WASHING DOOLITTLE'S FEET

“It was said of Abba John the Persian that when some evildoers came to him, he took a basin and washed their feet. This filled them with confusion. They confessed to him their evil intent and he spoke to them of God’s mercy and forgiveness. The brigands repented and left in peace, but two of them remained to become his disciples. They both were noted for their lives of penance.”—from The Lives of the Desert Fathers

In the movie My Fair Lady, there is a fun scene wherein Alfred Doolittle, Eliza’s father, presents himself to Henry Higgins and Colonel Pickering and essentially offers to sell his daughter to them. While they debate the pros and cons, Doolittle states his unembroidered reasons: “I ask you, guvn’r, what am I? I'm one of the undeserving poor: that's what I am. Think of what that means…I’m up against middle class morality all the time. If there's anything going, and I put in for a bit of it, it's always the same story: 'You're undeserving; so you can't have it.' But my needs is as great as the most deserving widow's…I don't need less than a deserving man: I need more. I don't eat less hearty than him; and I drink a lot more…”

Doolittle is a grand caricature of those who aren’t worth our trouble. We see them all the time, they populate our lives. Alcoholic, sponging uncles, perennially angry neighbors, martinets at work—all people not worth our time.

Anyone who’s dealt with an alcoholic close up knows the intricate and unending games they play—with themselves as much as with everybody else. A habitual liar teaches everybody who knows him one lesson: Keep Away. The creep who sees every woman as an object of lust exudes a rotten-egg stench nobody can stand.

After many years as a parish priest, I’ve learned there is no such thing as a “normal” family. All families have their secret shames, no household escapes the clutch of corruption. Every child-molester is somebody’s son.

I worked for a year, during my seminary training, at an addiction center in New York. Day in and out, I listened to one version or another of the same tale spun by a strung-out addict of whatever kind, and wished I was back in the seminary library, reading Latin liturgical texts. It pleased God, though, to put me somewhere I didn’t want to be, with people I didn't want to be around.

Abba John the Persian was in his desert cave when trouble came a-calling. He welcomed it, as His Master did—and as I never could.

At that time and place, foot-washing was a sign of welcome. The traveler had dusty feet; part of the expected duty of a host was to have a servant wash his guest’s feet. When the Lord Jesus girded himself with a towel and washed the feet of His disciples, He was literally taking the role of the lowest member of the household staff. When Abba John poured water over the feet of the men who came to beat and rob him, he was welcoming them.

We’re well-advised to avoid the human wrecks that float by us in our lives, but sometimes we can’t. Sometimes they’re our sisters or sons. God has placed them there—for their salvation and for ours.

God doesn’t explain what He’s doing to us or with us. He tosses us in His crucible and turns up the heat. If we try to put ourselves in His place—as Healer and Lord—we’ll get burned to a crisp. If we leave Him to His place and we take ours—as the foot-washer, doing what He would have u to do—He will turn tears to laughter, sorrow to joy and death to life. That’s what this coming Feast is really about.