One line of my family heritage returns to a mountain locale known as “Dean Mountain.” (You can read more in this book.) Now a part of the Shenandoah National Park, Dean Mountain is known for a family-run cemetery that serves as a stop along Skyline Drive. Such a peaceful setting, however, is juxtaposed with a harsh and violent history. Dean Mountain was the site of the murder of one of my ancestors.
Newton Wesley Dean, my third-great-grandfather, was murdered by an axe to the head for saying a derogatory remark about another man’s wife. An axe to the head! Neighbors who quite possibly worshipped together became enemies (to the point of death) over a derogatory remark. Not fist-a-cuffs…a flippin’ axe to the head.
That same family line stressed the love of neighbor in my young life. That is quite the generational correction—one moment, murder on a mountain, and the next, neighborliness akin to godliness. On the surface, this seems like significant progress, and I would affirm such a finding. But the violent root remained and bore fruit in a more quasi-benign fashion. The love of my neighbor is fine until it infringes on my independence. Independence becomes that powerful myth that allows me to eschew gratitude in my individualistic pursuit of greed. Once people, places, and things are no longer gifts, then I can exploit, take, and even murder in the name of “independence.” We are distinct, but we are never independent. Our lives are always dependent upon others.
Loyal Jones writes about Appalachian people, “Our independence is tempered by our basic belief in neighborliness and hospitality.” However, the complicated reality is that neighborliness can often be an illusion of unspoken social contracts and pent-up aggression. Therefore, godliness became just as vaporous by default. A neighbor today could be a feuding partner tomorrow. What does this say about the social contracts and bonds that fall under the umbrella of “neighborliness?” It says that while there is much to affirm at first glance regarding Appalachian relationships, a sea of frustration with our neighbors churns beneath the surface.
This is not to pick on Appalachia; it is who I am. But the little phrase “neighborliness as godliness” is riddled with land mines that often blow up our relationships. Genuine hospitality exists at the intersection of independence and community. Without independence or distinction, I have nothing to offer. Without community, I have no context to make life coherent. This intersection can be a traditional intersection of red and green lights or a roundabout.
The late Catholic spiritual writer Henri Nouwen poetically describes this hospitality as
[the creation of] a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy. Hospitality [forgiveness] is not to change people, but to offer them space where change can take place. It is not to bring men and women over to our side, but to offer freedom not disturbed by dividing lines.
But the creation of such space invites hurt. Allowing someone to be themselves means they will not behave as we would desire. Often, these misunderstandings are internalized as attacks or provocation. Friendship and hospitality meet in this space of profound hurt and the healing balm of the Spirit. I’m reminded of the words of the great Cappadocian father Gregory of Nazianzus (329–389) in eulogizing his friend Basil the Great (330–379), another great Cappadocian father: “This was the kindling spark of our union: thus we felt the wound of mutual love.” Neighborliness is not godliness; it makes godliness possible. Friendship is forged in the crucible of “the wound of mutual love.”
As we venture out on another week, where are you experiencing what Augustine told Jerome were “wounds from friends.” We behave like true friendship and neighborliness is evidenced by happiness and the absence of conflict. Beware of such deception! To love like Christ is to have the wounds to confirm.
So, no, neighborliness is not godliness. Yes, it makes godliness possible. But the scars we carry are often the evidence that we loved and neighbored well. May the Spirit bring us healing, and may the scars remind us of the price of love.