CHAPTER FIVE

Judgment and Mercy

“You are ugly. You are stupid. We are all ashamed of you. You never do anything right. You are dirty. You are nothing but trouble. Go away.” In the middle of a circle sat Beverly, listening to the members of her therapy group call out malicious judgments about her. One by one they shouted hurtful things, condemning her talents, her intellect, and her appearance, criticizing everything about who she was. “You don’t deserve to be here. You’re a fake. You’re not good enough.” Beverly wept as she took it all in.

In this exercise, members of the group were repeating what Beverly had told them to say. They were merely speaking aloud the chorus of voices that inhabited Beverly’s mind. “I hear them all the time,” she told the group. “They tell me I am ugly, stupid, no good—it just goes on and on. The way you all sound right now, that’s what my mind is like. It never seems to stop.”

As a young girl raised in an abusive, chaotic family, Beverly had absorbed countless insults, criticisms, and judgments. These voices had found a home in her psyche, and for most of her life they had served as her intimate companions. As we sat parroting the judging voices of her mind over and over, we could hear how unforgiving and relentless they were. After a while, the repetitive intensity of the voices began to sound ridiculous and impossible to listen to. All of a sudden Beverly started to laugh; soon we, too, were all giggling as we felt the absurdity of it all. How could she take them seriously? Beverly was a good mother and a loving wife, an active member of the community, a talented artist, and generous with her friends and family. For an instant some of the persuasive authority of Beverly’s judging mind fell away and became a little less potent in the face of her playful, freeing laughter.

The greatest barrier to our own healing is not the pain, sorrow, or violence inflicted upon us as children. Our greatest hindrance is our ongoing capacity to judge, to criticize, and to bring tremendous harm to ourselves and others. If we can harden our heart against ourselves and meet our most tender feelings with anger and condemnation, we simultaneously armor our heart against the possibility of gentleness, love, and healing.

Unfortunately, children raised in pain learn to trust what is painful. In families where things were painful or unpleasant, people often spoke eloquently and often about exactly how unpleasant they were: Dad’s job was not good, it made him miserable; Mom was dissatisfied with Dad; the children were not bright enough, did not work hard enough, and were not respectful enough. The family was not happy because there was something wrong with somebody: If it were not for the children, Dad wouldn’t drink; if it were not for Mom’s moods, the family would have more fun; if it weren’t for this or that problem, school grade, neighbor, or event, we would all be happy.

Our family catechism was clear: Suffering happens because things go wrong. So we learned to cultivate a judging mind, a mind that could dissect every moment and ferret out those things, people, or events that stole the family happiness. We felt if we could uncover and name everything that was wrong, imperfect, broken, or unsatisfactory in our lives, we could somehow make everything better. We even learned to feel relief when we uncovered some defect or malignancy in ourselves, for by discovering all that was wrong with us, by eradicating all our defects, perhaps we might eventually earn the right to be happy.

We judged ourselves in the hope that we would be more perfect and more acceptable to our parents, to God, and to ourselves. We learned to judge everything about ourselves—our pain, our joy, our abilities, our intellect, our appearance, our worthiness, our imperfections. We sought out everything that was human, fragile, or tender about us, and assaulted it with anger and impatience. If only we were better, less broken, more perfect, we might finally feel welcome, we might finally be loved. But, in a futile search for acceptance, the violence of our judging mind tore at our hearts and brought little happiness to anyone.

We also learned to judge ourselves as a tool for self-defense: If we could root out our defects before our parents discovered them, if we could rid ourselves of fault and error, perhaps they would be less angry and disappointed with us. We criticized ourselves with cleverness and enthusiasm in the hope that we could prevent others from judging us even more harshly.

Most children who grew up in family pain know this voice: “We are broken, we are not good enough, we are phony, we will never make it, we don’t have what it takes to be successful, we don’t even have what it takes to be fully human.” After a while, the most painful judgments feel the most reliable, the most believable. We are quick to believe in what is broken or in need of repair, and much less likely to take seriously any strengths or gifts we may possess.

