Finding Faith While Washing Feet
I must admit, that in the holiday calendar, Christmas usually takes precedence over Easter in my mind.
It’s not hard to fall into that line of thinking: let’s be honest, Christmas is darn fun.
- Christmas music dominates my Spotify playlists
- My home gets decked out with decorations
- Sometimes (though increasingly less each year), snow blankets the shrubs and grass in my yard.
Easter though?
There are no Easter carols. And don’t get me started on the Easter Bunny.
This year has been different though; I find myself thinking about Easter in a whole new light.
I’ve been attending an episcopal church lately. It’s another stop in my long series of sojourns through different denominations and theological flavors of Christianity. I’ve enjoyed my church, so when I was asked to serve in the upcoming Maundy Thursday service, I jumped at the chance.
Though I was raised Catholic (we called it “Holy Thursday”), I never participated much in the Eastertide festivities.
I’ve never had ashes put on my forehead for Ash Wednesday.
I’ve never gone to church for Good Friday.
Needless to say, I had no idea what to expect for Maundy/Holy Thursday.
Maundy Thursday commemorates the Last Supper and the washing of feet.
Every week we reenact this moment in Communion where the bread and wine are distributed with these words:
“While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.” Matthew 26:26-28
This is the focal point of the Maundy Thursday service, which remembers the moment Jesus washed the disciples' feet in the Gospel of John. I knew beforehand that foot washing would be part of the service, but I did not realize that I had volunteered to have my feet washed and to wash someone else’s feet before I was to man the station.
I’m not good with physical contact. I’m often awkward when meeting people for the first time. So to be new in a church and be sitting in front of the congregation while a priest (quite kindly) washes my feet (which were already a bit damp thanks to a day out in rainy Boston with a poor choice in footwear)… let’s say that I was a bit nervous.
When I had to kneel before the man who patiently waited for my foot washing to be done, so I could then wash his feet… I internally debated how enthusiastic I should be as I washed his feet while worrying I was not enthusiastic enough. Fortunately, he was gracious and thankful for my effort.
As my newly clean feet settled into their shoes and I went on auto pilot refilling the pitcher with water, fetching fresh towels, and emptying the basin I had the opportunity to watch at least three dozen people have their feet washed, and then kneel and wash the next person in line.
A mix of ages, races, demographic backgrounds, and journeys in faith… At that moment, as I settled back into the pew and the church prepared for Communion, I knew I had witnessed the true meaning of being “one body in Christ.”
Though I’ve considered myself a Christian for the vast majority of my life, I’ve been hurt by people in the church for a variety of reasons. It’s unfortunate that so peaceful and holy an institution must be subject to very imperfect people who run it, but such is life.
I’ve been in many environments with Christians where the standard lies in how holy you are and how strong your personal relationship with Jesus is. It’s very “me-centric.” If you don’t meet that person or church’s standard for holiness it’s easy to feel like you’re on the outside looking in, with a condescending “we forgive you, of course, but clean yourself up before you come back in next time.”
I’ve spent the last few years feeling on the outside looking in.
Yet here I was. All my history. My mistakes. My flaws. And I was welcomed in, and my feet were washed. Like Peter, my impulse was to say “no” - I don’t deserve it… don’t stoop so low for me… please, it’s embarrassing. Instead, like Peter, I allowed myself to be loved. I allowed my feet to be washed.
The thing I love about my church - free feet cleaning aside - is that the measure of a “Christian” isn’t “how holy are you personally?” It’s “how well do you love?”
Of the churches I’ve been in, I think that comes about as close to the Gospel as you possibly can get. As I sat there in the pew I realized that volunteering wasn't about whisking basins of water back and forth. It was an opportunity to love and be loved as Christ loved us.