Maundy Thursday: Jesus wants to put his hands on our stinky feet

Maundy Thursday

March 24, 2016

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            Since Pope Francis became the Pope, we have become used to him making the news for all the surprising ways he has not done things as they have always been done. But I remember one news story in particular, back in 2013, when he still new to his office. Traditionally on Maundy Thursday, the Pope will choose 12 priests to represent the 12 apostles, and in a grand basilica in Rome, he washes their feet. It’s a re-enactment of the story we just heard from John, in which the rabbi Jesus stoops down to wash the feet of his disciples – a job usually reserved for servants – as a way of showing them what it means to love one another. But Pope Francis, instead of choosing

12 male priests, went even further to show the table-turning love of Jesus, by carrying out this ritual in a women’s detention center: instead of priests, prisoners; instead of a gorgeous sacred space, a prison; instead of men, women. He broke all expectations! Why did he do it? He explained, “This [foot-washing ritual] is a symbol, it is a sign. Washing feet means I am at your service.” And who needs to hear that message – that Christ’s representative is at your service, despite your sins and wrong-doings – than this particular crowd of young, female prisoners?

Last week, when our confirmation class learned about each of the Holy Week services and why we enact them the way we do, we talked about foot-washing, and I read them this story about the Pope. Then I asked the class: what would you think if the Pope wanted to wash your feet? How would that feel? Would you let him? Being dutiful students eager to give the right answer, they said, “Yes, of course. I would be very touched if the Pope wanted to wash my feet.”

            Well, they changed their tune when I then invited them into the sanctuary, filled a basin with water, and invited them to come and have their feet washed by me. Some giggled uncomfortably. Some claimed their feet were far too smelly, and by refusing to participate, they were really just sparing me from discomfort. Some actually just got up and walked away. I sat and waited, watching

their various reactions, until finally, one brave soul agreed to come forward to be the first. Eventually, they all did – and every one of them was uncomfortable with it.

            Of course, middle school kids are not the only ones who find the possibility of foot-washing uncomfortable. Most people gets a bit squeamish at the thought of having someone – whether the Pope, the pastor, or even your best friend – get all up close and personal with the most embarrassing and smelly part of the body. And yet, Jesus says, clear as can be, “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” The mandate is clear! Of course, we rationalize, he says this in the context of what he calls “a new commandment, to love one another as I have loved you.” So surely he meant this whole smelly feet thing as a metaphor, right? He just means we should love one another. And I’ve totally got that – I can love others without having anyone touch my smelly feet except my shower floor.

            But as I have reflected on this passage, I’ve started to wonder: can we love one another, and metaphorically wash one another’s feet, unless we have had our own feet washed? Because being the helper, the love-er, the washer, puts you in a more powerful position than the one receiving that service, right? You have what you need, the other person doesn’t. You have skills that the other person doesn’t. You have some sort of advantage that the other person doesn’t. You’re in charge, and the other person is making him or herself vulnerable to be helped by you. How can we truly understand how to help the other person unless we have been in the less powerful position, the one in need? How can we serve unless we have some sense of what it feels like to be served – indeed to be touched, in the most embarrassing, vulnerable way?

            My Mom’s book group at home just started reading the wonderful book by Brene Brown, Daring Greatly. She asked if she could borrow my copy while she’s here this week, so I pulled it out, and have been reminded of all the wonderful and difficult gifts it offers. For those not familiar with this book (and I highly recommend it, if you’re not!), it is written by a researcher of shame and vulnerability. In it, she observes that vulnerability is not, as society would tell us, a sign of weakness. Rather, one’s willingness to be vulnerable is a sign of true courage. It is when we are courageous enough to bare our hearts – or you might say, to bare our feet – that we open ourselves up to connection, love, compassion, and belonging.

            Oh, but vulnerability is hard. Whether it is in the form of letting someone near your smelly, knobby, strange-looking feet, or admitting that you were wrong about something, or that you don’t know something – vulnerability is a relinquishing of power, an admittance that you don’t have it all together, that you are, in fact, a broken and bruised person in need of love, grace, and compassion yourself.

            That is what makes foot-washing such a powerful ritual of the church – one I wish we enacted and talked about more than once a year on Maundy Thursday. It is an opportunity not just to watch Jesus put his hands on others’ dirty feet, but to let him put his hands on our own feet, our own

Français : Lavement des pieds de Saint Pierre par Jésus.
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/61/FootWashing.jpg

insecurities, our own vulnerabilities, our own areas in need of healing. We must be willing not only to touch others, to help others, but to be touched, just as we are, smelly feet and all.

            You know, we have walked a long way on our Lenten journey. We made the goal to walk to Jerusalem, nearly 6000 miles. Well, we didn’t quite make it. We have a ways to go. But maybe that’s even better. Because our spiritual journey isn’t over, either. When we dropped our burdens at the foot of the cross on Sunday after hearing the Passion story, I found, as I searched my heart, that I have a ways yet to go, a lot of baggage yet to leave behind, a lot of soul-searching to do and repentance to practice. But I think an important stop on our journey is here, at Christ’s basin, to open our hearts and be willing to examine what grime needs to be washed, not only from our sore and dirty feet, which are so weary from carrying us along our difficult journey, but also from our hearts. As we have our feet washed, may we also find that what keeps us from a right relationship with Christ and with our neighbor is washed away, leaving our feet and our hearts both ready to walk to Golgatha tomorrow, to the empty tomb on Sunday morning, and finally, into everlasting life.

            Let us pray… Serving God, we bring our tired feet, as well as our tired hearts, to you. Give us the courage to be vulnerable enough to let you touch both our feet and our hearts, removing all that keeps us from right relationship with you, so that we might be strengthened for the journey to the cross. As you love and serve us, equip us also to love and serve one another. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.