Why Jesus Took Words So Seriously
What ancient curses, football terraces, and everyday speech reveal about the heart
I’m a big fan of my local football team. When my children were younger, I made a point of getting tickets in the family enclosure, hoping to shield them from some of the things that get said during a match.
It felt like a safe option.
What I discovered, though, is that you don’t need a packed terrace to hear words with an edge. Even in the family section, even among children, the language could turn surprisingly sharp when things weren’t going well. Frustration spills out quickly.
Referees, in particular, seem to attract a very specific kind of… attention.
At times, it is not far off cursing.
It made me realise how quickly words reach for force when something matters to us.
Most of us don’t think of ourselves as people who curse.
We might swear, of course. We might mutter something under our breath when the kettle breaks or when someone pulls out without indicating. But proper cursing someone feels like something we’ve grown out of. Pagan. Medieval. The sort of thing sensible people no longer do.
Yet, for much of human history, cursing was one of the most ordinary religious acts a person could perform.
In Roman Britain, people regularly scratched curses onto thin sheets of lead, rolled them up, and hid them in drains, graves, or wall crevices. Many of these have been found in Bath, especially around the Roman baths themselves. They were small, private, and disarmingly vicious.
Most were directed at thieves.
Someone steals your clothes while you bathe. You don’t expect the authorities to help. You don’t even ask for the items back. Instead, you appeal to the gods to take matters into their own hands. Bind the thief’s limbs, confuse their mind, or drag them into ruin.
This wasn’t fringe behaviour. It was, in its own way, common sense.
Words were not just sounds. They were acts. Once spoken or written, they were believed to do something.
Which makes Jesus’ concern with language suddenly feel far less abstract.
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Words as instruments of power
Ancient curses were not just emotional outbursts. They were carefully constructed, intentional, and often hidden.
The person writing the curse did not expect it to work through fear or suggestion. No one else was meant to see it. The gods would do the work. The words themselves were the mechanism.
That detail matters.
It suggests that people believed language, properly directed, could shape reality itself.
Even within Judaism, which rejected pagan magic, words still carried immense weight. Vows were binding. Oaths created obligation. A careless promise could place a household under strain for years.
Speech was not neutral. It carried consequences.
Over time, people learned how to manage that weight. Rather than invoking God directly, they used substitutes. “By the Temple.” “By heaven.” The wording changed, but the intention often remained the same.
Jesus saw straight through this.
He did not object because he was pedantic about phrasing. He objected because people were using language to appear faithful while quietly avoiding responsibility.
Clean words. Unclean hearts.
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What our words reveal
Jesus once said that what comes out of a person’s mouth can make them more impure than anything that goes into their body.
That was a startling claim in a culture deeply concerned with ritual purity. Food laws, handwashing, and boundaries mattered.
Jesus does not dismiss those concerns, but he does shift the focus.
From what we consume to what we produce.
Because words reveal what we trust.
Roman curses assumed the gods could be aimed like weapons. Religious euphemisms assumed God could be technically obeyed while practically ignored.
Jesus dismantles both assumptions at once.
He refuses to let God be weaponised. He also refuses to let language become a loophole.
Instead, he treats words as windows into the heart. Not because God is fragile, but because we are.
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