Show a Little Dignity

A clear and gentle answer turns aside testiness by Gordon MacDonald
Years ago I met a man who spoke of becoming enmeshed in a "multi-personed conflict" that spun out of control. An aggressive spirit of hate and vengeance saturated the attitudes and conduct of everyone involved.
When I asked how he resolved the mess, he mentioned a friend who confronted him and said, "Someone has to show a little dignity in this thing. It really should start with you." Apparently, it was the perfect rebuke, and it caused this man rethink his behaviour and bring some sanity to the situation.
I've never forgotten that unusual phrase—to show a little dignity—and whenever I've faced testy situations where the next word or the next deed would either fan the flame of conflict or spread the oil of peace, the reminder that my dignity is in play has been helpful.
Testy situations? Here's a real-world example.
A few days ago, I was at Boston's Logan Airport to fly to Chicago. At the boarding-pass counter, I ran into a problem. When the boarding-pass lady looked up my reservation, she discovered that I was scheduled to fly, not out of Boston, but from Manchester, New Hampshire, which is 50 miles to the north. That's a long distance when a plane is supposed to leave in an hour.
"Do you think you could solve my problem?" I asked. I pointed out that the airline had a Boston-to-Chicago flight leaving Logan at the exact same time. It seemed a good idea to me, I said, if she could put me on that plane. I also added a word about how happy that would make me. Happy is how I usually feel when someone sees a problem my way and especially when my mistakes are covered with little or no consequence.
The boarding-pass lady said she could do that. But there was a consequence: an extra $360 added to the price of my ticket.
"$360?" I said, shocked and starting to think defensively. "I'm a 100k customer on your airline. I give you guys a lot of my business. Can't you just get me on the flight for free as a courtesy?"
Everything I said made perfect sense to me. But not to the boarding-pass-lady.
"I'm afraid I can't. Those are the rules," she said.
The testy situation had reached its decisive moment. Even though this problem had originated with my forgetfulness, a part of me, not made of God, felt depreciated, blown off, victimised by a big company that seemed to put a monetary value on every transaction. This part of me quickly began to see the problem as the company's fault, not mine. As a result, this ungodly part of me wanted to say something sarcastic (about friendly skies, for example) that would hurt the other person as I felt hurt. Hurting her would help me to feel that I'd hurt the rest of the company , , , all the way up to the CEO. Perhaps she'd call and tell him how I felt so that his day would be ruined like mine was about to be ruined.
But another part of me remembered—just in time—the story about acts and words that reveal dignity. For a second or two I sorted out which of these two parts of me would control this situation. And that made all the difference.
I said to boarding-pass lady, "Before I pay you the $360, let me say one more thing. Six weeks ago I came here to take a flight to the West Coast and discovered that the airline had cancelled the flight and hadn't told me. They said they were sorry, and I forgave them.
"Then two weeks later, on a flight to Europe, the airline lost my luggage (for two days). They said they were really, really sorry. And, again, I forgave them.
"Last week, on a third flight, they got me to my destination two hours late. Your people fell all over themselves saying how sorry they were about the delays. And you know what? I forgave them again. Now here I am—fourth time in six weeks—wanting to fly with you again. See how forgiving I am?
"But this morning the problem's mine. I forgot that I scheduled myself out of the other airport. And I am really, really sorry that I made this terrible mistake.
"You guys have said 'sorry' to me three times in the last six weeks, and, each time I have forgiven you. Now I would like to say 'sorry' to you and ask you to forgive me and put me on that flight without charging me the $360. You have three 'sorries,' and now I'm asking for one. Does that make any sense to you?"
The boarding-pass lady took her own time-out and considered my idea and then said, "It really does make sense to me. Let me see what I can do."
She typed and typed and typed into her computer—as if she was writing a novella—and then looked up with a smile. "We can do this," she said. Two minutes later I was off to the gate with my boarding pass.
That morning dignity won. The airline forgave me. The skies were indeed friendly. I didn't have to pay an extra $360.
This increasingly crowded, noisy world is generating more and more of these kinds of moments where no one is really doing something bad … just stupid (me, in this case). But because our human dignity is eroded by these constant clashes, even our innocent mistakes point to the possibility for hateful exchanges and vengeful acts. You have to keep alert lest you get sucked into saying and doing things that you'll regret an hour later.
Ignatius wrote to the Ephesians: "Allow (the pagans) to learn a lesson at least from your works. Be meek when they break out in anger, be humble against their arrogant words, set your prayers against their blasphemies; do not try to copy them in requital. Let us show ourselves their brethren by our forbearance and let us be zealous to be imitators of the Lord."
You know what? I think Ignatius would have chuckled at my story and my quest for dignity. Perhaps he might even have used it as a sermon illustration. I know I'm going to.