by J. R. Miller
"Do not judge—or you
too will be judged. For in the same way you
judge others, you will be judged, and with the
measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why
do you look at the speck of sawdust in your
brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank
in your own eye? How can you say to your
brother, 'Let me take the speck out of
your eye,' when all the time there is a plank
in your own eye?" Matthew 7:1-4.
It is better to have eyes for
beauty—than for blemish. It is
better to be able to see the roses—than
the thorns. It is better to have learned
to look for things to commend in
others—than for things to condemn. Of
course other people have faults—and we are not
blind. But then we have faults of our own—and
this should make us charitable.
We have a divine teaching on
the subject. Our Lord said, "Do not judge—or
you too will be judged." We need to
understand just what the words mean. We cannot
help judging others. We ought to be able to read
character, and to know whether men are good or
bad. As we watch men's acts—we cannot help
forming opinions about them. The holier we grow
and the more like Christ, the keener will be our
moral judgments. We are not bidden to shut our
eyes, and to be blind to people's faults and
sins.
What, then, do our Lord's
words mean? It is uncharitable judgment against which he warns us. We are not to look
for the evil things in others. We are not to see
others through the warped glasses of prejudice
and unkindly feeling. We are not to arrogate to
ourselves the function of judging, as if men
were answerable to us. We are to avoid a
critical or censorious spirit. Nothing is said
against speaking of the good in those we see and
know; it is uncharitable judging and speaking,
which Jesus condemns.
One reason why this is wrong,
is that judging is putting one's self in God's
place. He is the one Judge, with whom every
human soul has to do. Judgment is not ours—but
God's. "There is only one Lawgiver and Judge,
the one who is able to save and destroy. But
you—who are you to judge your neighbor?" James
4:12. In condemning and censuring others, we are
thrusting ourselves into God's place, taking his
scepter into our hands, and presuming to
exercise one of his sole prerogatives.
Another reason for this
command, is that we cannot judge others justly
and fairly. We have not sufficient knowledge of
them. Paul says: "Therefore judge nothing before
the appointed time; wait till the Lord comes. He
will bring to light what is hidden in darkness
and will expose the motives of men's hearts." 1
Corinthians 4:5. Men's judgments cannot be
anything but faulty, partial and superficial.
We do not know what may be
the causes of the faults we would condemn
in others. If we did, we would be more
charitable toward them. Some people's
imperfections are an inheritance which they have
received from their parents. They were born with
the weaknesses which now mar their manhood. Or
their faults have come through errors in their
training and education. The nurse fell with the
baby—and all down along the years the man goes
about with a lameness or a deformity which mars
his beauty of form. But he is not responsible
for the marring, and criticism of him would be
cruel and unjust. There are hurts in character,
woundings of the soul, which it is quite as
unjust to condemn—for they are the inheritance
of other men's wrong-doing.
There often are causes for
the warpings and distortings of lives, which, if
we understood them, would make us pity
others—and very patient with their
peculiarities. We do not know what troubles
people have, what secret sorrows, which so press
upon their hearts as to affect their
disposition, temper, or conduct. "If we could
read the secret history of our enemies," says
Longfellow, "we could find in each man's life
sorrow and suffering enough, to disarm all our
hostility against them." For example, we wonder
at a man's lack of cheerfulness. He seems
unsocial, sour, cynical, cold. But all the while
he is carrying a burden which almost crushes the
life out of him! If we knew all that God knows
of his life—we would not speak a word of blame.
Our censure would turn to pity and
kindness—and we would try to help him
bear his burden.
Our hearts are softened
toward men, when they are dead. We hush our
fault-finding when we stand by a man's coffin.
Commendation then takes the place of
criticism. We see the life then in new
light, which seems to emphasize whatever was
beautiful in it; and we place into shadow,
whatever was unbeautiful. We are reverent toward
the dead. Nothing but good should be spoken of
them, we say. Death invests the life with
sacredness in our eyes. Yes—but is the life any
the less sacred—which moves before us or by our
side, with all its sorrows and struggles and
fears and hopes? We should be reverent toward
the dead, speaking of them in hushed accents—but
we should be no less reverent toward the living.
A great deal of our judging
of others—is mis-judging or unjust judging, because of the fragmentariness of our
knowledge of their personal lives and
experiences. It would ofttimes grieve us, and
make us sorely ashamed of ourselves, if, when we
have judged another severely—we should be shown
a glimpse of the other's inner life, revealing
hidden sorrows and struggles which are
the cause of the things in him, which we have
blamed so much. We have only a most partial
view of another's life—and cannot form
absolutely unerring judgments on what we see and
know. We see only one side of an act, when there
may be another side which altogether changes its
quality. On the back side of the tapestry, is
but a blurred mass of yarn; while the other
side, is exquisite beauty. Life is full of
similar two-sided views of people and of
acts. We see a man out in the world, and he
appears harsh and stern. We see him some day at
home where his invalid child lies and suffers,
and there he is another man—kindly, thoughtful,
with almost motherly gentleness. It would have
been most unjust to this man—if we had made up
our judgment of him from the outside view alone,
without seeing him in his child's sick-room.
A young man was severely
criticized by his companions for his stinginess
and miserliness. He received a good salary—but
lived in a pinched way, without even the plain
comforts that his friends thought he could
easily have afforded, and without any of that
generous expenditure in social ways in which
other young men of his class indulged. That was
one side of his life; but there was another.
