Does a sharp tongue leave lasting wounds?

“You drive like an old lady…!”

Does every family gathering include one: An individual who seems to take pleasure in using his or her sharp tongue as a rapier to wound others, with particular attention directed at those closest to them? For some unbeknownst reason, in my family, I seem to be the favorite object of one such individual’s thrusts, which are often struck at my most unguarded moments, not infrequently with other friends and relatives present to serve as an embarrassed audience.

In yesterday’s instance the cut was evoked by my offer to drive to an event for which we were late (My habit of driving the speed limit, unless really pressed, is a source of some amusement, especially among younger family members) But the object of scorn can be almost anything. It is the frequency of the rapier thrusts and the skill with which they seek out vulnerable targets, rather than any specific theme that is an ever-present reality. My natural response is to give such an individual a wide birth and to keep defenses up when we are together. But this is hardly basis for a healthy familial relationship. Another is to respond in kind, escalating an offhand insult into a full blown conflict over nothing very substantial. This, too, seems counterproductive.

In an unguarded moment, my relative once provided insight why sarcasm, contemptuous asides and not-so-veiled insults are such a routine element in her discourse, especially with those who are – or seek to be – close to her. He was not referring to himself, but the words rang true. “I guess it is a defense mechanism,” he said. “People use sarcasm as a defense mechanism to cover up vulnerability, to hide what they are feeling and to keep people from getting too close to them.”

So “does a sharp tongue leave lasting wounds?” To be fully armored against the wounds of my relative’s tongue, though I know his insults have little to do with real shortcomings, seems impossible. If fact to go through life perpetually armored (even if that were possible) must be unhealthy. But over time, with practice, reflection and counseling, I have come to recognize that only the most blatant attacks need evoke any response at all.

Perhaps only a saint could live his or her life fully according to the Apostle Paul’s admonition in his first letter to the Christians of Corinth: “Love… is not easily angered [and] keeps no record of wrongs.”

I am no saint, but I have learned that keeping a record of wrongs is harmful to mind, body and soul. Sometimes, my relative’s sharp tongue will inflict its intended wounds, but I can choose not to have the wounds be lasting.