Not God.

We get all riled up when it’s done to us, as if the greatest injustice were committed against us. But we hardly feel a thing when we do so to others, and worse, a sense of self-righteous pride swells up within.

It’s so easy to judge people, sometimes. And if there’s any sin I could be most guilty of, it’d have to be judging others.

Being in hospital exposes one to all sorts of characters. Our special positions give us access to the most intimate histories of people- their social lives, their sexual histories, the number of wives they have… And oh, how that makes for juicy, colourful gossip and material for self-righteous tut-tutting behind closed doors.

Oh my gosh, did you see his second wife kick up a fuss over his operation? Check this out, he’s a drug trafficker and an ex-prisoner! Ha, did you hear about (whisper)… he’s a SHE!

As if passing on the news weren’t bad enough, we throw in a spicy comment here, another there, and pass our judgements on the drug addict with terminal liver cancer from lifelong alcoholism, whose wife just divorced him- Well, with a husband like that, even I would leave him! , the young man with gonnorrhea- Oh groossss. And to think he denies his sexual history! or the trans-sexual patient in the female ward with an obvious moustache across her face, whom everyone passes by with a snigger or two.

We laugh because we think we’re better. We judge because we think they deserve it.

And it goes on.

I had a slap in the face one day when a friend told me the truth- “Wai Jia, don’t be so judgemental. You’re passing your own moral standards on others. Don’t judge.” It dawned upon me just how terribly judgemental I really am and can be, how insensitive some of the verbalised thoughts I had really were, how terrible a trait that was and is. She got married at what?! He did what?!

But who was I to think I was better, just because I, by God’s grace, hadn’t walked that path. Did I not see the strength and courage someone else had to walk through the darker path?

It was Erla* who taught me this lesson, a lesson I am still trying to learn now. All the medical students, doctors, and nurses had heard about her- her who looked like a him. She was a patient in the female ward, with a short boyish haircut, a biker jacket and a moustache. They all appeared to treat her fairly and cordially, but behind the doors, there were inevitable sighs of incredulity, sniggers and scoffs.

For the past few years, Erla has been injecting herself with testosterone.

Medical students spend much of their time in hospitals interviewing patients to learn about their medical conditions. I was certain that no one approached her. I had her at the bottom of my list- and it was perhaps a twist of fate that all the other patients on my list were sleeping, occupied or unavailable- leaving me to face my own prejudices in the eye. I took the leap, and interviewed Erla and her family. I tried my best. And they taught me much.

Her mother kept saying how sorry she was, how beautiful and special Erla was, how much she had failed Erla in so many ways. Erla kept silent, filling up the feedback form commenting how lovely the ward nurses and doctors were, and simply nodded when asked if she wanted to be normal, a woman the way she was born.

They showed me what humanity was- the complexity and intricacies of struggle and war, between faith and despair, regret and hope, religion and individuality, family and freedom. They showed me what patience, understanding and hope was. And most importantly, they taught me how human they were, and how I had no right to judge their situation.

It’s one thing to make a stand for what is right and to hate evil, but altogether another to pass a judgement. It’s so easy to criticise a missionary for being a seeming hypocrite, when we catch a glimpse of them dressed well at an event. But did we know that the suit was a gift, and his only one too? Did we know that the watch was passed down, the shoes bought at a discount?

My squirmish reaction to many things won’t evaporate in a day. It won’t happen overnight, I’m sure. Yet, even that helps me to stay grounded- to know that I need a divine grace from above to repent of my own puffed-up weakness of judging others. What makes me think my sin is lesser than theirs.

A judgement is telling of one’s pride, one’s nauseating self-righteousness. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have chosen that path had I been through the same set of circumstances? And perhaps it is one’s ego that keeps one from realising how it’s God’s grace and His grace only that any of us are spared from the clutches of sin and decadence.

When the son of God walked the earth, he loved us all, prostitutes and tax collectors, sinners and repenters.

Perhaps when we judge, we are far worse than any of those whom we judge in the first place, because when we judge, we forget God. We assume His place instead.

And so I walk each day with a deeper sense of humility, in knowing my own frailty and weakness. By myself, I cannot, but with God, I can see through His eyes and see someone else with His eye, His love. By myself, I cannot, and perhaps it helps much to know that we are all sinners saved by grace, and to remind myself that I’m just…

… not God.