Who Is My Neighbor?

“My name is Jerry,” he said with a strong southern Louisiana accent, “but most people call me Junior.” His smile was genuine, almost childlike, and bore the truth of decades of neglect.

“My name is Lisa,” I said, as we shook hands on my front porch. Junior’s aged, wiry frame and gentle demeanor were disarming. He and I went quickly from strangers to neighbors.

“Do you have any work for me?” he inquired. “I can sweep your porch and sidewalk,” he continued.

“No, Junior, I think the porch and sidewalk are okay today,” I responded with what felt like a noticeable lack of confidence.

“Well, that’s okay, Ms. Lisa. I’ll be back again soon. I just was gonna run to the store and get some Buglers. It’s nice to know you. I’ll see you again.” Junior rode off contentedly on his bike, while I remained curious and cautious on my porch.

Junior was one of my first and best teachers at loving my neighbor. At the time, I was living in downtown Fresno directing an urban program for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. Junior was well-known and loved by the many cycles of students and interns that came through the program. Multiple times a week, Junior would come asking for work and money. Honestly, I often tired of his impromptu knocks at my door that felt like disruptions to the important work I had to do, of training students to be ministers in the inner city and writing fundraising letters to donors.

One day, still early in my time there on L Street in downtown Fresno, I saw Junior riding up on his bicycle and stepping onto the porch. It was just after Thanksgiving, so even though I was busy with my ministry tasks, I was ready to generously offer the leftovers I had in the fridge and send him on his way. When Junior knocked on the door, I answered and we exchanged greetings. Instead of asking for food or money, as was his custom, he made a very unusual request. “Do you have a razor?” Perplexed at his unique request, I must have stuttered momentarily. “Uh, a razor? Like to shave with?” I muttered.

“Yes, a razor for shaving,” he kindly responded.

What about the abundance of food I was ready to give? Why wasn’t he asking for what I wanted to share? Why my razor? I had kind of splurged and gotten a nice one, and I didn’t particularly feel like sharing it. All these thoughts were on a collision course with the passage I had read from James earlier that morning:

Listen, my dear brothers and sisters: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him?...

If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ you are doing right....

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?

James 2:5,8, 14-16

With the verses from James ringing in my ears, I told Junior to hang on a minute. Reluctant in my spirit, but willing in my flesh, I walked from my front door to my bathroom and got him my fancy green razor. Once back at the door, I handed it over to him, and along with the razor I surrendered a bit of my immature entitlement. Having done my duty, I went back to my desk to continue writing lessons and letters.

I occasionally peeked out the window to my front-porch steps to see how his shaving was going. He didn’t have water or soap or shaving cream, all things I considered requirements for a proper shave. Curiosity got the best of me, and I went outside to check on him.

“How’s it going, Junior?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m fine, Ms. Lisa,” he replied while wiping the razor on his sweatshirt.

“Do you want some water or something?”

“Oh, yes ma’am, that would be very nice. Junior would appreciate it.” I had grown accustomed to and fond of the way he commonly referred to himself in the third person.

“Here you go, Junior,” I said as I returned with a cup of water and sat it next to him on the porch steps, ready to return inside.

“Do you know how to shave?” he followed up.

“Well, Junior, I guess so, but I’ve never shaved a person’s face.” I responded slowly and nervously.

“Will you shave my face?” he replied, unfazed by my lack of experience and obvious trepidation.

“Um. I guess so,” was the best response I could muster as I sat down next to him on my front-porch steps and began to shave his face.

My nervousness wore off quickly because I could tell he trusted me, and somehow, I sensed that I could trust him too. I shaved his face carefully, so as not injure or harm him.

I shaved his face carefully because there was something about those moments that felt truly sacred.

We had a great conversation while we sat on the steps. He shared what it was like growing up as an African American in Lake Charles, Louisiana, in the 1930s. He recounted stories of his mom and him sharecropping through Louisiana and Arkansas. I discovered that he lived a few blocks away in a boarding house. Curious how he made ends meet, I asked about his income and learned that he had been on disability for many years before now receiving regular Social Security checks. I learned that he could read, though not well. I learned that his mom had died in Fresno not far from where we were sitting. As I was finishing up his shave, I asked my neighbor-turning-friend, “Junior, when is your birthday?” His response came quickly and joyfully, “December the 25th.”

“Really? December 25th?” I asked, surprised and excited.

“Yes, that’s right. Junior’s birthday is December 25th,” he confirmed.

“Do you know who you share a birthday with, Junior?” I replied.

“Yes, I share a birthday with Jesus,” he responded confidently.

There was a Jesus-ness about Junior that was undeniable. Perhaps it took the coincidence of a shared birthday to force to the surface of my consciousness the profound truth revealed in Jesus’ words from Matthew 25:40: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” When I took time to care for Junior, an aged, materially poor man with a mental disability, it was as if I were taking care of Jesus. How that works out theologically, I may not fully understand. What I do know is that Jesus has chosen to tether his identity with those who are poor and on the margins. When we encounter the least of these, we find Jesus, but oftentimes we must fix our eyes to see past his “distressing disguise.”1

Junior and I remained friends for several more years. Despite my excellent shaving skills, he never asked me to shave his face again, though I would have in a heartbeat. Most times he asked for work, for food, or for money. Sometimes I met his needs, and other times I didn’t. With each response, I tried to be faithful to Jesus. Some days when Junior came by, he didn’t ask for anything. He simply wanted to visit and share friendship.

Junior wasn’t just a teacher to me; he taught all the students and interns who came through the program. He never exposited the Scriptures. He never lectured about how to effectively love the poor. He showed up, and we learned. We fumbled forward together.

Late into his days on earth, Junior taught us how to love the sick and dying. He contracted cancer, and his body began to wither. We took him to doctor’s appointments when he remembered to tell us about them. We cooked meals for him. We let him rest on our couches when he needed a cool, safe place to be comfortable in the Fresno summer heat. We prayed for him and sang the songs he asked us to sing when he was suffering and in pain. Eventually, when he became too frail to walk up the steps to his second-floor home, we carried him in our arms. We carried him because in so many ways he had carried us through the years. He had carried us out of our selfishness and entitlement. He had carried us out of a frenetic pace of busyness. He had carried us into greater generosity, deeper presence, and more meaningful relationship.

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