Who is my neighbor? This guy is.

I don't shoot this sort of family portrait very often, just for the occasional friend or family member when they ask. But in a way it's beautiful because, the few times I do such jobs, they take on an added layer of meaningfulness for me.

This guy is Eric. He's a firefighter, a golfer, a proud new dad, and most likely the world's greatest neighbor. Our neighbor.

Moving in next to Eric (and his wife, Leslie) has been one of the biggest joys in our journey of first-time home ownership. They have helped us understand just how powerful and transformative genuine community can be: Eric and I share tools, store things in each other's sheds, and swap favors (I shot photos of him and his daughter, and he's painting our house). Our wives take turns swapping meals. We watch each other's dogs. We wave and say "hi" to one another across the yard at nearly every coming and going.

The thing is, were we not neighbors, we probably would never have known Eric and Leslie. We run in different circles, have pretty divergent interests.

But the beauty of community is that it forces us out of our default sets of commonalities like work, hobbies, church and social affiliations that we typically use to limit whom we associate with. Instead, community allows the everyday demands of mundane life to unify us in common purpose -- I need a ladder and you've got one, and suddenly we're friends. It's as simple as that.

But community only works if you make a little old-fashioned effort, like borrowing a cup of sugar or six nails for that project you're working on, rather than getting in the car and burning gas to run to the store.

I think this is the beauty of Christ's message of the Good Samaritan. When he was asked "Who is my neighbor?", Jesus responded with the parable of a Samaritan who helped an assaulted man alongside the road when no one else would. Jesus asked, "Who was the neighbor to this beat-up man?"

The answer, of course, was that the neighbor was the one who found solidarity with a complete stranger (and a cultural/racial "opposite") simply because he saw a need and had the opportunity to meet it. No more common ground was necessary than that. It was not a forced or guilt-driven act, simply a chance encounter born of circumstances.

Maybe Christ meant to tell us that neighborliness is just the art of recognizing what's right in front of us.