One evening more than ten years
ago in the parking lot of a rural Connecticut church, I was about to leave with
the youth group, when a stranger about 12 years old walked over to us, gave us
a hard luck story, and asked for some cash. His apparent mother, not appearing
prosperous, stood within sight by her idling car. I felt awkward. Here was
another situation, not unlike many that I faced in Manhattan and Hartford, in
which I sensed a scam. To be honest, and perhaps this confession will
disappoint you, my first reaction to all requests for a quick handout is
suspicious, even cynical. Yet, in front of the young people I wanted to appear
to be a kinder, gentler person than I am. As their pastor, I hoped to model
truly Christian behavior. A youngster in the group took me aside and pointed
out that the young stranger was wearing very expensive leather boots, was
otherwise dressed casually but quite well, and that the idling car was a recent
model - realities that had escaped me. I told the young hopeful of his peer's
observations, that, even so, he might need assistance, but that we would not be
able to help him. I referred him to the local social service agency.
Predictably, as he grumped away, he muttered that he thought this was a church,
in other words, an easy target. The youth group learned that Christian
neighborliness and compassion do not mean being "conned!" [I have attached to
copies of this sermon placed at the rear of the church an article by the rector
of Vero Beach in which he writes, "Con artists love Christians. We are their
preferred targets. Churches make great places for a hustler to find a buck.
Especially on Sunday morning." I commend his article to you.]
A related incident comes to
mind. That small rural parish, St. Paul's, was then struggling to survive; I
had been called to serve as part-time pastor while teaching full-time. We were
routinely deluged with requests for financial contributions from a multitude of
public, ecumenical, and Episcopal agencies. Exasperated, I wrote to our
national church headquarters for a rationale to respond to the repeated,
legitimate requests from so many secular and church sources. Moreover, I had
hoped that such counsel would also help me make personal decisions about
similar requests in my own mail. Much to my disappointment, I received only a
simplistic, aggravating, unhelpful, pious platitude that Jesus commanded us to
love our neighbor, who is everybody.
Undoubtedly, Jesus did teach:
"You shall love your neighbor as yourself" from the biblical book of
Leviticus (19:18). As an inner response to God's sovereign deeds of
kindness and benevolence, Christ's followers are to walk in the way of
humanitarian love, compassion, and justice. Yet, it is fair to ask who
specifically the neighbor is that we are commanded to love. Why is "neighbor"
in the singular, and why doesn't the commandment simply say "others" or
"everybody?" Jesus had such words at his command. Does the parable of the Good
Samaritan resolve the definition of "neighbor?"
In the Old Testament "neighbor"
generally means a fellow Israelite, including fellow Jews and resident aliens -
someone living nearby. While not defining "neighbor," the parable of the Good
Samaritan is a significant contribution to our ongoing conversation with the
Bible about this concern. We know that the Jews and Samaritans share a common
heritage. However, important differences in beliefs and traditions had led to
mutual animosity well before the time of Christ. When Jesus made a hero of a
member of this despised people, when he brought together goodness and a
Samaritan's assistance to the wounded victim, Jesus forced his hearers to think
the unthinkable: that one's neighbor can include outsiders, regardless of
class, culture, racial and national heritage, or apparent worthiness. This
parable shatters the parochial restrictions of the customary neighborhood;
Jesus opened the whole matter of one's neighbor for reconsideration as his
disciples faced various situations.
Throughout the ages Christians
have interpreted their neighborhood in various ways, sometimes including the
entire cosmos, sometimes all living creatures, other times all humankind, or,
at other times some or all persons with whom one comes into face-to-face
contact. Without a clear-cut, absolute New Testament definition of "neighbor,"
it is up to the prayerful conscience of each Christian to determine at any
given time the extent of one's neighborhood, that is, the specific persons to
love - with the personal responsibilities active love may call for in
concrete situations.
A word of caution as you and I
determine our neighborhoods: We do need to avoid an abstract and impersonal
"love for people in general," which is more convenient than loving a specific
individual near by. There are people that supposedly "love" humanity, but who
love no one in particular. I'm reminded of a chaplain who told me about a
monastic group which just loves the whole universe, but found it next to
impossible for its members to love each other face-to-face. This universal love
automatically involving everyone seems to be implied in John Donne's popular
sentiment; while to be sure "no man is an island," its opposite - that whenever
the bell tolls for anyone anywhere, it tolls for thee - is, it seems to me, a
sentimental, poetic overstatement.
