"A Portrait of the Magnanimous Man.
The magnanimous man does not take petty risks, nor does he court danger, because there are few things he values highly; but he takes great risks, and when he faces danger he is unsparing of his own life, because to him there are some circumstances in which it is not worth living. He is disposed to confer benefits, but he is ashamed to accept them, because the one is the act of a superior, and the other that of an inferior. When he repays a service, he does so with interest, because in this way the original benefactor will become his debtor and beneficiary. People of this kind are thought to remember the benefits they have conferred, but not those they have received (because the beneficiary is inferior to the benefactor, and the magnanimous man wants to be superior) - and to enjoy being reminded of the former, but not of the latter. Another mark of the magnanimous man is that he never, or only reluctantly, makes a request, whereas he is eager to help others. He cannot bear to live in dependence upon somebody else, except a friend, because such conduct is servile. He is not prone to express admiration, because nothing is great in his eyes."
So goes Aristotle's great ethical teaching. He has described what is to him the most perfect human being ever: one who practices perfect virtue. One who is in every way great. One who is noble, one who acts with distinction in every situation, one who never makes the wrong decision, or speaks out of turn, or gets something on their chin, or dresses inappropriately for the weather. One who always seems to have it all together. A pillar of the community. The Magnanimous Human.
When I first heard this quote read, it was by my High School English teacher. I sat there in class, and--I have to admit, that for a high school student such as I was, essentially a parcel of insecurities wrapped in a very biodegradable sense of identity--the magnanimous man sounded like exactly what I was looking for. I wanted to be liked and respected very highly. I wanted to be looked up to for my greatness. I wanted to be superior to everyone else in every way... and I'd bet that just about everyone else in that class wanted to be superior to me, too.
And there *is* something that feels very superior about Aristotle's portrait. Aristotle's fame has lasted a long time... I wouldn't be surprised if there were many people who find his description to be alluring.
Now you may wonder what all this has to do with 1 Corinthians 13. Here is a beautiful passage by Paul about love, probably one of the most famous of the Bible. Usually we read it at weddings, as a description of the most wonderful thing in our lives, a text which reminds us of the amazing love we have experienced with and for one another. We read it at these weddings as a kind of foretaste of what is to come--this couple's love will be so patient, and so kind, envying nothing. We confer this text upon a couple like a blessing on their united lives, and as a confirmation of the lifestyles of all those who hear it. For we imagine that as we read it, recognizing all its truth and beauty, God looks down upon us and smiles a beneficent smile, and says, "Yes."
When Calvin read this passage, here's what he wrote about it. He said, "I have no doubt that Paul intended this passage to reprimand the Corinthians in an indirect way, by confronting them with a situation quite the reverse of their own, so that they might recognize their own faults by contrast with what they saw."
That is to say, in Calvin's understanding, we read this passage--and God looks down upon us, and smiles a beneficent smile, and says... "Keep trying."
If we want to read this passage as Calvin did, perhaps Aristotle can be of some help to us. Because as I read his description of the Magnanimous Human, there really is some part of me that thinks: "How wonderful to be that person!" and "How wonderful to be so high, and so morally superior!" But to the extent that we chase after Aristotle's vision of respect and superiority, we fall away from Paul's description of Christian love.
Listen to some of the differences, as I place some of these phrases side-by-side.
- Aristotle writes, "the Magnanimous Man wants to be superior." Paul writes, "Love does not seek its own advantage."
- Aristotle says the Magnanimous Man is "disposed to confer benefits, but is ashamed to accept them." Paul says, "Love is never jealous, nor boastful, nor conceited."
- Aristotle writes, "The Magnanimous Man is not prone to express admiration, because nothing is great in his eyes." Paul says, "We know only imperfectly... and the greatest of all things is love."
- Aristotle says, "When he repays a service, he does so with interest." Paul says that I can give everything I own, even my own body--but if I do not do it in love, it is worth nothing.
When I hold these two descriptions against each other, I can feel the difference between them--and I can understand what Calvin is talking about, too. Because Paul's words sound beautiful, so wonderful... but I probably live more of my life based on Aristotle. I probably spend more time counting my favors, giving so that I get back, balancing out my debts and my gifts with the people around me. When I read Paul now, I can really feel the difference between what I usually do--which I thought was okay--and how I am actually called to live.
The great talent of philosophers is that they are able to describe us, as humans: how it is that we are naturally inclined to think. They tell us what our human nature is; they put into words the things that we have all been thinking and feeling anyway. But the difference between that and a theologian is that a theologian is most concerned with telling us what God wants us to be--and what God wants may have very little to do with our natural, everyday habits. What God wants may not be the easiest way of living. But our reading from Paul began, "set your mind on the higher gifts."
