No, I didn't get my feet washed tonight, and I didn't wash any feet. But I did go to Mass of the Lord's Supper and watched my pastor wash feet. And I found myself thinking about a couple of footwashing experiences I've had, and I thought I'd tell you two stories.
About 10 years ago, I spent Holy Week (which was also my spring break that year) at Andre House in Phoenix, Arizona. At the time, Andre House was feeding about 800 people every night. I helped all week. But on Holy Thursday, they did something pretty special. They set up about 8-10 chairs. Anyone who came through the line and who wanted to could sit down and get their feet washed, their nails trimmed, and a new pair of socks.
I didn't end up getting to wash any feet that night. My job, pretty much the whole night long, was dumping dirty water and bringing fresh water so that those who were washing could keep at it. It was a pretty amazing thing to see the folks (at least one priest, some staff, some volunteers) sit people down and treat them with care and compassion. It was actually a very, very profound moment where you saw something that was pretty efficient, and yet everyone was also treated with profound dignity and respect. It was really amazing to watch.
At the end of the night, there was finally no one else waiting, but I had brought more fresh water, and one of the footwashers invited me to sit down and have my feet washed. I gently refused. Funny thing: I have never had so much sympathy for St. Peter! I really didn't feel worthy: not to sit in the same seat that "the least of these" had occupied all night, not to have this young volunteer wash my own smelly feet. He insisted; gently, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. I remember feeling vulnerable, exposed. I remember also feeling soothed, comforted, cared for. It was powerful.
A few years later, I had been drafted into some pretty serious volunteer work at a parish. And the priest and I had a few issues along the way. Quite a few. It was hard. And somehow--I forget how--I was asked to have my feet washed on Holy Thursday. Actually, truth be told, I was pretty much told I was expected. Typical, really. And then, somehow, there he was: humbly washing feet. My feet.
There is an intimacy in this act, and it is hard to be angry at someone who does this for you. It makes forgiveness that had seemed impossible seem possible. It can change everything. It is no wonder that Jesus did this. For Peter. For Judas. For all of us.
1 comment:
I remember having my feet washed at the Mass of the Lord's Supper a few years ago -- just as I was emerging from the most debilitating period of my chronic illness. I, too, felt hesitant, unworthy, etc. And vulnerable and exposed. And also tended to and deeply cared for. It's an amazing and powerful ritual. Thanks for reminding me.
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