Maundy Thursday
The lighting in the worship center was dim. The gentle flicker of prayer candles on the small table at the back cast dancing shadows along the wall behind the altar. There was no sound other than the soft murmurs of prayer spoken by others who had already arrived. He reached down and lowered the kneeler in front of him sliding forward until he had come to rest leaning against the pew in front of him. As the slow gentle breaths of meditation began their seductive call to lose the chaos of the day he realized he didn’t really want to be here, hadn’t planned on coming, and had many other things he needed to do.
“Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the feet of the disciples, drying them with his apron.”
The scabs of a hundred pains itched and burned as he tried to blot out the noise in his head. “Perhaps I’ll pray for a bit and then leave just before the service starts.” he thought to himself. Besides he had never been to a foot washing service. Oh he knew there were some who did it, Primitive Baptists and a few other groups but it seemed so foreign, so anachronistic, so…exposing.
He had ugly feet, in fact one woman had told him she could never date anyone with toes as ugly as his. A scab burned deeper. How could he remove his shoes and socks and place his feet before someone he knew. Let them see his imperfection, his abnormality, his grotesqueness. No, better to leave them on than to risk another humiliation as he witnessed the revulsion in a “friend’s” face. He had enough scabs already.
Imitating the quiet of the space the pastor and the bishop walked in and silently knelt to pray. “Time to go while I have a chance.” But then someone sat between him and the aisle, their feet already bared. The ministers rose and one washed the other’s feet drying them delicately with the sash around his waist. The gift was repeated as the two exchanged places. The pastor faced the gathering and invited those who wished to have their feet washed come forward.
The only thing the man wished was that he could leave. But then one of those moments of Holy Presence began to overwhelm him. There in the silence broken only by the soft chords played by the musician. He looked and one scab began to fall away. Then another and yet another. As he looked each wounded place disappeared replace by soft, supple, flesh that looked as new as birth.
Without intention or even desire he reached down and began to unlace his shoes and then to tug away his socks. With the same absence of purpose he found himself drawn to stand and move toward the center aisle turning to walk toward those in front asking to be his servant. He didn’t know why but he felt his lower lip begin to tremble and felt the sting of salt gathering in his eyes.
“When he got to Simon Peter, Peter said, ‘Master, you wash my feet?’
Jesus answered, "You don't understand now what I'm doing, but it will be clear enough to you later."
He looked down at his feet. Those same misshapen toes padded onto the floor. Those same distorted nails flashed back at him. Those same feelings of never being good enough, of being less than, of not being wanted rushed him like a pack of starved jackals. “Please God, let me run away. I can come back for my shoes later.”
“Peter persisted, ‘You're not going to wash my feet—ever!’
He looked up at the pastor and then to the bishop, their eyes inviting him, seeming to know every feeling and thought of inadequacy he possessed. They sat on small stools looking up as if pleading to be permitted to do such a lowly task.
Jesus said, "If I don't wash you, you can't be part of what I'm doing."
The dam burst. The tears flooded down the man’s face. He felt his breath short and unsteady. His chest quivered as he tried to hold some semblance of dignified composure. It would not work. The emotion was too strong, too overwhelming, too needed. No, he could nothing but sit and feel the warm water flood across his feet and feel the gentle brush of the towel soothing away a thousand thousand heartaches.
"Master!" said Peter. "Not only my feet, then. Wash my hands! Wash my head!"
It was only a moment. A flash so brief it might never be able to be recorded… but he saw it. He saw in the pastor’s eyes a glint of a tear. And as the minister took a quick breath to regain himself the tear dissolved into a smile. A smile that knew, it knew! what had been washed away was more than lint from a sock, more than the heat of feet unable to breathe.
“Jesus said, ‘If you've had a bath in the morning, you only need your feet washed now and you're clean from head to toe.’
Scriptures from John 13:4-10 © The Message
“Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the feet of the disciples, drying them with his apron.”
The scabs of a hundred pains itched and burned as he tried to blot out the noise in his head. “Perhaps I’ll pray for a bit and then leave just before the service starts.” he thought to himself. Besides he had never been to a foot washing service. Oh he knew there were some who did it, Primitive Baptists and a few other groups but it seemed so foreign, so anachronistic, so…exposing.
He had ugly feet, in fact one woman had told him she could never date anyone with toes as ugly as his. A scab burned deeper. How could he remove his shoes and socks and place his feet before someone he knew. Let them see his imperfection, his abnormality, his grotesqueness. No, better to leave them on than to risk another humiliation as he witnessed the revulsion in a “friend’s” face. He had enough scabs already.
Imitating the quiet of the space the pastor and the bishop walked in and silently knelt to pray. “Time to go while I have a chance.” But then someone sat between him and the aisle, their feet already bared. The ministers rose and one washed the other’s feet drying them delicately with the sash around his waist. The gift was repeated as the two exchanged places. The pastor faced the gathering and invited those who wished to have their feet washed come forward.
The only thing the man wished was that he could leave. But then one of those moments of Holy Presence began to overwhelm him. There in the silence broken only by the soft chords played by the musician. He looked and one scab began to fall away. Then another and yet another. As he looked each wounded place disappeared replace by soft, supple, flesh that looked as new as birth.
Without intention or even desire he reached down and began to unlace his shoes and then to tug away his socks. With the same absence of purpose he found himself drawn to stand and move toward the center aisle turning to walk toward those in front asking to be his servant. He didn’t know why but he felt his lower lip begin to tremble and felt the sting of salt gathering in his eyes.
“When he got to Simon Peter, Peter said, ‘Master, you wash my feet?’
Jesus answered, "You don't understand now what I'm doing, but it will be clear enough to you later."
He looked down at his feet. Those same misshapen toes padded onto the floor. Those same distorted nails flashed back at him. Those same feelings of never being good enough, of being less than, of not being wanted rushed him like a pack of starved jackals. “Please God, let me run away. I can come back for my shoes later.”
“Peter persisted, ‘You're not going to wash my feet—ever!’
He looked up at the pastor and then to the bishop, their eyes inviting him, seeming to know every feeling and thought of inadequacy he possessed. They sat on small stools looking up as if pleading to be permitted to do such a lowly task.
Jesus said, "If I don't wash you, you can't be part of what I'm doing."
The dam burst. The tears flooded down the man’s face. He felt his breath short and unsteady. His chest quivered as he tried to hold some semblance of dignified composure. It would not work. The emotion was too strong, too overwhelming, too needed. No, he could nothing but sit and feel the warm water flood across his feet and feel the gentle brush of the towel soothing away a thousand thousand heartaches.
"Master!" said Peter. "Not only my feet, then. Wash my hands! Wash my head!"
It was only a moment. A flash so brief it might never be able to be recorded… but he saw it. He saw in the pastor’s eyes a glint of a tear. And as the minister took a quick breath to regain himself the tear dissolved into a smile. A smile that knew, it knew! what had been washed away was more than lint from a sock, more than the heat of feet unable to breathe.
“Jesus said, ‘If you've had a bath in the morning, you only need your feet washed now and you're clean from head to toe.’
Scriptures from John 13:4-10 © The Message
Labels: Foot Washing, Maundy Thursday
posted by Pastor Bluejeans at 12:38 PM
