The hospitality of washing feet

 Two weeks ago, my family and I took a week-long vacation to Cleveland, and then Columbus, Ohio. I know; Cleveland? Who goes to Cleveland for vacation? There were actually some interesting things to see in Cleveland, and as we have on past vacations, we stayed in an Air BnB. This one was a fairly sparse, fourth-floor apartment in the warehouse district near the city core that was walking distance to several things we wanted to see. We went to nearby Chagrin Falls for a few hours, and was waited on by an exuberantly cheerful waitress at a diner. Chagrin Falls has a long history of civic participation and service, and this was shared with visitors through plaques, and signs, and an active village life. I felt like the town was welcoming us and telling us about things and people that were important to it. 

Two days later we left Cleveland for Columbus, heading for another Air BnB. This one, we quickly discovered, was in an urban neighborhood that had been red-lined 50 years ago, and resembled the Newburg, or Shawnee neighborhoods in Louisville. The house was advertised as a townhouse; it was actually a duplex. It was advertised with on-premises parking; there was only street parking. The section of the house we had rented had dingy, dark wood on the walls, kitchen cabinets from the 1980s, and it reeked of years of cigarette smoke mixed with scented cleaners that hadn’t removed grease left on some of the cabinets. I caught myself looking around in disdain as part of my white privilege of being able to afford nicer places, and even using the word nice separates me from blacks or other minorities who could afford only this place or one like it. We canceled our rental and found another one across town in a delightful neighborhood in a house that made me feel like I was home as soon as I walked in: it was clean, decorated, and had a welcoming message on a hall table.

I could not fully separate my privilege from my reaction to the first Air BnB place in Columbus, but I could see where hospitality was and was not. On a walk through the neighborhood of the second Air BnB, I realized that Jesus’ foot washing of his followers feet was not just an act of humility and overturning his power and privilege. It was also an act of hospitality. In Jesus’ time, foot washing was very important because it kept the dirt and filth from the street or path from being brought into the home. It was a ritual of sorts that separated the home from the city or village, a place of rest and safety that could provide for a guest’s needs in a way that the world outside could not. But hospitality was not limited to foot washing or a place to rest. It also included the attitude of the host, and as the host of the last supper, Jesus placed himself in an inferior position to show that his love, God’s love, put the needs of his guests first. Jesus placed more value on his disciples as guests than on himself as the host. He could not be a host without guests who wanted to be with him, and he created an atmosphere that made his guests feel wanted.

That was what I experienced as I walked into the second house in Columbus, and realized what was missing from the first: the care a host, I who would never meet, had for me. The first house was just above being a flop house with the bare minimum to meet my needs. I don't mean that in a derogatory way, just that itcwas a olace to sleep, and not much more. The second house reflected the love and generous caring that the host had for their guests, providing for needs that the guests might not know that they had. The intent of the host of the first house may have been to provide a safe place to stay, but it was lost in the disregard for the other needs of the guest. It seemed to reflect how the city of Columbus has disregarded the basic needs of all of the residents in that part of town for decades. The owner of the second place had used their privilege to find resources to create a warm, welcoming house that felt effortlessly like being home. Even tonight, I wrestle with how fair I am being to the owner of ghe first house. My experience raised the question in my mind of how can we take privilege out of the equation so that hospitality can be shown in any part of town, by everyone? How can we show God’s love to strangers when we haven’t been shown that same love by our community?

As we wash each other’s feet tonight, I hope that we can come to a deeper understanding of what is needed to truly convey the love and humility that Jesus demonstrated to his disciples. It isn’t just the act of a host lovingly washing feet. It is, as hosts, our words of unconditional acceptance, our actions of welcoming, and an attitude of meeting all of the needs of the guest that creates their feeling of being valued and wanted. Without that feeling, foot washing is just an action that anyone can do. But to make foot washing part of hospitality that makes the guest want to come back is to let go and let God wash feet with our hands, to welcome with our smile, and love with our heart. Washing feet as part of hospitality is not about us at all. It is instead about letting God show through and making everyone feel like they are home, whether in this parish, or in our homes, or in our neighborhoods.