Throwback Thursday: Dam Good Neighbours Revisited
Let’s stop romanticizing “neighbour.”
It’s not a lawn sign slogan. It’s not a polite nod across a driveway. And it’s sure as hell not a virtue reserved for bake sales and snow-shoveling.
Being a good neighbour means noticing who’s being crushed by the system and choosing to stand with them—not just in spirit, but in policy, in protest, and in public.
Episode 8 of Prepared to Drown—recorded live in a basement packed with people who weren’t interested in shallow niceties—pushed us to confront what community resilience really means in a world that profits from isolation. We weren’t there to wax nostalgic about how things used to be. We were there to ask: what if neighbourliness is our last defense against cruelty disguised as order?
We built the conversation around the Good Samaritan—but not the Sunday School version sanitized for flannel board. We went back to the raw question Jesus asked: “Which one was a neighbour?” Not, “Who lives next door?” Not, “Who do you agree with?” But: who saw injustice, crossed a boundary, and did something?
And here’s the truth: a lot of modern-day religious people are still stepping over the body in the ditch. Or tweeting about it. Or praying silently while clutching pearls.
Neighbourliness—real neighbourliness—is inconvenient. It’s political. It’s expensive. And it’s exactly what we need right now.
Because while we were recording, Calgary’s housing crisis was deepening. Alberta’s anti-trans legislation was already hurting kids. Food insecurity wasn’t a fringe issue—it was reality for working families. And instead of answers, we kept hearing “family values,” “public safety,” and “fiscal responsibility” weaponized to justify neglect.
Let’s be clear: policies that leave people hungry, unhoused, or erased are not neutral. They’re violence dressed up in political language.
And if churches aren’t confronting that violence, then what are we even doing?
Panelists like Jun Naraval and Laura Istead didn’t talk about “community” as a vibe. They talked about it as resistance. As organizing. As work. Brian Thiessen—running for mayor—spoke to what it would mean to make decisions through a lens of inclusion instead of inertia. Ricardo De Menezes reminded us that solidarity doesn’t trickle down from the top.
It’s built sideways—in union halls, youth programs, food co-ops, and church basements that aren’t afraid to get loud.
So here’s what I took away: we don’t need more civility. We need more courage.
Courage to knock on a neighbour’s door—not to borrow sugar, but to ask if they’re safe.
Courage to push back when someone jokes about immigrants, or dismisses gender identity as “too political.”
Courage to turn your faith into action when policy turns people into problems.
Because that’s what Jesus did. He didn’t play respectability politics. He disrupted. He touched untouchables. He centered the outsider. He told stories that made the powerful squirm.
And if your version of neighbourliness doesn’t do the same—it’s not Christian. It’s just Canadian politeness with a hymnal.
It’s time we called that what it is: complicity.
Look, I know it’s tempting to aim for unity. To keep things “non-partisan.” To believe that if we’re just kind enough, the system will eventually bend toward justice.
But kindness without clarity is cowardice.
And unity that costs the safety of the vulnerable is a betrayal, not a virtue.
We don’t need churches that can host potlucks. We need churches that can disrupt policy.
We don’t need neighbours who wave from their porches. We need neighbours who show up at hearings, write letters, open their wallets, lend their voices, and risk their comfort for someone else’s survival.
We need neighbourliness that floods the system—not politely knocks.
So if you’re still wondering who your neighbour is, you’re asking the wrong question.
The question is: who will I risk becoming a neighbour to?
Not in theory. Not on Sundays. But today, on this street, in this political climate, in this moment.
Neighbour is not a label. It’s a direction.
Choose it.