However "neighbor" is
understood, I am convinced that Christians should never be hard-hearted or
indifferent to anyone. No person anywhere is to be regarded as a "thing," but
as deserving dignity, peace, and justice. Every human being is worthy of the
invitation to the new, baptized life in Christ. No less than an inclusive
empathy and compassion for all human beings would seem to be a right
disposition for Christian people. Yet, this inclusivity does not rule out the
need for confrontation and combat with evil, as our wonderful final hymn today
reminds us.
Back to St. Paul's Parish and
my personal quandary about neighbors: how did we as a struggling parish resolve
the extent of our neighborhood; were we called to love equally - and hold
ourselves responsible for - a planetary neighborhood? Should we focus only on
our own survival? And, what about the individual appeals from worthy charities
that I was receiving? Let me start with my own response. I had already attached
a sign beneath the doorbell of my home: "No surveys, salespersons, charities,
or evangelists," and my phone number was unlisted. Ever the novice philosopher,
I reasoned that the neighbor we love the most (and had primary responsibility
for) is one's "significant other(s)." This, the closest of human bonds, might
be among some nuns living in spiritual intimacy or one's spouse, companion, or
partner. This is one of the few persons to whom one would willingly and without
a moment's hesitation offer one's kidney for transplant.
Next in an expanding
neighborhood are those we consider family. I would suggest that our family is
not necessarily our legal relatives, nor the advertised automobile company's
so-called "family," nor - as I noticed this week on the Internet - the
"Microsoft Windows Family!" Instead our families are those with whom we would
truly prefer to spend birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, individuals
with whom we share life in intimate, mutual affection (regardless of
geography), people for whom we would assume financial support if needed.
With sometimes fuzzy borders
between the neighborhoods of family and friends - we willingly respond to a
friend's 3 AM telephone call for help. True friends delight in each other's
achievements and joys; they share their sorrows. In the words of a plaque I
have in my home, "Friendship is the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of
feeling safe with a person having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,
but pouring all right out just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain
that a faithful friendly hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth
keeping and with a breath of comfort, blow the rest away." Another word on the
neighborhood of friends: Two men who had been at a local pub for a bit too
long. Arms around each other, they were professing their affectionate
friendship for each other. Suddenly Ivan said to Peter, "Peter, tell me, what
hurts me?" Bleary-eyed, Peter responded, "How do I know what hurts you?" Ivan's
answer was swift: "If you don't know what hurts me, how can you say you're my
friend?" The actual friends in our neighborhoods might be few.
For me, significant others,
family, and friends are the most important in my neighborhood. Yet, I find that
other human bonds are on occasion neighborly as well. Acquaintances and
associates have their own fine qualities as do the various communities we are
attached to near and afar. Look at the wonderful response of so many
individuals who responded in such a neighborly way to victims of the Florida
fires! It would be interesting to know whether anyone was helped by someone
they would ordinarily despise.
And, of course, there is
humanity everywhere, perhaps sensitive creatures elsewhere in this or other
universes. The extent to which they are neighbors that we actively love,
for whom any of us might have available emotional, spiritual and material
resources, will depend on the circumstances of the moment. This general,
flexible model of identifying one's neighbor at particular times and in varying
places seemed to work well at St. Paul's, too, as we necessarily developed our
parish priorities.
My fellow parishioners, I would
hope that Christian congregations would recognize themselves as communities of
neighbors; as such, members could determine their range of neighborly
responsibilities to each other. Would that members of all Christian
congregations become to one another no less than a neighborhood of family,
friends, even caring acquaintances! However, we are reminded that, like the
Samaritan, those whom we have been taught to dislike, even despise, might
become neighbors to us; for, all sorts and conditions of people have been
invited by Christ to full membership in the covenant community. Are you and I
prepared to discover that our neighbors in Christ - whether in this place or
beyond - might be our own versions of a Samaritan?