will entail a commitment to the truth, which is to say, a commitment to reality. Our intellects are made to know reality, and our words follow from our intellect. Any habit of verbally stretching or altering reality with the intention to deceive is therefore a violation of the way God constituted our being. Reality is the only place where true communion can occur.
By engaging in conversation, we can enact true communion with our fellow man.
Still, there is a way to utter true things that nevertheless leads to isolation and death (stating true mathematical facts at a weekend barbecue, or a funeral for that matter, will not get you any friends). In order to truly fulfill our vocation, we must train our tongues with an eye to our good and our neighbor’s good, considered holistically.
Training the Tongue
Fr. Gregory Pine’s recent book, Training the Tongue, is an insightful manual aimed at leading us to become virtuous, communion-oriented speakers. Communion, for Fr. Pine, is the “fundamental goal of speech.” Indeed, man’s highest good is communion with God, and in this life “we cultivate communion with God through communion with our fellow man.” True happiness therefore entails a social—and hence, a linguistic—component.
To achieve this end, Fr. Pine focuses on cultivating the virtues more so than on rooting out the vices. He reasons thus: If we want our souls to be like a beautiful garden, then the bulk of our time is not best spent on pulling out weeds (that is, rooting out sins), but rather on crowding out weeds by planting and tending good plants and flowers (that is, welcoming grace and cultivating the virtues).
Fr. Pine’s chapter titles testify to the diverse uses of speech: “Telling the Truth,” “Inquiring Together,” “Building Each Other Up,” “Offering Correction,” “Playing with Humor,” “Giving Instruction,” and “Talking to God.” At every juncture, Fr. Pine lets the reader know which virtues and vices are applicable to a particular speech genre. For example, the vice of indelicacy makes conversation unnecessarily uncomfortable and the virtue of humility ensures we do not speak too much about ourselves. Naming the relevant virtues and vices provides us with the clarity and precision needed to make progress. Above all, Fr. Pine highlights the importance of truthfulness: “The only thing sufficiently substantial to ground a worthy communal endeavor is reality itself.”
We need to cultivate a love for reality. Fr. Pine counsels us to live life in such a way that we “have plenty of good things to talk about,” for “if we take an interest in the world around us, we’ll have less difficulty cultivating a healthier vocal culture.” Experience confirms this: The best conversations are those centered around something true, good, or beautiful that transcends the interlocutors in conversation.
Fr. Pine also encourages us to become genuinely interested in the person we are speaking to and to listen well. He writes, “The most important contribution you can make [to a conversation] is to listen well,” for the good listener “creates space for the [speaker] to flourish, confirming his goodness and accepting his vulnerability.” When it comes time for us to speak, Fr. Pine exhorts us to treat our contributions “as potential connections, not simply as ‘my turn.’”
Reflecting on the qualities of the virtuous speaker makes one realize that the speech of the saints must have been sublime. The saints knew that they were called—both naturally and supernaturally—to communion with God and with their neighbor. Their excellent speech followed from this vocation to love. Thus St. Thomas More was so pleasant to be around that King Henry would on occasion visit More’s house at Chelsea simply “to be merry with him.” St. Dominic Savio’s contemporaries “were anxious to become friendly and to converse with him.” St. Thérèse of Lisieux made her companions laugh while on her own death bed. It is not without reason that St. Josemaría Escrivá writes, “Every Christian has the duty to bring peace and joy to his own surroundings on earth,” and St. Francis de Sales teaches, “Unquestionably, faithful, straightforward sincere speech is a great ornament to the life of a Christian.”
Our Lord has told us we will render an account for every careless word we speak (see Matt 12:36). It is a Christian hope that such linguistic excellence is within our grasp. God has indeed furnished us with the means to achieve a well-trained tongue, though it may be a difficult, lifelong process—“Anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect, able to keep the whole body in check with a bridle.” (Jas 3:2). To this end, we owe a debt of gratitude to Fr. Gregory Pine, who has helped us in the process of training our tongues. Having read his book, I—for one—feel I have improved the words on the tip of my tongue, leading me closer to a life of communion and not death.