We relentlessly judge ourselves for who we should be, and rarely accept ourselves just as we are. Whatever we are feeling in this moment is judged against some mythical ideal of how we “should” be feeling, what we should be doing, and who we should be. If we feel hurt, we think we should have been healed by now; if we feel frightened, we think we should be stronger; if we feel sad, we think we should be happier. Every moment, every breath of our lives is subtly judged as unacceptable. Measured by the standards of who we should have been by now, we constantly fall short.

But what if the feelings that arise within us every day—even the sad, hurt, or uncomfortable sensations of our hearts and bodies—have their own value and carry something to teach us? If we are not “supposed to feel” sad, and we touch that sadness with anger or impatience, then we are unable to listen to what our sadness may be teaching us. Refusing to allow our sadness to be true, we see our sadness as a mistake, something broken, something to be gotten rid of. But what if the sadness is not evidence against us, not a condemnation of how slowly we are healing but simply a moment of sadness, an instant of sorrow that has arisen in our body? What if that sadness holds a seed of something forgotten, something wanting our attention? Who will listen? How can we allow ourselves to be human, to feel at times tender and broken, and not touch it with judgment and violence? Can we hold our pain and touch it instead with mercy and care?

The judging mind insists that we become other than who we are, and we fall victim to the violence of that requirement. If we are never who we are supposed to be, not feeling what we should, then we must always be doing something wrong. As a young boy, Tom was criticized frequently by his father. His father constantly told him he was wrong, never good enough, a continual disappointment. His father would yell at him for every little mistake, sometimes using a belt to punctuate his criticism. As a child, Tom could never get angry at his father for the way he was treated—that would only provoke another beating. So he learned instead to turn that violence against himself, constantly criticizing and verbally beating himself up. He had learned to treat himself the way his father treated him: judging himself and his feelings as defective and unacceptable.

When he first came to see me, Tom held a great deal of fear and anger in his body. “I always feel like I am screwing up,” Tom told me. “At work, with my friends, even when I am by myself, I feel stupid, like I’m just not doing it right.” He felt these judgments as a knot in his stomach and a tightening in his throat. When the judgments were in full force, he felt he could hardly breathe, choked by the incessant criticism and fear. “I’m so afraid I will never be good enough.”

My Fault

In India, they say that when a pickpocket meets a saint, the pickpocket sees only the saint’s pockets. Similarly, when we look at ourselves and the world through eyes of judgment, seeking only what is wrong or broken, we see only a small fraction of whatever is before us. When we are attuned to catch the sound of a particular frequency, we miss the symphony of who we are and who we have become. The judging mind is not interested in exploring the whole truth, nor is it designed to measure the richness of all we have been given. On the contrary, our judging eyes habitually mutilate those parts of ourselves that are tender, light, playful, and kind. We focus exclusively on those parts of ourselves that we dislike and often render the more gentle and loving contents of our hearts and spirits irrelevant.

Indeed, we may feel confused when we encounter people who offer us tenderness and love. When we hear someone speak with gentleness and mercy, when they approach us with an open heart, we feel suspicious and mistrustful. Perhaps they are after something, or maybe they are just in denial about their true feelings. In our past, words of care almost inevitably concealed some danger or criticism just below the surface. True affection was rare, and is still difficult to accept.

Raised in family pain, we find it hard to let go of our judging mind. When we want to find out what is most true, our first impulse is to look for what is bad or broken, what is dark and troublesome, what is defective. Letting go of the judging mind feels like letting go of knowing what could hurt us, surrendering our most potent weapon for survival. If we stop judging ourselves and everyone else so rigorously, how will we know what is true? How will we protect ourselves from harm?

When Sandra came to see me, she felt trapped in her marriage. She said she no longer loved her husband, but did not want to hurt him by leaving— and she especially did not want her three children to suffer. If she followed her own needs and desires, she would ruin everyone’s life, and it would be all her fault because she was incapable of love.

We talked at length about her childhood, and spent a great deal of time exploring her relationship with her father. He had abused her sexually when she was quite small, and she felt that that, too, must have been her fault. She should have protected herself somehow, she should have been able to prevent it from happening. She was convinced she should have been able to stop him.

