I’m not a Christian.
But I was one, long ago, and for much of my adult life. A true believer was I, and I mean that sincerely. I even attended and graduated from a small, evangelical (read: Fundamentalist) college way back when. Mind you, I wasn’t raised that way. (Although my dear grandmother tucked me in at night with Bible stories when I was a child, overnight visits with my grandparents were infrequent due to distance.) My parents raised me in an environment that, while decidedly not unfriendly to Christian or Buddhist or Jewish or Islamic or “Anything” thought or practice, was profoundly averse to mindless dogma, and quite open to intelligent contemplation and discourse. But who can predict a young man’s path?
For what it’s worth, I do know that many evangelically-minded folks will attempt the observation that, since I no longer confess Christianity — or it’s Americanized, “my personal Lord and Savior” brand — obviously I was never a true believer to begin with. For those who prefer John Calvin’s “TULIP”, (the last petal being the perseverance of the saints, or “Once saved, always saved”), the predestination theology requires that either I had never been a Christian, or that I have, for the moment, lost my way, and will return to the fold before I croak. One can only hope that one is not a hapless spider, eh?
A different doctrinal option grants me enough free will to make my own choices, which allows for a genuine conversion experience, but also enough free will to take it back. Theoretically, that tug o’ war could go on until I suck my last breath. Most assuredly, not the kinds of choices I wish to make in perpetuity.
There is yet another, non-theological option that does a fairly good job of explaining my Christian experience, but I’ll leave the years-long process of my conversion/un-conversion for another time and essay. For the time being, let’s veer from that particular path, label the road signs “Deism”, and move on.
Regardless, Christianity beckoned while I was in Navy boot camp, preparing to go to Vietnam. The call — to Christ, not the Navy — was, to my simple, sincere thinking, earnestly and duly answered, and for the next couple of decades, I followed Jesus. The nub of this little discourse is an attempt to recognize something rather plain, which exists in spite of, or whether or not one believes Jesus was the Son of God, (and was or is, therefore, Everything the Christian Church Universal, says He was or is), there are words and actions attributed to Jesus that are, at the very least, facts of tradition. One is not required to believe Jesus said the actual words or performed the actual actions (miracles) in order to acknowledge something that has been passed to us through generations of traditional practice. One is simply recognizing what is, and from whence it came. Christian tradition claims to have faithfully handed down much of what Jesus said to His followers. And a significant amount (perhaps the larger part?) of those words were devoted to how we regard and behave toward each other. The simplest among us is able to divine the common thread within the fabric:
Treat your neighbor as you wish to be treated.
But Jesus never said treating a neighbor as you want to be treated was dependent upon religion — your neighbor’s or your own — or, for that matter, upon any kind of condition whatsoever. Such regard exists beyond and far above the concept of religion. That unadorned notion of consideration and esteem for another person is, if you care to believe Jesus, our highest, demonstrable calling, and as such, the baseline testament of our true beliefs; not the stuff we say, but the stuff we do.
This notion of treating our neighbor as we wish to be treated has deep roots. As a matter of fact, according to the Old Testament, those roots are deeply fixed in dirt that precedes both Judaism and Christianity. The book of Genesis tells us that Cain, the first-born son of Adam and Eve, murdered his brother, Abel. When God confronted Cain as to Abel’s whereabouts, Cain’s cold, smart-ass response was, “I don’t know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”
The answer is obvious. It could be said the Bible — in its entirety — is a very long and woebegone record of humanity’s desperate inability to correctly answer that simple question.
Am I my brother’s keeper?
Apparently God thinks, “Damn straight you are.”
Well then, and just for argument’s sake, let’s assume that’s exactly the case, and ask the obvious question: Who is my brother?
Ah, back to Jesus.
This whole thing came about because someone asked, “Jesus, how do I inherit eternal life?” Jesus turned the question back on the guy, “What have you heard?” At this point, the guy recites his catechism about loving the Lord God to the “Nth” degree, and your neighbor, and blah, blah, blah. Jesus, recognizing the meaningless, rote memorization, acknowledges the accuracy of the response, and — truly, you can almost see Jesus walking away and adding, over his shoulder — “Right. Go do that and you’ll live. See y’ later.” But then the guy — and here you can almost see him first nod and smile, then quickly frown as his stupidity comes front and center — “Hey, not so fast! Who’s my neighbor?”
All I can say is it’s a good thing Lou Costello wasn’t one of the disciples standing around.
Anyway . . .
Jesus then tells the parable of the good Samaritan. His point throughout was very simple, but very few ever seem to get it, at least in practice. If the most important thing in the universe is to love God to the absolute best of your ability? Well, anybody can say, “Okay, I do that every day. No big deal.” I mean, think about it. Who would know if you did or if you didn’t. It’s not as if God goes around complaining about who does or doesn’t.
But . . .
If the measure of your love for God is dependent upon something else? Maybe something a bit more palpable? Verifiable? Demonstrable?
There you have it. Jesus simply let it be known, how we care for our neighbor . . . perhaps one could say how we keep our brother . . . is a direct manifestation of our love for God.
So, to answer the question, “Who is my neighbor?”
Again, the answer is obvious.
If you care to believe Jesus?
Your neighbor is everyone but you.
