The Judging Mind

It is so easy to judge others, to condemn people without really knowing who they are, or without hearing their story.
Do you think of yourself as a nonjudgmental person? Try answering this question. It’s time to elect a new world leader, and only your vote counts. Here are the facts about the three leading candidates. Who would you choose?

Candidate A associates with crooked politicians and has two mistresses. He also chain smokes and drinks 8 to 10 martinis a day.
Candidate B was kicked out of office twice, sleeps until noon, used opium in college and drinks a quart of whiskey every evening.
Candidate C is a decorated war hero, doesn't smoke, drinks an occasional beer and never cheated on his wife.
Which of these candidates would be your choice? Candidate A is Franklin D. Roosevelt. Candidate B is Winston Churchill. Candidate C is Adolph Hitler.

Obviously, some important details were left out of the candidates’ resumes, but this example shows how important it is to look deeper before you judge.

Joyce and I try very hard to not judge those we meet, but we are still human and periodically fall into the judgment trap, with each other as well as other people. I’d like to share an experience I recently had. I was driving home after doing some errands and, passing Aptos High School, I noticed a big sign announcing a championship baseball game about to start. It is extremely rare that I have “extra” time, but that particular day I did, so I turned in to the high school, deciding I would watch the first inning only. I parked my pickup truck in a dirt lot near the field, climbed into the stands and soon the game began. I got to see Aptos hit a home run and was ready to leave after the first inning. Even though I love baseball, I have little patience for watching the game.
Walking out across the parking lot, I looked at the line of vehicles parked at the edge and noticed something very odd. Inches behind my truck was a red Ford Explorer, completely blocking my exit. No other vehicle in the lot was blocked. Getting nearer, it soon became obvious that my truck was trapped, a steep dirt bank inches in front of me and the Ford inches behind me. I was incredulous at the audacity of the owner of that S.U.V. I was pissed! What kind of unconscious person would do such a stupid thing? For just a moment, I thought of some unkind ways I could retaliate, like getting in my truck and trying to bulldoze my way out, but my conscience won out. I trudged angrily back to the left-field bleachers and yelled out, “Who owns a red Ford Explorer?” Many spectators glanced briefly at me but no one answered.
I trudged over to the right-field bleachers and impatiently yelled out again. This time, a man yelled back, “Why, is it on fire?” But nobody claimed ownership.

Walking past the snack bar I called out yet once again. This time a man my age answered, “That’s my car.” I told him he was blocking my truck. He immediately apologized, reached into his pocket for his keys and started walking with me. His friend called out, “Harv, you’re losing it man.”

Perhaps his apology softened my upset, or perhaps it was his friend’s ribbing. Walking across the parking lot, Harv told me he thought my truck was his son’s, and he figured they’d be sitting together at the game, and would leave together, causing no problem. I quickly regained my heart and told him not to worry. Anyone could’ve made that mistake, two white Chevy Silverado pickup trucks. As we got closer, he looked at my rear bumper and said, “What are the odds? Two trucks having the same ‘Saint Francis’ license plate holder.”

I smiled and looked at my license plate holder, surprised and trying to remember where I got it. Then I noticed the license plate itself. It wasn’t mine.

In the seconds that followed, a number of things happened. First, I looked briefly to my left and there was my truck parked 3 or 4 cars away. Second, I very briefly entertained the thought of waiting for him to move his car and leave. But then I thought he could very easily park behind my truck, blowing my scam.

In the end, the truth won out and I blurted out, “Harv, the senior moment belongs to me, not you.” Then I explained what had happened. How easily the judge could have turned into the judged, but it didn’t happen. Harv smiled at my sheepish expression and said, “This is really comical! It’ll make a great story.”

He had every right to get angry at me, as surely as I had been at him, but he didn’t. First, I felt compassion for him, and now he was feeling compassion toward me.

Watching him put his keys in his pocket and walk back to the game, I thought about the ease of passing judgment, the quickness of the mind to evaluate a situation before gathering more information and making sure it is as it seems. But then who are we to judge even if all the data seems to fall in place. The act of judging itself is an act of blindness. To judge someone is to miss the divinity in that person, to think of them as less than who they really are. To judge is simply to project our own limitations onto another. When we feel compassion for our own limitations, for our own humanity, we never judge others. When we are conscious of our own greatness, we see the greatness of others.
Always know the futility of judging. Remember, amateurs built the ark. Professionals built the Titanic.