Wash Feet

So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” — John 13:14 (NRSVUE)

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Photograph from Bob Fitch Photography Archive / Department of Special Collections / Stanford University Libraries

Someone once thanked Dorothy Day for all she had done. She started the Catholic Worker Movement during the Great Depression. She spoke out against both capitalism and communism. She marched with workers, went to jail for peace, wrote books, edited a newspaper, and inspired generations of Christians to see Christ in the poor.

Dorothy listened politely. Then she said something like, “I’ve spent most of my life washing dishes.”

I’m not sure if she meant it literally, but I think she did. The houses of hospitality she started fed thousands of people. Meals were made every day. Pots needed scrubbing. Tables were wiped. Floors were swept. The work never stopped. Neither did the dishes.

The world doesn’t stay together because of big, extraordinary moments. It stays together because of ordinary acts done again and again. Someone washes the dishes. Someone folds the laundry. Someone weeds the garden. Someone makes another meal. Someone answers a late-night call. Someone sits by a hospital bed. Someone welcomes a stranger at the door. Most of this work never makes the news. But without it, civilization falls apart.

When Jesus wanted to show his disciples what God’s love looked like, he didn’t organize a rally or give a speech about leadership. He put a towel around his waist, filled a basin with water, and knelt on the floor. The miracle was that he believed love could be revealed through something so ordinary.

Maybe we have the wrong idea about how to change the world. We’re taught that history changes because of speeches, elections, inventions, and revolutions. Sometimes that’s true. Dorothy was certainly a revolutionary in her own right.

But more often, things change because someone keeps showing up. The teacher who prepares one more lesson. The hospice volunteer who sits quietly by another bed. The farmer who cares for the soil through another season. The parent who packs another lunch. The neighbor who checks on the widower across the street. The volunteer who makes coffee before anyone else arrives. The person who stays after the meeting to wash the dishes.

As I get older, I care less about the idea of heroes. Heroes can inspire us, but they rarely us going.

Communities last because people learn to value repetition. That might be one of the deepest spiritual practices. It means believing that today’s ordinary act of care matters, even if no one sees it.

Dorothy Day understood that movements aren’t built just by extraordinary people doing big things. They’re also built by ordinary people who keep on loving. One meal. One guest. One conversation. One sink full of dishes at a time.

Tomorrow morning, the dishes will be there again. Love, it turns out, is rarely finished. It simply waits patiently for us to begin again