Sandra judged herself mercilessly for being abused. Whenever we spoke of it, she adamantly refused to consider the possibility that it might not have been her fault. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I know it was my fault. I feel like I’ve never done anything right. I should have been stronger as a little girl, I should have been able to make things turn out right. And now, because of how messed up I am, my whole family is going to be ruined.”

Her mind had fixed itself upon her childhood abuse and used it as a judgment against her entire life. The more I tried to explain that a five-year-old girl was powerless over a thirty-year-old man, the more her judging mind tightened its grip on her spirit. Many sessions would end with her adamant as ever about where the blame for her suffering belonged; “Nothing you tell me will ever convince me that I did not do something wrong.”

Then, toward the end of one session, I asked her about her children, a son and two daughters whom I knew she loved very much. Her daughters were three and seven years old. “What if your daughters came home one day and told you a big man had fondled them and then made them do things they didn’t want to. Would you punish them, would you yell at them for letting it happen? Would you tell them it was their fault?” A look of horror crossed her face. “Of course not! How could... they are so young, just children, it could never be their fault. I would hold them and protect them and fight for them, of course it couldn’t be their fault...” And Sandra, in that moment, feeling a rush of sadness and mercy fill her heart, began to cry for her children, for herself, and for all the violence and judgment she had carried so long.

Letting go of the judgments against herself, Sandra began to feel more deeply all the things that were true about her childhood. She was hurt badly, her father was violent, her mother did not protect her, she could not protect herself, and she carried great sadness that ached to be grieved. But she was also strong, insightful, and creative, and worthy of care, mercy, and love. And while her judging mind had condemned her inability to love, in fact she was quite capable of love, and it was her tremendous love for her children that enabled her to break free.

The Sin of the Self

Love is the ingredient that gives birth to mercy. Thomas Merton said that the heart of spiritual practice is “a search for truth which springs from love.” To heal, we must first know where we are wounded, uncovering all the places inside us where we feel broken or incomplete. But rather than touch those places with violence and judgment, we may learn to meet ourselves with gentleness and love. As a child of God, as a member of the family of the earth, we stand in need of care, and are worthy of kindness and love. The poet Rainer Maria Rilke said that “what is going on in your innermost being is worthy of your whole love.”

Unfortunately, when we feel broken or incomplete, these are the moments we feel most unworthy of love. We feel that our pain, confusion, or fear is clear evidence that we must be doing something terribly wrong, and we must frantically struggle to make ourselves acceptable before we may earn the right to be loved. But in fact we have got it backwards: It is precisely when we feel broken that we are in the most need of love.

Unfortunately, many of us learn to love ourselves slowly and reluctantly. Betty would spend the first half-hour of her visits with me apologizing for having come. “I know I probably shouldn’t need to be here,” she would say. “I can’t believe I still feel so afraid. I must be really screwed up.” This woman was terribly hurt as a child by parents who were emotionally disturbed. Now, in her thirties, she was ashamed that she still felt tender and confused about her life. “It was all really no big deal. I should be stronger, I should just get on with my life. Why am I so weak, why do I still hurt so much?”

Some of us feel our sorrows are evidence of some sin or some imperfection, convinced that if we were better, stronger, or more perfect, we would not be suffering the way we do. Interestingly, the original Greek word for “sin”—hamartia—is simply an old archer’s term meaning “to miss the mark.” Since the very act of being human means we will periodically “miss the mark,” we are all by definition “sinners.” But there is no judgment implied in the term—only an indication that as a point of attention, it invites a focus to our practice. If we are merciful with ourselves, if we meet our shortcomings and imperfections with mercy and lovingkindness, we feel a profound permission to use our “missing” as part of our learning to grow. We need not perfect ourselves to earn the right to be loved. Love and mercy are not prizes for good behavior; they are the ingredients that allow us to heal and to become more fully human.

