Neighborism

“I think Renee’s advice to us right now would be to take care of ourselves, care for our neighbors. Receive care from our neighbors, rest and eat, and play and show up.” — Annie Ganger at a memorial service for her sister, Renee Good

"All you need to do is just practice mindfulness to unlock that box where you have kept peace and happiness inside and locked it up and then left it somewhere. Now it's your job. It's your duty, to find it and unlock it. You're the only one who can do this, not the venerable monks, not the reverends, nor anybody else, but you." — Venerable Bhikkhu Paññākāra

“The only thing more powerful than hate is love.” — Bad Bunny

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

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“Logger with a Big Heart an Example for All to Follow,” Ron Joseph, Portland Press Herald, February 3, 2026:

When Greg Drummond learned that Marilynn, an impoverished, visually impaired elderly neighbor in Highland Plantation, near Sugarloaf Mountain, had been sold a pickup load of wet, rotting firewood, his face reddened with anger. “Marilynn,” he said, “I’m loading my pickup truck with seasoned firewood. I’ll deliver it to you within an hour.”

After replacing the rotting wood in her shed with a load of dry beech, rock maple and yellow birch, a minor argument ensued.

“You’re not paying me,” he told Marilynn. “Pat and I have ample firewood to heat our home and lodge.”

Photo by Tassilo Gröper on Unsplash

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I am learning a new word: “neighborism.” Maybe we all are. It took the siege of Minneapolis to give birth to the word, but surely neighborism is a concept that’s been around for a long time. Maybe as long as human history. Greg Drummond, in caring for his elderly neighbor who had been swindled and left to try to heat her house with wood that wouldn’t burn well, was practicing neighborism. People do that sort of thing all the time.

When we first moved here 19 years ago, my spouse and I were out shoveling our driveway after one particularly large snowstorm. Out of nowhere, a man appeared with a snowblower. He gestured for us to stand aside while he traipsed up and down our driveway, completely clearing all the snow. And then, snowblower engine still roaring, he simply headed down the street and out of sight.

“Who was that?” I asked my husband. I figured he might know. I was working long hours and was hardly ever in the neighborhood; he had a writing job he could do from home. If anyone knew the neighbors at that point, it was he, not I.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’ve never seen him before.”

A few years (years!) later, I finally figured out who had materialized that day. “Was that you?” I asked my neighbor. “It was,” he answered. Only then could I properly thank him.

That’s neighborism.

My father was able to catch the last train out of Boston during the Blizzard of ‘78, the anniversary of which was February 5-7 (yes, three days of snow!). Once the train reached his station, my father still had to drive the 2 or 3 miles to get home. That journey took him through an industrial park, the buildings all shuttered because workers had been sent home a few hours earlier.

As my father crept along, peering through his windshield into the blinding snow, he spied a man trying to plow his legs through the deep snow while a torrent of flakes streamed steadily from the sky. My father stopped the car. The man reported he couldn’t get his car started, so he was walking home.

“No, you’re not walking home,” said my father. “Get in.”

Before returning home, my father took a trip to the other side of town to deliver the man safely to his destination. That detour of 4 or 5 miles added at least an hour to his journey home — the storm was that bad. (If you lived through the Blizzard of ‘78, you know what I mean. I myself was not able to make it home for an entire week.)

The man was a stranger to my father. They probably never saw each other again after that night. “But if I hadn’t stopped, that man would surely have died,” my father later said.

That’s neighborism.

For weeks, people in Minneapolis have stepped in to deliver groceries, care for children whose parents have been incarcerated, rescue pets whose families have been deported, transport people who are afraid to walk the streets, blow whistles and honk horns to announce the presence of ICE in neighborhoods, and more. People rising up in Minnesota do so not merely to protest, but also to help people whose lives depend on the assistance of strangers.

That’s neighborism.

These days, that’s a radical thing, because so many people actually have no idea who their neighbors even are. In the United States, we tend to live isolated lives, wrapped in bubbles constructed by busyness, constant internet connectivity, and fear of the other. But the people of Minnesota have reminded us of another way, an ancient way.

