Magnanimity: Making Room for Others
Grant Gillard
Magnanimity: Making Room for Others
By Grant F.C. Gillard
Copyright 2013 Grant F.C. Gillard
It was my turn to make the coffee following worship for the Sunday morning hospitality hour, a simple task entrusted to even the most menially-challenged person.
I came in early on Saturday afternoon to set up the coffee maker with the water and the coffee grounds, so when the appropriate time arrived on Sunday morning, the only thing left was flipping a couple of switches and we were in business.
I pulled aside the two coffee makers, one for "real" coffee, the other one for its sisterly substitute, 'decaf.' I wanted to insure we had the real thing served for those who come to demand, expect, and require the chemical stimulant to negotiate the intellectual demands of the day.
After filling two coffee urns with water and grounds, I turned to my wife and said, “There. I'm finished. Let's go.”
“But what about cream and sugar?” she inquired.
“What about them?” I asked.
“You'll need to set out the creamer and the sugar.”
I sighed, then reached into the cupboard and found that brown jar of partially hydrogenated vegetable oils and an open bowl of hardened, refined sucrose. I never used the stuff and had come to despise the fakery that domesticated the inky bitterness and masked the rugged robustness of my favorite beverage. Why can't they just drink it black like the rest of us?
Scrutinizing the jar of creamer, my wife thoughtfully said, “You stay here. I'm going to run to the grocery store and buy a jar of the fat-free creamer. You know so many people pay attention to their cholesterol.”
They wouldn't have to if they exercised more, I thought to myself.
“And don't forget to set out the little blue and pink envelopes,” my wife encouraged. “You know Harvey monitors his blood sugar.” Turning to go, she stopped in mid-stride and added, “And what about the tea drinkers?”
I began to wonder why I brought my wife along. “What about them?” I responded.
“You'll want to put out an urn of hot water for the tea drinkers.”
“Really? We have tea drinkers?”
“Sure. Helen and Bob. Helen prefers the herbal tea. And it would be a nice touch if you made up a pitcher of ice tea. The tomorrow’s weather is supposed to be warm and a little on the humid side.”
“Sweetened or unsweetened tea?” I snorted under my breath.
“Both,” my wife suggested, matter-of-factly. I decided to leave the lemons out of this conversation.
“And while I'm at the store,” she contnued, “I'll pick up some sodas. I'll get some cola, and some without caffeine for the children. I'll also pick up some diet and regular soda. Anything else?”
“Maybe some apple juice for the kids,” I sarcastically suggested, “for the parents who don't want their children to have all that sugar. And while you're at it, how about some soy milk for the lactose intolerant?” My wife pretended not to notice as she turned to leave.
Well, Sunday arrived, and it looked as if we set a beverage smorgasbord to account for every taste, preference, and medical condition. Surprisingly, the fellowship we shared lasted much longer than usual. People had a great time, lingering in conversation, returning to fill their cup of tea or pour a second glass of soda. The extra work and inconvenience seemed worth the trouble.
As I reflected upon that experience, the cost of accommodating the tea and soda drinkers didn't take anything away from my coffee drinking pleasure. No one sought to convert me away from my caffeine addiction, nor toward any alternative beverage. We all drank the beverage of our choice, and the non-coffee drinkers felt a special inclusion. With my wife's insistence, we made room for the spectrum of tastes in our diverse group. I'm glad I agreed.
I began to wonder why we can't make more allowances in our culture and our society. Why don't we make room for the alternative dreamers and the participants outside the definitions of what constitutes mainstream? Why won't we expand the culturally homogeneous definitions of our churches, garden clubs, service organizations, and civic groups? Why can't we coexist in harmony rather than contentious dissonance? Perhaps the question isn't why, but how.
At the heart of this matter is the need for a spirit of magnanimity. To be a magnanimous person is to make room, to accept unconditionally, to generously include, being 'large minded' enough to tear down the barriers we erect to keep our organizations 'pure.'
A magnanimous spirit makes room for others that we may get to know them, to understand them. This spirit discovers the special gifts of others that enhances our own self-understanding and our self-determination. We discover those who are different are persons like us who weep in personal tragedy and sing in the joyous moments. They are people like us with hopes and dreams for a better world.
To make room for others is an exercise of mutuality and esteem. It dignifies, values, and honors people. It creates a place for someone else, and assures me that I'll always have a place, too.
If anything, magnanimity dispels the fear of difference. We make room for others who are different from ourselves and discover that the real enemy is not diversity and pluralism, but the paranoid fear and misperceptions within us that close the doors to personal relationships and self-discovery.
Remembering a day in the synagogue when Jesus came to Nazareth, the people were amazed and graciously effused how the hometown boy turned out to be a great preacher. But then Jesus adds three statements that turn the supportive crowd into an angry mob.
First, he tells them that a prophet is not accepted in his hometown. He insults their intelligence by saying they won't get it. They can't understand the implications of God's inclusiveness because they have always viewed themselves as God's elect, the chosen majority and preferential recipients of God's steadfast, but discriminating, love. It’s as if Jesus insinuates that they think they should be first in line for God’s blessings.