That young man had an only sister, (as they were
orphans) who was a great sufferer, shut in her
room, kept on her bed continually. This only
brother provided for her. That was the reason he
lived so miserly, saving every cent he could
save, and doing without many things which other
young men thought indispensable, that his
sister, in her loneliness and pain, might be
cared for and might have comforts. That was the
other side of the character. Yet he appeared so
unattractive to his friends. We see how unjust
was their judgment, based on knowledge of only
the one phase of his conduct. Seen in connection
with its motive, the quality so severely
censured—became a mark of noble, manly beauty!
A tender story is told of
Professor Blackie, of Edinburgh, which
illustrates the same lesson. He was lecturing to
a new class, and a student rose to read a
paragraph, holding the book in his left hand.
"Sir," thundered the professor, "hold your book
in your right hand." The student attempted to
speak. "No words, sir! your right hand, I say!"
The lad held up his right arm, ending piteously
at the wrist: "Sir, I had no right hand," he
said.
Then the professor left his
place, and going down to the student he had
unwittingly hurt, he put his arm around the
lad's shoulders and drew him close to his
breast. "My boy," said Blackie—he now spoke very
softly—yet not so softly but that every word was
audible in the hush that had fallen on the
classroom—"Please forgive me that I was so
rough? I did not know—I did not know!"
Our own imperfections also unfit us for judging fairly. With "beams"
in our own eyes—we cannot see clearly to pick
"motes" out of our brother's eye.
One of the qualities which
make us incapable of impartial judgment of
others—is envy. There are few of us who can see
our neighbor's life, work, and disposition
without some warping and distortion of the
picture. Envy has a strange effect on our moral
vision. It shows the beautiful things in
others—with the beauty dimmed. It shows
the blemishes and faults in them, as exaggerated.
In other forms, too, the
miserable selfishness of our hearts
obtrudes itself and makes our judgments of
others ofttimes really unkind and uncharitable.
The lack of experience in
the particular struggle of another, makes
many people incapable of sympathy with sorely
tempted ones. Those who have never known a care
nor felt the pinching of poverty—cannot
understand the experiences of the poor. Thus, in
very many ways, we are unfitted to be
judges of others.
Another reason why we should
not judge others is that our business with them,
our true duty toward them—is to help them to
rise out of their faults! We are set together in
life—to make each other better. And the way to
do this—is not by prating continually about the
faults we see in others. Nagging and scolding
never yet made anybody godly!
Constant pointing out of blemishes—never
cured anyone of his blemishes!
Perhaps there is a duty of
telling others of their faults; but, if so,
it exists only in certain rare relations, and
must be exercised only in a spirit of rare
lovingness. We are often told that one of the
finest qualities in a true friend is that he can
and will faithfully tell us our faults. Perhaps
that is true—but not many of us have grace
enough to welcome and accept
profitably, such an office in a friend. A
mother may tell her own children their
faults—if she will do it wisely and
affectionately, never in anger or impatience. A
teacher may tell his pupils their mistakes and
show them their faults—if it is done in true,
loving desire for their improvement. But in ordinary friendship
—one cannot accept the
office of censor, even when besought to
do so—except with the strongest probability that
the result will be the loss of the friendship—as
the price paid for the possible curing of the
friend's fault.
Nagging is not a means of
grace. There is a more excellent way, the way of
love. It is better, when we wish to
correct faults in others—to be careful to let
them see in us, in strong contrast, the virtue, the excellence, opposite to the
defect which we see in them. It is the habit
of a certain good man, if one of his family or
friends mispronounces a word in his
hearing, never pedantically to correct the
error—but at some early opportunity to find
occasion to use the same word, giving it the
correct pronunciation. Something like this is
wise in helping others out of their faults of
character of conduct. An example is
better than a criticism.
That was our Lord's way with
his disciples. He never scolded them. He
bore patiently with their dullness and slowness
as scholars. He never wearied of repeating the
same lesson over and over to them. But he was
never censorious. He did not keep telling
them of all the blemishes which he saw in
them. That was not his way of seeking their
growth into better, sweeter life. His heart was
full of love. He saw that in back of all their
infirmities and failures—was the sincerity and
the desire to do right, and with infinite
patience and gentleness he helped them ever
toward a holier and sweeter life.
We need to relate ourselves
to others—as did Christ to his disciples, if we
would help others to grow into spiritual beauty.
Censoriousness accomplishes nothing in
making people better. You can never make anyone
sweet—by scolding him. Only gentleness will produce
gentleness. Only love will cure infirmities of disposition. As a rule,
fault-finding is exercised in any but a
loving spirit. People are not truly grieved
by the sins in others, which they
complacently expose and condemn. Too often they
seem to delight in having discovered
something unbeautiful in a neighbor, and they
swoop down upon the blemish—like a vulture on
carrion! If ever criticism is indulged in—it
should be with deep grief for the friend, that
the fault exists in him; and with sincere desire
that for his sake it be removed; and then the
criticism should be made, not in the ear of the
world—but "between him and you alone."
We should train ourselves,
therefore, to see the good, not the evil—in others. We should speak approving
words of what is beautiful in them; not
bitter, condemning words of what may be imperfect
or unlovely. We should look
at others through eyes of love, not
through eyes of envy or of selfishness.
We should seek to heal with true affection's
gentleness, the things which are not as they
should be.
J. R. Miller, Judging Others, 1894
