These are not just lovely, poetic words of Jesus exhorting us to care for the poor. They are meant literally.

Many years ago, I lived in a poor, dusty town, but one rich in faith and love. We were poor together, and shared what we had with each other in the neighbourhood.  Some homeless men, mostly suffering from alcoholism, would come to our door for a cup of coffee, a peanut butter sandwich and emergency clothing.  

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One day as we were about to sit down to lunch, one of these men came by asking for shoes.  Sure enough, his were ripped and torn.  Elizabeth offered to serve him.  As she tenderly pulled the shoes off, she was horrified by his dirty, bloody, torn socks.  And when she gingerly peeled these socks off,  a nightmare of blisters, cuts, sores was exposed.  She fetched a  basin of warm water, knelt down, washed those poor feet, and then put on fresh socks and new running shoes that actually fit.

When she came back into our lunch room, her face was glowing!  And as she told us what had transpired, the room went electric.  We all knew that she had washed Christ’s feet in this poor man.  None of us have forgotten that moment.

Another lunch time - a Saturday, after a long and tiring week - we had just filled our plates when we saw Foster make his way up our driveway.  Foster was a tiny Hopi who could have been anywhere from 35-60 years of age.  Years of suffering from alcoholism and street living had chiselled his face and body into a state outside the normal wear of time.  

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Unlike most Native people, he would talk up a storm, sharing about his early family life or about the pain of living in the streets and being run off by everyone – dogs, children, adults.  He’d also look for his tailor-made “usual”:  a cup of coffee, a peanut butter sandwich with chili powder and a magazine to read, preferably one about movie stars.

In recent weeks, Foster had begun visiting daily, spending hours at the house.  Often, he would grab a broom  and sweep the patio or rake the yard.  He would do the work so meticulously and with such obvious pride that we knew we were now his family.  Occasionally, he would bring one of his buddies over to meet us – and to get food or shoes.  He finally had somewhere to bring his friends, some place where they would receive a little dignity.

We learned a lot about street living from Foster.  We knew that if we gave him a “new” jacket for the cold nights outside, he wouldn’t get far from the house before others were trying to take it. Sometimes they’d offer a drink in exchange;  other times it would be stolen while he was sleeping.  Our childlike friend was a very sensitive man, yet street living is merciless and rarely offers a kind face.  He was hurt that people assumed he was stupid and worthless because he was alcoholic.  In fact, he had been a fine potter, with a university degree.  He railed against this judgment, yet was helpless to change it.

Sometimes Foster would be very demanding, wanting one thing after another. Other times, he’d ask for the broom and would sweep around our house for a couple of hours.  Sometimes he’d talk our ear off.  Other times he’d sit quietly, or sing to himself.  Sometimes he seemed sober. Other times he was hardly recognizable in his drunken stupor.

So when Foster stumbled up the driveway that Saturday, we didn’t know what to expect, or whether we could muster the energy and patient love to serve him.  Yet he was content with his coffee, sandwich and movie magazine.  He was even willing to let Oso, our dog, stay outside with him.  (The two had a running feud, because Foster usually wasn’t sober or steady enough to hold both coffee and sandwich and Oso too often made off with the sandwich!)

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This turned out to be a visit unlike any other, though.  Foster put on the performance of his life – playing an invisible banjo to an invisible audience of thousands; dancing and hopping, making the sign of the Cross, twirling his rosary and singing religious songs interspersed with Hopi chant and Blue Suede Shoes.  On and on the performance went, and with it, our own weariness melted away.  By the time Foster had triumphantly taken his last bow, our spirits had been cleansed and lifted, and we were conscious that Jesus had visited and served us through the song and dance of our friend.

A couple of weeks later, Foster was knifed and killed.  Apparently the motive was robbery, but all he had was a new pair of running shoes.  Few may have noticed or mourned this violent end to the life of a homeless alcoholic, but we lost a friend.  We slowly got used to the reality that Foster would no longer make his unsteady way to our door… that our chili powder would stop trickling away…that we no longer had to search for magazines about movie stars.  But the grief and shock were eventually eased by an image of an irrepressible, loveable Hopi spirit dancing, hopping, hootin’ and hollerin’ a peculiar medley of songs - and not at all out of tune with the angelic choir!