Brothers, do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against his brother or judges him speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it. 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 4:11,12).
The etymology of James' word, "slander," suggests "speaking down." Linked with his other word, "judging," it implies an inclination to put a brother down. Paul makes a similar observation, "Why do you judge your brother? Or why do you look down on your brother?" (Romans 14:10).
Certainly it's unacceptable to tolerate wrong actions, or condone an environment that allows wrong actions to occur. In the midst of our culture's addled and confused notion of tolerance--a tolerance that says we cannot critique anyone's idea of right and wrong--we must know it's okay to say what one should and should not do. God has given his word and calls on us to discern between good and evil; good judgment is a mark of maturity. As G. K. Chesterton pointed out, "Morality, like art, consists of drawing a straight line."
Some have made Jesus' words, "Judge not that you be not judged," an admonition to turn a blind eye to other's faults, but that can't possibly be what he meant when in the same breath he says that we should not "give dogs what is sacred" or "throw pearls to pigs" (Matthew 7:6). That caution assumes that we can and must recognize cynical and profane people when we see them. In the same way, Jesus admonished his disciples to "judge for yourselves what is right" (Luke 12:57).
Jesus' and James' injunctions against judging are not about drawing straight lines, but about condemning others and writing them off--judging them without mercy and without caring for their souls. Put another way, judging, in the sense James employs the word, is a matter of being merely just.
It's good that God is not merely just. If he were we would be in a world of trouble, for he would judge every one of us at this very moment. He would put down cruel and monstrous tyrants everywhere, true, but he would also put down my cruelty and petty tyranny. "Are not the gods just?" C. S. Lewis' character, Psyche, asks her wise mentor. "Oh, no, my child," was the reply. "Where would we be if they were?"
I recall a conversation between Robinson Crusoe and his Man Friday: "Well," says Friday, "you say God is so strong, so great: has he not as much strong, as much might as the devil?"
"Yes, yes, Friday," Crusoe replied, "God is much stronger than the devil."
"But if God much strong, much might as the devil, why God no kill the devil so make him no more do wicked?"
"You might as well ask," Crusoe answered reflectively,
"Why does God not kill you and me when we do wicked things that offend?"
The point is that God has every right to kill you and me instantly the moment we do any wicked thing, but he has chosen to show compassion. God will judge the world in due time--"when the sun grows old, and the stars are cold, and the judgment book unfold." But for now he is reserving final judgment. Would that you and I were more like our Father.
I know the world in which I live, a world of my own, the narrow world of my mind--haughty, unforgiving, and judgmental. How readily I pronounce judgment on others' motives and behavior though I have neither the knowledge nor the authority to do so.
Calvin wrote, "Our indulgence ought to extend to tolerating imperfections of conduct... There always have been persons who, imbued with a false persuasion of absolute holiness, as if they had already become a kind of aerial spirits, spurn the society of all in whom they see that something human still remains."
Judging others doesn't seem like much of a sin, but James would have us believe it's a serious breach of the law--the Law of Love (James 2:8). When I condemn my brother I'm not a lover but a judge--a judge of my own brother and of my Father's law, interpreting it and modifying it to mean what I think it ought to mean--rescinding it on occasion. Better that I just love my brother and let God deal with his imperfections. That's "sloppy agape" you say. I say I'd rather love too many than too few.
Furthermore, when I condemn my brother I'm playing God--infringing on his rights as the judge of all the earth. "There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy," says James. Then his bony finger rises out of the text and points directly at me: "But you (Yes, I'm talking to you!)--who are you to judge your neighbor?" (James 4:12).
Some actions are easy to identify as sin, but judging is much more elusive. It's hard to know the difference between discernment and ungodly condemnation. Where exactly is the line? I don't always know and even when I do I don't always get it right, but here are some thoughts that have helped me.
There's a firm maxim that all right judgment of my brother begins with self-judgment. I cannot discern another's sin until I sit in judgment on my own. "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 7:4). When confronted with a brother's offenses the humble heart turns first to itself and to God.
Further, I must not go "beyond what is written" (1 Corinthians 4:6) and make binding for others what scripture does not bind. It's possible for me to judge a brother not because he's sinful, but because he's not like me. I need to know that others can be strange, off-beat, eccentric, unusual, and marching to a different drummer without being sinful and morally out of step. "Who are you to judge someone else's servant?" Paul says of my private scruples, "To his own master he stands or falls. And he will stand, for the Lord is able to make him stand" (Romans 14:4). Where scripture is silent I must be silent.
Finally, I must not judge another's motives. I've never seen a motive, and wouldn't know one if I saw it. I can never say, "You did this because...." Heart-motives are beyond my ken.
Scripture is full of examples of mistaken assumptions, like those of Job's friends who were convinced his suffering was the result of profound sin. Yet, they were wrong. Only God saw the whole picture. With the limited insight we have, a faulty verdict is assured.
It's good to ask those who seem to have gone wrong, "Can you tell me why you did what you did?" We may be surprised at what we learn. Even if we can't fully understand another's intentions it will help us become more understanding. It's an old saying: "Know another's burden and then you won't be able to speak except in pity."
Some years ago I heard a true story that somewhat illustrates this insight. It seems there was a young salesman who worked for a company whose president gave turkeys to all his employees at Christmas. The man was a bachelor, didn't know how to bake a turkey and didn't particularly want to learn, so the gift was only a complication as far as he was concerned. Every year he had to figure out how to rid himself of the thing.
On the day the turkeys were handed out, a couple of the man's friends purloined the bird tagged with his name and substituted a dummy made of paper mâche. The only original turkey-parts were the neck and tail protruding from either end of the brown paper wrapper.
The bogus bird was then presented with due formality, and our man, with turkey tucked under his arm, caught his bus for home.
As it happened, he seated himself next to a man whose melancholy was obvious. Feeling compassion for him, the salesman began a conversation in which the other man's bitter circumstances began to unfold: he had lost his job and had almost no money for Christmas--only a couple of dollars with which to purchase a few groceries for Christmas dinner. His funds were insufficient for anything but bare essentials.
The man with the turkey sized up the situation and realized he had the solution to both of their problems. He could unload the turkey in a way that was mutually beneficial. His first thought was to give it away; his second was to sell it for the few dollars, thinking that his new friend could salvage his dignity by paying for the meal.
And so he proposed the sale, explaining his dilemma and his resolution of it. The other man was elated, the exchange was made and the bird was taken home to wife and kiddies, who presumably gathered excitedly around the table while the turkey was unwrapped, only to discover that the bird their father had bought was a fraud.
You can imagine the disappointment and indignation of the defrauded family. The well-meaning turkey vender, however, went home satisfied that he had done a good deed for the day. I'm told that when he returned to work after the holidays and learned what his associates had done, he devoted most of his free time for the next month trying to track down the victim of his unintended scam, but he never saw the man again.
The offended family must believe to this day they were the victims of a cruel hoax--an example of man's inhumanity to man--but they would be wrong. The man's intentions were wholly good.
"Judge nothing before the appointed time," warns Paul. "Wait till the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men's hearts. At that time each will receive his praise from God."
Judgment is presumptuous on my part: only God knows the heart. And it's premature: I must wait until Jesus comes. He then will "bring to light what is hidden in darkness and expose the motives of men's hearts."
Time and God will give final judgment. Until then I must wait.
David Roper