The ancients understood neighborism. Without using that word, they told stories about it in their sacred texts. Perhaps the most famous story to western ears is the Biblical parable of the Good Samaritan. You probably know the story. If not, the story appears in Luke 10:25-37. To save you time, let me summarize:

Jesus, having just collapsed all the commandments into just two, known as the Summary or Great Commandments (‘love your God with all your heart, strength, soul, and mind; and love your neighbor as yourself’), took a question from one of his followers: “Who is my neighbor?”

(We might all ask ourselves the same question: Who is my neighbor?)

In answer, Jesus told this story:

A white man wearing a MAGA hat was attacked by robbers as he walked down the street from Lewiston to Lisbon Falls in Maine. The robbers badly beat him, stripped him of his warm down jacket and woolen gloves, and stole all his possessions, including his money, cell phone, concealed weapon, and ammunition. They left him to die on the side of the road, his MAGA hat clutched tightly in one hand, on that cold winter day.

A pack of ICE agents drove past in their brand-new SUV, but they were intent on meeting their quota of people to arrest. They ignored the man, even though he waved his red MAGA hat to get their attention. Customs and Border Patrol agents also passed by in an armored vehicle, but they, too, left the man bleeding by the side of the road.

Eventually, a Somali immigrant driving a beat-up Chevy spotted him. He stopped his car, brought a warm blanket to wrap around the cold man, wiped the man’s blood away with tissues, and gave him water to drink. Then he gently lifted the man into his car and drove him to the Central Maine Medical Center. Worried that no one would tend to the man (who, after all, had lost his precious health insurance card, all identification, and every scrap of money during the robbery), the Somali stayed at the man’s side in the Emergency Room waiting room. He used the last coins in his pocket to buy the man a granola bar out of the vending machine. He left only when the man was admitted into the hospital’s care.

Jesus then turned to his follower and asked, “Which of these was neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers? Was it the ICE agents? The Customs and Border Control agents? The Somali immigrant?”

Jesus’ follower answered, “It was the one who showed mercy.”

Jesus replied, “Exactly. Now you go and do likewise.”

Generations upon generations have loved that story (and undoubtedly told it in countless ways to reflect their own social locations) because it points the way to compassion and mercy. The story instructs us to reach across our artificial human borders and distinctions. It reminds us that sometimes the one who helps us the most is the one who doesn’t look like us, doesn’t come from our culture, doesn’t even speak our language. The story teaches us to open our hearts, as both providers and receivers of care.

But the story challenges, too, and therein lies its power. Leaving aside the issue that loving one’s neighbor as oneself implies that one loves oneself — something most of us do imperfectly at best — the story leaves me wondering how and if one extends compassion and mercy even to those who seem as though they might not deserve it. Sure, you stop to help someone lying injured beside the road. It doesn’t matter what kind of hat he’s wearing. But what about the ICE and CBP agents — do we offer them compassion and mercy? Do we love them? Even when they deploy tear gas? Even when they beat people? Even when they shoot and kill them? Even when they round up little children and send them far away to concentration camps? What about the people running those concentration camps, crowding people into tight quarters, denying them medical treatment, and serving food that has gone bad in any number of ways?

What about Madam Secretary This? Or Mister Secretary That? What about Deputy Chief of Some Such? Do we have to extend compassion and mercy even to them? Do we love them?

What about? Well, you know.

Must we extend compassion and mercy to people who are so cruel? Who cause so much damage? Must we love them?

Maybe I get asked those kinds of questions a lot because people know I am an ordained minister. Maybe, because of that, they think I know the answer. As though seminary somehow taught me how to love people whose actions and views I find contemptable. I struggle just as much as anybody, though. Sometimes on a daily basis. But I can offer a few thoughts.

First, when I consider the parable, I notice Jesus doesn’t address the question of extending mercy to those who passed by without helping. No, he focuses on the vulnerable, the suffering. That seems pretty consistent with my reading of the gospels, which show Jesus centering, again and again, the people who dwell at the margins. That focus seems right to me. It’s one I want and try to emulate.

