Who Is My Neighbor?

A Non-Anxious, Non-Manipulative, Non-Dual Perspective on Giving

Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man living in the sky who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time!

But He loves you. He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money!

—George Carlin, You Are All Diseased (1999)

This quote from the comedy legend George Carlin pretty much sums up the response most of us feel when confronted with the typical reasons to give. The Western Christian tradition in which I have been raised and trained has a particularly troubling track record with asking for money and compelling people to give. If you’re like me, even choosing to read this may already cause your guard to go up as your past experience tells you that you’re about to be guilted, shamed, or manipulated into giving.

So, let’s just stop here and get that out of the way. The point of this writing is not to compel you to give. No one is going to ask you for money. Rather, the hope of this writing is to unload our bad ideas and instead look toward a non-anxious, non-manipulative, and non-dual perspective.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks helps us use an odd, archaic story to reconnect to the reality that God — however we may understand that concept — does not need money.

The biblical book of 1 Kings holds the story of the Jews constructing the first temple under the direction of King Solomon. It was quite an undertaking — involving trade agreements, slavery, 80,000 stonecutters, skilled craftsmen, the ark of the covenant, and more animal sacrifices than could be counted. Lots of people — and apparently animals — gave to this building campaign.

At the end of all that giving, work, and sacrifice, however, King Solomon utters a profound question at the inauguration of the temple: “But will God really dwell on earth? The heavens, even the highest heaven, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built!”

Even at the moment of triumphant completion, there is a recognition that God did not need — nor could God be contained in — a building. As Rabbi Sacks wrote,

The God of everywhere can be accessed anywhere, as readily in the deepest pit as on the highest mountain, in a city slum as in a palace lined with marble and gold…God does not live in buildings. God lives in builders…not in structures of stone but in the human heart.

Earlier in the story of the people of Israel — long before Solomon and the temple — Moses received divine instruction for the creation of a tabernacle. “God said to Moses, ‘Let them build me a sanctuary that I may dwell in them.’”

The Hebraic verb translated as “dwell” in these instructions is šāķan — and this is the first biblical usage of this verb in connection with God. It’s a verb that conveys closeness. In fact, the related Hebraic word shachen means “neighbor.”

God’s dwelling closeness is like that of a next-door neighbor. The Hebraic words mishkan (sanctuary) and shechinah (the divine presence) also find their root in this dwelling verb šāķan. Thus begins a fascinating linguistic interplay of God’s presence, sacred space, and our neighbor.

Within the same tabernacle instructions, God tells Moses, “Tell the Israelites to bring me an offering. You are to receive the offering for me from everyone whose heart prompts them to give.” Giving to the creation of the tabernacle is not obligatory. Those who bring an offering do so as their “heart prompts them to give.”

Just as with Solomon’s temple, the divine presence is not limited to a tabernacle. The construction of sacred spaces does not allow God to dwell in buildings. God dwells in the builders. Those who bring an offering do not do so to manipulate or control God. They do not contribute to curry favor, complete a transaction, or appease divine wrath. They give because they can’t help it. Their hearts are prompted by gratitude — a recognition of the up close and personal presence of their neighborly God.

It wasn’t the quality of the wood and metals and drapes. It wasn’t the glitter of jewels on the breastplate of the high priest. It wasn’t the beauty of the architecture or the smell of the sacrifices. It was the fact that it was built out of the gifts of “everyone whose heart prompts them to give” (Ex. 25:2). Where people give voluntarily to one another and to holy causes, that is where the Divine Presence rests.

—Rabbi Sacks

The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all recount a story where Jesus is questioned by a scriptural scholar as to which of God’s commandments is the greatest. The question — essentially asking for the bumper-sticker that sums up all scripture — is an attempt to trap Jesus. His answer, however, is to quote two scriptures directly from the Torah. (Matthew 22:34–40, Mark 12:28–34, and Luke 10:25–38. Jesus quotes Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18 — scriptures that are both elements in a longer and ancient Jewish prayer known as The Shema.)

He said to him, “You shall love the Eternal your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.

“And the second is like it.” What a fascinating and often overlooked statement. Jesus is asked for one commandment — the single commandment that is the greatest. Yet, he rejects the premise and offers two commandments that he says are connected. Jesus says that loving your neighbor as you love yourself “is like” loving God “with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” Once more, he says that every other divine instruction or commandment in scripture hangs on these two interrelated ideas.

God does not need our tabernacle, our temple, or our money.

God dwells not in our buildings but in our neighbors.

To bless our neighbor is to bless God.

To love God is to love our neighbor.

In Luke’s account of “The Greatest Commandment” conversation, the scriptural scholar has a follow-up question:

Wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’

Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

To the one asking the question, a Samaritan was not a neighbor but a despised outsider. The model for one who loves their neighbor — the one Jesus instructs the scriptural scholar to be like — is an enemy.

The divine presence dwells not only in those we accept but also in those we reject.

God’s neighborly sanctuary is for both the up-and-in and the down-and-out.

Perhaps George Carlin was right.

When we see God as “an invisible man living in the sky” — a cosmic Santa Claus making lists of those who are naughty and nice — we are highly manipulable. Our giving is coerced. It’s anxious and transactional. We give to be on the right side, avoid the wrong side, or secure the boundaries and forms we prefer. God becomes small enough for temples, tabernacles, and required tithes. Countless empires, campaigns, and initiatives have been funded this way.

When we perceive God as a sacred presence — dwelling in our neighbor, the stranger, and even our enemy — we are reminded that we, too, are neighbor, stranger, and enemy to another. We, too, are a sanctuary for the divine presence. Our giving is enlightened by our mutuality. It’s generous and overflowing. We give not to earn favor or escape punishment but because love cannot help but spill out of “prompted hearts.” God becomes too vast to contain — present in the face across the table, the voice we’d rather silence, and the hand we’d rather not hold. Countless genocides, injustices, and wounds have been transcended this way.

In the creation of the tabernacle, God instructs Moses to receive an “offering” from those “whose heart prompts them to give.” Terûmâ — the Hebraic word translated as offering — is understood as something we lift up to a sacred cause. When we recognize the divine presence as dwelling within the sanctuary of another — be they our neighbor, a stranger, or our enemy — we do not give out of manipulation, anxiety, or division. Instead, we lift up our offering to the sacred cause of our shared being — with which we have always been and will always be one.

Whether we give of our time and attention, our energy and expertise, or our money and resources, we lift up another, and we are lifted up.

God doesn’t need our money. Our neighbors do.

Who is our neighbor? The answer cannot be contained by even the highest heaven.

May our hearts be so prompted!

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Darrell Smith’s latest book, Spiritual But Not Anxious, is out now.