This scripture lesson is pretty inconvenient, given that this is the Sunday we bless teachers and the new school year.  Not to mention how it complicates recruiting Sunday School teachers.  “Not many of you should become teachers.”  But put this in perspective.  When I got together this summer with my high school classmates, the first thing we did after catching up with each other was to ask about our old teachers.  Who knew what since high school?  Were they still living?  What were they doing?  We were anxious to hear about the best teachers.  And they weren’t the ones who had filled our heads with the most facts.  They were the ones who cared about us as human beings, who nurtured our thirst for knowledge by sharing their passion for the subject. 
            Why do people become teachers?  One of my friends tried to recruit Sunday School teachers for a small congregation in Kansas.  The potential volunteers were resistant because, they said, “Why bother with Sunday School for only one or two kids?”  Another friend trained teachers at her church.  She always asked folks why they were teaching Sunday School, and the answers ranged from it being an excuse to get out of attending the church service, to a sense of duty, to taking their turn, to no one else wanted to.  No one ever said they taught Sunday School because they had a burning desire to share their faith.  No wonder James says, “Not many of you should become teachers.”
            The rest of today’s passage talks about how something little can control or take over something big—a small rudder controlling a large ship, a bridle in a horse’s mouth.  It sounds like James is particularly concerned about the evils and dangers of the tongue, of the way we speak, and you’ve already heard those sermons.  He uses those images about little controlling the large to discourage uninformed authoritative talk.  He’s concerned about the life of the church.  Rather than looking at the negative of James’ statement, let’s be positive.  What if we understood that, “Even my little [whatever] makes a difference.”  Even my little faith, even my little skill, even my little ability to teach, even my little gesture of care make a difference to somebody.
            We know it’s the little things that make people decide to get out of bed the one morning of the week they can sleep in.  It’s just regular people doing ordinary things that brings people back to church. Asking after your mother’s health.  Offering to keep your kids for an hour so you can run an errand.  Sending a note of encouragement when things are rough.  Accompanying you to the doctor.  Spur-of-the-moment invitations to lunch after church.  Going with you to work at the food bank, because it’s something you’ve always wanted to do but were too shy to do on your own.  Little things, as little as a rudder steering the huge bulk of a ship. 
            “Not many of you should be teachers,” except we all are.  Every parent has had the experience of being mirrored by their kids.  The first experience is usually something like hearing your barely verbal toddler clearly say something that escaped your lips once in a moment of passion, something you hope they forget before your own mother hears it from them!  We are teachers, whether we realize it or not, whether we want it or not, whether we accept it or not.  When we gather each week for worship, we teach, “This is what we do in church, this is how Christians care for each other, this is how we show our love for God.”  We teach in the community at large when people see what we church-goers do and say.  “So that’s what Christians are like.  That’s what it’s like at Springwater Presbyterian.”  
            My spiritual director says my grandson is my teacher.  After my last visit with him, I can see what she’s saying.  Shel is two and devoted to his battery-powered train, which he calls his “choo-choo.”  He spends literally hours watching that train go around the track.  It’s not a passive experience.  He constantly interacts with the train, has a thousand ways to be with that train.  The best way of all, his favorite thing, is to share his passion with his Mor-Mor (me).  What he teaches me is about imagination and creativity, about concentration and presence, about the sacrament of Right Now.  In little, unassuming ways, Shel teaches because he shares his passion.  Even his little [whatever] makes a difference.  May you also be such a teacher by sharing your presence and passion.