anta Claus is dead.

I know this with stone-cold certainty because since mid-January he's been hanging from my neighbor's roof. At the time of this writing, Santa appears to be bloated and stiff, and I believe he can be presumed dead. He was placed on the roof a day or two after last Thanksgiving and stood, translucent and illuminated, throughout the holidays next to his red-nosed navigator.

I also know that we can rule out foul play. Santa's death was clearly the result of an accident. Extreme January winds (those of the kind that have in recent years popularized the so-called wind-chill factor) removed both Santa and his hapless companion from their moorings but tethered still to their orange power cord, and they have hung there-two stories up-ever since.

My neighbor doesn't seem to be at all concerned.

And by now, several months after the close of the holidays, I've decided to make the situation the subject of an informal behavioral study. I'm thinking it will be interesting to see how long it's going to take for my neighbor to develop a conscience and to retrieve the remains of Santa and his companion from the roof. (I'll have to get back to you on this, and I'm beginning to suspect that you'll be able to read of it in some future publication of Guinness.) I'm also curious as to how the casual passerby with a three-year-old in the vehicle is going to explain a dangling, lifeless Santa Claus without causing a great deal of disillusionment and hurt: "Yes, Virginia, there was a Santa Claus . . ."

I've considered-fleetingly-the idea of taking my ladder over there and offering to remove Santa from the roof, but two objections quickly stand in my way: First, I'm afraid of heights. There, I've said it, and I now feel at least a little relieved that I've gone public with the confession, but it still doesn't free me completely from the fear itself. Second, I don't want to offend my neighbor. It's not as if he is a doddering 90-year-old who has no business on a steeply pitched roof and who would be deeply thankful for anyone to come along and offer help. Instead, he is half my age. His comings and goings are distinctly different from mine, and I see him very seldom. And, after all, he himself put Santa up there to begin with.

In addition to all of these considerations, I've been reminded of the lawyer's deceptively provocative question to Jesus: " 'Who is my neighbor?' "

As was His frequent practice, Jesus didn't answer this question directly. This is probably because He knew that the question " 'Who is my neighbor?' " wasn't precisely what the lawyer was asking.

My neighbor, from whose roof Santa Claus and reindeer have been hanging since mid-January, lives three doors down and across the street. He isn't right next door. And Jesus wasn't addressing the difference between the two. He wasn't concerned with "degrees of separation" so much as with the quality of our response to anyone we may encounter who has a need.

So, is Jesus' reply to the crafty lawyer that we should " 'Go and do likewise' " a charge for me to face down my fear of heights and cast aside my probably over-sensitive concern that I may insult my neighbor and appear, ladder in hand, at his front door to offer my services in Santa Claus removal?

Not necessarily.

It is a charge, however, to make myself available to my neighbor in such a way that I may be called on to help in responding to the pain, disappointment, and loss that are, unfortunately, universal in the human experience. If I'm the kind of neighbor that Jesus means for me to be, I'll be worrying less about a hanging, plastic Santa Claus and more about the spiritual issues that are "left hanging" in my neighbor's everyday life.

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Gary B. Swanson is associate director of the General Conference Sabbath School and Personal Ministries Department.