If, in this instance, we wanted to boil down the difference between Aristotle and Paul, it might well all be condensed in that word "gift."
Aristotle's image of perfection is a person who always gives more and better than she receives... and makes it a point of pride to do so. Paul writes about a person who loves to give, yes--but whose giving is entirely dependent upon a gift that was first received.
It would seem, then, that if we are to practice Christianity, instead of Philosophy, one thing we might do to grow closer to God would be to cultivate the talent of receiving gracefully. How can we learn to receive more gracefully?
If you think this is a silly question, all you have to do is go into a restaurant, wait until the bill comes, and then watch people argue over who is going to pick up the tab. A furtive hand will sneak across the table. "Oh, no you don't," the other one says, catching a glimpse of this out of the corner of their eye. They take it and pull it towards themselves. "You got the last one. This one is mine."
"No, I asked you here. Please, let me."
"No, really," the second says more gently now: "I owe you."
"Well, then... you'll let me get the next one," the loser finally concedes, and begins instantly to scan his mental calendar for dates when the other might be free for a dinner of some extravagance. "When he repays a service, he does so with interest," Aristotle is whispering somewhere in their heads.
I'm not saying this repartee is a bad thing at all. It's mostly playful--I engage in it myself. But I do think that it points out this general reluctance we feel, either as a culture or as a society or simply as human beings, to accept gifts gracefully. Which is not necessarily a problem, at all times, except for this: I don't believe that it is possible to be a Christian unless one can, on some level, receive a gift that it is impossible to repay.
I just recently visited a friend of mine in Sri Lanka. His parents worked in the civil service, in low-level administration jobs. But they wanted him to get the best education money could buy. So they mortgaged their house to send him to an elite international prep school. And eventually, they lost their home and moved into a small apartment. And in his Senior year--Upper Sixth Form in the British system--he got straight A's on his Advanced Level tests and he got into Cambridge University in England--the Harvard of the UK. But he got only a partial scholarship. So he couldn't go. And his family's educational dreams were, in a sense, over.
He never told me exactly why, but from that time onward he and his parents never really got along. I don't know if they didn't know how to give a gift, or if he didn't know how to receive one, or if there was some other thing going on between them. But I wonder, to myself, if we couldn't find Aristotle lurking in some corner of the story. When a noble person receives a gift, he repays it with interest. When he cannot, he is ashamed.
So his love for his parents erodes.
But Paul tells us to strive for the higher gifts--strive to receive the best gifts of all.
Get rid of Aristotle! Let go of that philosophy, and with it the part of you that is afraid of being inferior. Let go of the pride of believing that you can be self-sufficient, dependent on nothing. It is not possible to be a Christian unless we can each, on some level, in some way, begin to accept the greatest of gifts, which cannot ever be repaid.
"Strive for the higher gifts," Paul says: "and I will show you a still more excellent way."
What is the most excellent gift? Christian love. Christ's love for us--freely offered. We cannot repay it, and we cannot send it back. So what can we do? How can we receive such a gift? All we can do, the best we can do, the highest response we can offer in return is to accept it, allow it, welcome it, remember it, and USE it... and love Jesus, with all our hearts and all God's grace, for it.
That's essentially what worship is, and what we are all doing here. We gather as a community, thanking God. We sing songs of praise, and are light in heart. Flying in the face of Aristotle, we choose to live in dependence upon God; we see no burden in accepting this gift, and no shame--but we believe there is something greater than ourselves, and we express admiration for it in every way we know how, and we love God with all our heart, and soul, and mind, and strength. Because when given a gift that is this great, the Excellent Christian celebrates and rejoices. And this is a noble calling indeed.
I don't know how your pew Bibles entitle this passage, but with a nod to Aristotle I want to suggest that you think of 1 Corinthians 13 as A Portrait of the Excellent Christian. And if you are someday sitting at church, or in a Bible Study, or at a wedding--sitting there, as we are now, imperfect things and full of insecurities--and if you hear these words read, I hope they will have as much of an impact upon you as Aristotle once did upon me. And I hope that when you hear them, they take root in some corner of your heart, and you find yourself nodding, and wanting to live in that kind of love, and aching to dwell in that kind of peace, and thinking about striving for the higher gifts. For no matter where we are in our lives, Paul speaks to show us a still more excellent way:
A Portrait of the Excellent Christian:
Though I speak with the tongues of humans or of angels, but have not love, I am nothing.
Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious, or boastful, or arrogant, or rude.
It does not insist on its own way, but it rejoices in the truth.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.
When I was a child, I believed like a child... but now that I am grown, I have put away childish things.
For now we see as in a glass, dimly--
but then, we shall see face to face.
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