Truth, Mercy, and Nonviolence

Mercy is a quality of mind that lovingly accepts ourselves as we are, without judgment or violence. With a merciful heart, we are able to accept our successes and failures, our gifts and imperfections with love and compassion. We can touch our most tender places with kindness, gentleness, and nonviolence. With eyes of mercy, we are free to explore the sadness, the clumsiness, the joy, the playfulness, the confusion, the tightness, the hunger, the laughter, and to touch it all with unconditional love. The more we meet ourselves with love instead of violence and judgment, the more available and open we are to being seen, being known, and being intimately cared for by ourselves and others.

When we are merciful, we accept the totality of who we are with unconditional love. We embrace ourselves without judgment, without condition, and with complete forgiveness. We see ourselves and others, as Stephen Levine says, with “soft eyes.” Not with eyes that distort or deny, but with eyes that attend more gently to the full spectrum of what is true.

When we judge, when we hate, when we harden our eyes and hearts, we perpetuate great harm to ourselves and the world, and we lose the way to peace and healing. The practice of mercy opens a path of healing rooted not in violence but in peace, love, and truth. When Jesus taught his followers not to judge themselves or others, he was not simply saying they should be “nice.” He was speaking to the subtle violence we invoke in our own lives when we judge, and was also alluding to the deep healing that may arise within us when we walk a path of nonharming. Judgment inevitably gives birth to cruelty; mercy and nonviolence bring healing and peace.

In Sanskrit there is a word, ahimsa, which may be translated as “nonharming” or “noninjury.” For Gandhi, ahimsa was the cornerstone of his campaign of nonviolent resistance to the British in India. When he began his campaign for Indian independence, he called it the “nonharming truth movement.” This satyagraha movement was predicated on the belief that one could see the deeper truth in people and events only through the eyes of nonviolence and compassion. He knew that if they met violence with violence, the war would go on forever. In the face of such violence, only a passionate commitment to the practice of nonharming could bring true peace and freedom for all. In light of his unshakable commitment to ahimsa above all else, it was clear that Gandhi was less interested in political victory than in meeting friend and foe with respect, gentleness, and mercy.

So it is with our own healing. Genuine healing and the development of true loving kindness are impossible unless we first undertake a practice of ahimsa, of nonharming. Nonharming is an essential ingredient of mercy. Through the practices of mercy and noninjury, we refuse to judge, to hate, or to condemn ourselves or our deepest feelings. Before we can heal, before we can learn to love, we must first stop the war within ourselves.

In Buddhism, the practice of ahimsa is one of the central spiritual precepts. We are all of one family, all of one community, all interdependent with everything that lives, in a deep ecology of body and spirit. As a way to honor our kinship with one another and in recognition of how precious all life is, Buddhists take a vow to practice nonharming, to treat all sentient beings with respect, love, and care. They believe that as children of creation, each of us is one of those precious beings worthy of care, affection, and loving kindness.

How may we cultivate such nonviolence in our own hearts? We may begin by recognizing the harm that all judgment creates in our hearts and spirits. Whether we are hurtful toward ourselves or others, the residue of that violence lingers in our body and heart like a virus, choking our healing and imprisoning our spirit.

Whether we bring hurt to others or to ourselves, the result is inevitably the same: We unwittingly perpetuate the violence that brought us suffering as children. Any violence we commit against ourselves merely gives birth to more violence on the earth; rather than healing the sufferings of childhood, we are adding to them. In the same way, any violence we consider against others inevitably contributes to the reservoir of hurt we carry within ourselves. When we are filled with hate for someone else, how do we feel? What does our body feel like? Whenever we judge another, when we name some quality or behavior in someone else as “enemy,” we usually tighten in aversion and hatred. We carry the tremendous pain of our own anger, we are closed and hard, and we hear only the echo of hurt and anger in our minds as it replays itself over and over. We feel internally battered each time the hatred or judgment arises within us. Our anger and judgments of others, said Thomas Merton, only invites more and more sorrow into our own hearts. “The weapon with which we would destroy the enemy,” he said, “must pass through our own heart to reach them.”

Our grandparents brought their sorrows to bear on our parents, and our parents in turn carried their pain into our family. How long will we hold our own anger, impatience, and violent judgments in our hearts and minds? When will we find the courage to be gentle and the wisdom to take a path of nonharming, so that we and our own children may begin to learn the ways of kindness, healing, and peace?