But does that mean the others are not worthy? Are they not my neighbors, too? Speaking only for me, I am not willing to write them off entirely. I have always celebrated the healing power of love, and I want to inhabit a world where love and mercy are offered, even to those who may appear to be unworthy of receiving them. At the same time, I recognize the challenge. I know it’s an impossible ask, at least for me. I feel certain I am not alone.

The kind of love I’m talking about here is what the Greeks called agape, a kind of selfless, almost sacrificial, love that most mortal human beings would find impossible to achieve all the time. But sometimes I can remember a few things that help me. First, I try to remember that adults who promote and mete out cruelty probably didn’t start that way as their default position. Something happened. Something damaging. With words and deeds, someone taught them to be cruel. I believe babies come into this world worthy of love. They are little love sponges, soaking up all they can. If they are treated well, growing up swaddled with love, there is little chance they will adopt cruelty as their manner. But, of course, some babies get very little love. Some little children endure terribly wounding trauma. Without addressing their experiences, they bring that trauma into adulthood and often act it out.

Now I also believe it is everyone’s responsibility to deal with whatever challenges, difficulties, or traumas they encounter along the way. I hold adults responsible for their actions. But I can muster compassion for the little child who didn’t get what they needed. I can show mercy towards that little soul who deserved to be loved.

Second, the kind of love I’m trying to achieve does not include endorsing, condoning, or accepting cruelty — or any actions that violate sound ethics or justice. If someone does something heinous, I have no compunction about calling the action out for what it is. In fact, I believe love calls for me to do that. I know this sounds a lot like that “love the sinner, not the sin” slogan fundamentalist Christians spout about the LGBTQ+ community — a view I find repugnant. They’ve chosen the wrong target for that slogan, but the slogan itself has some merit, I think.

Third, I can find powerful examples to guide me most days. Examples of compassion. Of mercy. Of generosity. Of love. Of neighborism. Greg Drummond, who stocked his neighbor’s woodpile with good wood. The man who appeared out of nowhere to clean our driveway of snow. My father picking up a stranger and driving him home during the blizzard of the century.

And more. Recently, for example, the musical and cultural sensation Bad Bunny reminded everyone that love is more powerful than hate. Those are words I have uttered myself many times over the years, but I have never had the Super Bowl halftime show to serve as my podium. Never mind. Even if my own soul is my sole podium, the message that love is stronger than hate tells me where to set my sights.

And the Buddhist monks, walking from Texas to Washington D.C. during this cold, cold winter, bearing their gentle message of peace. All along the way, people came to greet them, to hear their message. The monks reminded me not only that I have power inside me that I can unlock, but they also provided an enduring example of living by one’s convictions.

And Renee Good’s sister, only one month after Renee was murdered, bringing her own message of “neighborism.” She doesn’t define neighbors in her message. And chances are high that many listening wouldn’t consider the ICE and CBP agents roaming the streets of Minneapolis as neighbors. But her words are a start.

Gosh, the entire city of Minneapolis is a start. They are amazing.

A few nights ago, I saw a video someone had taken one night in Minneapolis. The video showed over a thousand protesters singing outside the hotel where ICE and CBP agents were staying. Singing. It was a gentle song, an appeal to abandon the path they were on, an invitation to turn toward something different. It was a song of hearts trying to reach hearts. A song of hope that that was possible. It was neighborism of a different sort.

Love is an “ever-fixed mark,” Shakespeare wrote. If he was right — and I tend to try to live my life as though he was — I can aim for that mark. Difficult — even impossible — as it is for me to reach the goal, love always has been, and it remains, my star, my inspiration. And I ask, is there any better way to spend my energy in this world of ours?

Today, our minister ended the church service with this wonderful poem. It points exactly to the place where I want to go.

Summons, Aurora Levins Morales

Last night I dreamed
ten thousand grandmothers
from the twelve hundred corners of the earth
walked out into the gap
one breath deep
between the bullet and the flesh
between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.
There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.
There are no leaders who dare to say
every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.
We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,
a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,
the mourners will embrace, and grief replace
every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,
so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves
into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages
and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think
I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.
Let’s go.

Indeed, my friends. Let’s go.

Love,

Sylvia