Then he continues with two more statements,
'But the truth is, there were many widows in Israel in the time of Elijah, when the heaven was shut up three years and six months, and there was a severe famine over all the land; yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow at Zarephath in Sidon. There were also many lepers in Israel in the time of the prophet Elisha, and none of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.' (Luke 4:25-27, NRSV)
Jesus instructs the crowd that God is making room for the foreigner, the leper, the widow, the poor. Ironically, Jesus pulls two stories from their childhood, stories known to all good and religiously significant people of that day. These stories show how God touched the lives of foreigners, even the enemies of Israel. They received God's gracious love when Israel was too hard of heart.
Jesus proclaimed the kingdom of God, the acceptable year of the Lord. “But, good and righteous Jewish people of Nazareth,” Jesus says, “don't fool yourself into thinking you've got this kingdom of God all sewn up. You don't have the monopoly on God's love. The kingdom of God is for everyone. God's love is not satisfied with a few of God's children. God wants all people to come to believe. No one is to be left out. It's time to make room.”
Naturally, this crowd began thinking, “Who does he think he is, telling us that God loves the prostitute, the drug addict, the criminals, the tax collectors, my deceitful in-laws, my unfaithful ex-spouse, my lying business partner, my back-stabbing boss, those people who disagree with us and always vote straight, party-line tickets in opposition to our ways?”
Yet Jesus maintains that God's love, the acceptable year of the Lord, has arrived. God's kingdom is here and God's magnanimous Spirit inclusively reaches the ones not of our group, the ones who are most unlike us in ever
y respect. This inclusion is hard to imagine, even harder to employ.
Many years ago, I went to the house of an elderly couple. The wife just died and I called on the surviving husband to prepare the funeral arrangements.
All her life, the wife was quite active in the church. Yet wild horses and dynamite couldn't move the husband to attend church. As we visited, I asked him about the last time he attended church.
He said the last time he was when, “THAT pastor brought THOSE people into the worship service.” Judging by his age, and the time frame of the pastor in question, he was talking about a single incident over forty years ago. Never mind that in the course of those four decades, five new pastors came and went. The husband was adamant. He wasn't going back into that church. Never mind THAT pastor was gone. Never mind THOSE people never came back to our church, the act had been committed.
He held a grudge against that pastor, and even I caught some of his acrimony as we planned his wife's funeral service. But his argument wasn't really against the church, or the pastor, as much as it was against God. Through Jesus Christ, God avails grace and mercy to anyone humble enough to accept it, even the commoner and the foreigner, even our enemies, even THOSE people.
The people in that synagogue weren't ready to hear Jesus proclaim a message of salvation for anyone, who, irrespective of race or nationality, believed and accepted God's gracious mercy. They wanted Jesus to define the characteristics of an exclusive club, a restricted membership for people who walk and talk just like us, those who keep their yards mowed and their cars in the garage, who work at respectable jobs to pay their bills and send their children to the finer schools.
Jesus told the people of Nazareth he had good news, and he had bad news. The good news is there's a train leaving for the Promised Land. There's release for the captives and sight for the blind. But there’s also bad news. The bad news is that you're not the only ones riding this train. And those other passengers are people you likely wouldn't expect to be on this train. But surprise, God loves them, too. God has made room for them.
And if you feel you, seated in First Class, of course, can separate yourselves from the riffraff seated in commercial class by that thin curtain surreptitiously guarded by the stewardess, Jesus said there's no First Class seating. There's no curtain. There's no privileged fare. We're all in this together headed for the same destination. It was enough to cause a mutiny or a high-jacking.
Yet even today, our religion contains groups of people that emphasize holiness and purity as the foundation of their Christianity. They love to judge and draw sharp boundaries between whom they deem righteous from those who they believe are unredeemably sinful.
They're mentally booking reservations on the Brimstone Express, gleefully warning the travelers to pack their asbestos underwear. They exclude entire groups of society with the justification of a few selected passages of Scripture.
An interpretation of Scripture faithful to Jesus relates to our society through acts of compassion, not demands for purity and conformity. Our faithful witness to Jesus Christ makes room for those who are not part of our group. To make room is to affirm our belief in the communion of the saints, to celebrate the fellowship of all the people of God.
God told us, then showed us, through the life and ministry of Jesus Christ how God is making room for those who desire to be part of a community of faith, just as room was made for us some time ago. Do you remember who took you in, invited and welcomed you unconditionally?
God offers us a gracious fellowship and helps us to know and understand we are loved, just as we are, so that we in turn can love others. We understand God's love when we make room for others, especially those different from us. When we make room for others, we know what it means for God to make room for us.
An old rabbi was instructing his students, and he asked the question, “How do you know when night turns into day?” One of his students offered, “When you look out into the field, and you can tell if the animal is a sheep or a dog.” The old rabbi shook his head.
Another student said, “Is it when you look at a tree and you can tell if the fruit is an orange or a fig?” The old rabbi shook his head again.
“You are both wrong,” he said. “Night turns into day when you look at a person and you know in your heart that the person is your brother or your sister.”
Jesus announced new day was dawning, for all of God's people in that little
town of Nazareth, that a God is making room in the kingdom for all of God’s people. Can you tell the night is past?