Gandhi said that “nonviolence is not a garment to be put on and off at will. Its seat is in the heart, and it must be an inseparable part of our being.” Whether in the Bhagavad-Gita of Gandhi, in Jesus’ prescription to love our enemies, or the vow of nonharming taught by the Buddha, each teaches that the way to healing and peace begins with gentleness and nonviolence toward ourselves or others.

We may begin to heal the violence of our judging mind by trying to practice nonharming. For a certain period of the day, we may dedicate ourselves to watching how many times we judge, criticize, or belittle our feelings or actions. Each time you notice that you are critical or judgmental in some way, consciously remake the vow not to use violence in any form. Watch how many times and in how many ways we bring harm to ourselves and our feelings.

Jamie, who was particularly adept at judging and criticizing herself, said she would try to take a vow of nonharming toward herself for an entire week. When I next saw her, she said she was amazed to see how often she was hurtful and unkind toward herself. “It was the busiest week I’ve ever spent,” she said. “I had no idea how much I get on my case about everything. But it was such a relief to notice it, and to try to let it go. Every once in a while, I could really just stop the war in my head, and it would get quiet and peaceful in here. It was great.”

Cultivating nonharming toward ourselves is a tremendous step toward allowing healing love into our broken hearts—especially for those of us who, feeling the sting of physical or emotional pain as children, have internalized much of that judgment and violence in our souls. We are so in need of mercy and care, and so clumsy in allowing it to be born in our own lives.

In the same way, as we work to cultivate a practice of nonharming toward others, we need tremendous courage to confront the atmosphere of violence that permeates our culture. Walter Murray, a friend and colleague, was the first black Affirmative Action officer at Vanderbilt University. When Walter and I were studying Gandhi’s satyagraha movement and its effects on the struggle for civil rights in the United States, he told me the following story:

One day we were preparing to join a civil rights march through Birmingham, Alabama at the height of the conflict between civil rights workers and the Birmingham police. We had prepared to march nonviolently through the city, but Bull Connor (the commissioner of public safety) had readied his men and dogs for a confrontation with the marchers. I took my place in line. Standing next to me was a close friend, a big football player, who marched next to his girlfriend, a small young woman who fit under his arm.

We started to march. As we walked, crowds gathered to shout at us and harass us. The crowds got bigger and started to become mean, and many of us were frightened of getting hurt, even killed. But we were committed to doing this without violence, no matter what happened. So we kept on marching.

Suddenly the police and the dogs were told to attack, and billy clubs were swinging everywhere around us. Right next to me and the football player, a policeman rushed up with his club and smacked the young woman in the head, and she just fell to the ground. The football player, who watched his girlfriend fall, looked straight at this cop. His eyes just looked deep into him for what seemed like a long time. And then this big football player, with his massive arms, reached down to pick up his girlfriend, take her in his arms, and kept on walking.

It was incredible, the strength and commitment he had. That was how we had to be; we knew we had to remain nonviolent. It was our only hope for change.

Mercy is one practice capable of effecting real change in a violent world. The gentle movements of truth and healing blossom only in the hearts of women and men dedicated to love, mutual respect, and nonviolence. Saint Francis, who dedicated his life to peace, taught his followers to attend to the quality of peace in their own lives as they worked for the healing of others. “While you are proclaiming peace with your lips, be careful to have it even more fully in your heart,” he said.

The Sufis say that real truth is always spoken with love, and that every word we speak must first pass through three gates: “At the first gate we ask ourselves, Are these words true?’ If so, we let them pass on. At the second gate we ask, Are they necessary?’ At the last gate we ask, Are they kind?’ ”

So must we ask ourselves, are we kind? Can we approach ourselves with kindness, may we be loving and gentle with ourselves, with our clumsiness, with our slowness to change, with our habits, with our tender hearts? Mohandas Gandhi, who dedicated his life to healing and peace, fervently believed that kindness, mercy, and nonharming were the only paths capable of healing the cause of violence itself—namely, the hardened, broken hearts of women and men:

My optimism rests on my belief in the infinite possibilities of the individual to develop nonviolence. The more you develop it in your own heart, the more infectious it becomes, till it overwhelms your surroundings and, by and by, might oversweep the world.

