Judge not, that ye be not judged. —Matthew 7:1 Here it is, another New Year’s Eve, and I can report I am as judgmental as ever. I could make a resolution to “become” less so or simply “judge less.” But that would be fruitless—a gesture as if only to mitigate the harsh judgement of an angry God. He knows the truth about me anyway. Christmastime brings people together in increasingly close quarters until the blessed day is past and we can all go back to our desks, or rooms, or into the great outdoors—where an even more blessed solitude can be found. This year, I’ve been especially aware of how judgmental I am. A friend had challenged me to notice my intrinsic bias against certain kinds of bodies, especially ones abundant with fat. Judging my own self for pillowing had become a compulsion once again, and I wanted to be free of it. December’s many parties offered the context for discovering how effortlessly, how unconsciously I assess the attractiveness of people. This loathsome and obnoxious tendency is one I share with an entire culture, a culture which often values a person largely upon how they appear—how they look, what their work implies about them, who their friends are. That this prejudice is shared, this sense of entitlement to judge others, makes it no less horrifying to possess. My friend’s commission to be sensitive to my own bias made it clear to me I have been health-trolling my college-age cousin. In recent years, she had gained upwards of thirty pounds, and on her small frame the difference in her appearance was dramatic. I would thoughtfully complain to my college-age daughter (didn’t I know better?) that my cousin’s health is compromised. Her beauty is too, I would slur. But as far as I know, her health is just fine. Her fiancé clearly thinks she looks fine. The truth is, my cousin has always seemed genuinely pleased with herself. Her extra weight hasn’t changed that. A family party the week before Christmas gave me the pivot I needed. I didn’t want to think badly of this girl. Hell! I didn’t want to think badly of myself! The only alternative? Don’t make evaluating her appearance part of relating to her. I couldn’t judge her less; I couldn’t judge her, period. When we spoke at the party, I was delighted to discover she had hugs for me--lots of them. Her smile shone as brightly as a candle reflected in tinsel. I felt waves of affection for her. By the end of the evening, I could tell it was love. I am confident my cousin sensed the change in my years-old attitude of judgement and misguided concern for her. Her behavior suggested it, all warmth and resilience. People who are judged feel threatened and defensive not appreciative and open. They know they’re being judged and act accordingly. Which is the real truth behind Jesus’ dictum: when we judge others, we are known that way. People judge us for being judgmental. They are blameless, because they are right. If I don’t want to live in the swamp of Holier-than-Thou, I have only one choice. Resolutions to be better won’t bring me to the new territory. I must be different, not judge at all. I must be willing to grow into loving. I must be love. This is a good time of year to rout out a shortcoming like obsession with appearances. One of Christmas’s most salvific messages is the way God turns the world upside-down with the birth of his poor child. Jesus is vulnerable not just as an infant but as an immigrant, as a member of an occupied people, a rural people. Nothing good is supposed to come from “someone like him.” We know, however, that good lives in him, IS him. Christmas reminds me God isn’t judging. Whether shepherds or kings with their retinues—we are all welcome at the stable. Karen Jessee If you would like to be informed when posts are made on Search and Know, please write to me with "subscribe" in the subject line. Thank you!
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Wouldn’t it be a huge relief, a way out of a perennial problem, if we—the healthy, the functional, the ones who seem un-sick, the un-needy—had times during the week when people knew ahead of time we want them to come visit? Their presence would be balm and buoy for us. We would be edified by their very selves and by their perspectives on a world we are cut off from. We would certainly feel appreciated because of their visits. We might even feel loved.
Then, during overlapping visits from a variety of friends, we could watch the intertwining of our lives, different pods of community intersecting in un-orchestrated ways. Even better would be not having to ask for help. The magnetic “Visiting Hours” broadcast would round up all the people who genuinely care. And I know they are there; I will always benefit from seeing them. The sincere and engaged friends and associates—they care even if they don’t visit, it’s true. Often enough, I fail to drop by friends’ homes just for love, especially on my own initiative. I say I am respecting their privacy. But I know how difficult it is to ask for needed reassurance or a healthy distraction from worries and woes. It requires willingness to reach out and admit, friend by friend, “I need time with you.” This is difficult to say. The temptation to not want to impose on folks by asking them to come over is as compelling as the feeling I don’t want to impose on others by coming around unannounced. An exhausting, fruitless hypervigilance can arise on either side. I don’t like admitting need. It exacerbates a vulnerability I already feel from being needy. Calling friends with a plea to come visit risks discovering I might be even more vulnerable than I know. One horrible blessing of being physically injured or ill is that people can tell we need them, even if we hate to admit it with all the vehemence of psychic protest we can muster. Need is not ours to manage when it’s visible. But what about invisible suffering? What about losses and grievances and existential doubts and grief? These are troubles which can lay me up for days plastered to the couch, heavy as sand in a blanket. It’s obvious to me I don’t feel well. Under these circumstances, reaching out to the people who would visit if they only knew seems impossible. Needing to express my needs simply adds more sand to my blanket, pressing me ever more firmly into the couch. So, what if I had visiting hours? Let’s make them 9:00-11:00 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and alternate weekend afternoons. What a relief! Karen Jessee |
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