EXERCISE
Investigating the Judging Mind

This exercise has two parts. In the first, we will investigate the ways in which we are violent with ourselves. In the second part, we will begin to cultivate a practice of nonharming.

Plan to undertake this exercise for an entire day. You can do this any time, even on a day when you are at work, at home with your family, or on a trip. From the beginning of the day to the end of the evening, you will simply explore the ways in which you criticize, judge, or bring harm to yourself.

Beginning with the moment you get up in the morning, take the first half of the day to note every time you judge or criticize yourself for anything at all. Watch how often you judge yourself for being late, for how you look, or how you feel. Listen for how you criticize your performance and judge yourself in word and deed. Be aware of all the critical voices as they appear. You may silently say to yourself, “judging, judging” as each critical thought arises. How do they make you feel? Do they make you softer or tighter? Pay attention to what happens in your body when they are present. At this point, our purpose is not to eliminate these voices but to understand them with open, mindful attention.

Notice how often you judge yourself, even for the smallest things. Do the criticisms come a few times an hour? Every few minutes? Be aware of any periods without significant judgments. What happens to your body and heart when they are quiet?

You may begin to feel some discomfort or agitation as you become more aware of the litany of judgments that sometimes fills your waking hours. You may find yourself becoming angry, you may even experience some nausea as you become aware of the violence of such incessant abuse. This is the way you treat yourself every day. Listening to these judging voices without pushing them away, you can become aware of the extent of the constant criticisms that relentlessly bombard your heart and body.

After half the day has passed and you become familiar with the quality and frequency of these judgments, you may begin to cultivate a practice of nonharming. Take a moment to silently promise yourself that from this moment on, you will begin to practice nonharming in word, thought, and deed. Take a vow that you will cease to use any judgment or criticism to harm yourself in any way. If you discover yourself judging, simply stop, get quiet, take a breath, and retake the vow of nonharming. You may say, “I will not judge or hurt myself with thoughts or criticisms. I will now treat myself only with loving kindness.”

You may need to retake this vow a hundred times during the day before experiencing some relief. Be careful not to judge yourself for criticizing yourself—this simply keeps the judging mind occupied. Each time you notice a critical voice, simply reaffirm your promise of nonharming.

Pay attention to the quality of your experience each time you promise not to harm yourself. How does the promise affect your body? With every reaffirmation of the vow, do the periods between the judging voices gradually lengthen? As you practice inner nonviolence, what do you notice about your feelings toward yourself? What do you notice about how you feel toward others?

Cultivating nonharming is one of the most gently effective steps on a path of mercy, healing, and liberation. As the cacophony of judging voices slowly begins to recede, we make peace with ourselves, inviting a merciful compassion into our hearts, bodies, and spirits.

MEDITATION
Cultivating Mercy
(A Loving Kindness Meditation)

This meditation may be practiced at any time, and takes only a few moments. It is based on the Buddhist practice of metta, which is used to send loving kindness to all beings who inhabit the earth. With this exercise, we will practice sending loving kindness to ourselves.

Begin by arranging yourself in front of your table, in your place of refuge. Take time to relax and find a comfortable position, then gently close your eyes. Allow your awareness to rest in the breath, feeling the sensation of the rising and falling of each inhale and exhale. Use the breath to help you settle into your body, finding a place of belonging, a place you may rest inside.

Then gently say these words to yourself, or make a recording of these words and play them back:

May I dwell in the heart.
May I be healed.
May I be filled with love.
May I be free from suffering.
May I be happy.
May I be at peace.

Repeat each phrase slowly, using each breath to deepen the heart’s ability to listen, to hear each word. Allow yourself to soften, to receive the nurture and the warmth of loving kindness. Cradling yourself in your own care, you may whisper these phrases again and again, until you begin to feel a genuine sense of mercy and love for yourself.

This meditation prayer of loving kindness can become a part of your daily practice. With it, you may expand your practice of nonharming and cultivate a meditative awareness of yourself as a child of creation, a precious being receiving the gifts of mercy and love.