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Readings (click here for full text of the readings): One of the most interesting parts of being a priest is encountering people in unusual situations. You get to walk with people through the extremes of life – from the joy of baptisms and weddings, to the sorrow of funerals – and through the same-old/same-old weeks that lie in between. But even on a Sunday that’s pretty much exactly the same as every other Sunday, there are still interesting encounters, like at the communion rail. For each person seems to come forward with their own style and agenda. Some exude humility and reverence, meekly waiting for the wafer to be placed upon their palm. Others extend their hands but seem to doubt whether they’ll get what they’re looking for, as undeserving as they think they are. And still others reach out and grab the bread before I can even finish telling them that it’s “the body of Christ, the bread of heaven,” so eager are they to obtain the “new and unending life” that comes with it. And the same goes for the cup, from the humble sippers to the careful dippers to the slurpers who’d make St. Peter proud. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they come forward for the Eucharist, and the same goes for the foot-washing. Because the Eucharist and the washing of feet are linked together, as different gospels have them each happening on the night that Jesus was betrayed, His last night of freedom, the last meal He shared with His friends. Where Matthew, Mark, and Luke describe the Lord’s Supper, John tells the story of the foot washing. This comes as a surprise to many people. After all, we celebrate the Eucharist every single week here, and yet the Gospel of John doesn’t even mention the Last Supper. In its place, John has Jesus washing the disciples’ feet, which brings home the same point: that Jesus, though one with God, is a servant of humanity, willing to humble Himself even to the point of death, in order to save us. And this is the one night of the year where we observe the washing of feet, which is probably why many of us are uncomfortable with it. I’ll bet that we’d be pretty darn uncomfortable with the Eucharist, too – and all its talk of eating the flesh and drinking the blood of Jesus – if we didn’t do it so often, and it didn’t feel so familiar. We know what the Eucharist feels like, and we have made our peace with it. We know what it means to us, and how we are to respond to it – with humility, reverence, or desperation; by sipping, dunking, or guzzling. But not so with the foot washing. We’re put off by logistics: one foot or two, a sprinkle or a scrub? And we feel self-conscious and awkward sitting in a chair, in front of everyone, doing absolutely nothing, letting someone else wash our dirty, malodorous feet. Perhaps we tell ourselves, “It’s just a ritual; it’s just a ritual; it’ll be over soon,” and we’re glad when it’s done, so that we can get on back to our pews. Or perhaps we’re like St. Peter, at first refusing to allow our feet to be washed – because we’re not worthy – but then swinging to the other extreme, asking to be washed head to toe, if that’s what it takes to be saved. But in the end, Peter didn’t understand. All he wanted was to do the right thing, to be saved, and he got so caught up in the hows and whys of salvation that he never seemed to get what it was all about. It’s easy to imagine him thinking about so many things while Jesus washed his feet – What did this mean? Was it enough? Was it being done right? – that he probably didn’t take a moment to enjoy the sensation of his feet being cleaned and rinsed and massaged by his dear friend in a startling act of intimacy. It was startling because feet are traditionally seen as the dirtiest part of the body, particularly in that part of the world. Perhaps the most vulgar gesture one can make there is showing another person the sole of your foot, a profound sign of disrespect. And when someone in the Jewish faith has gone through all the rigorous steps in order to be declared “ritually clean,” that person still needs to have his feet washed upon entering a home, in order to be clean from head to toe. So it was that Jesus said to Peter, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean.” (Of course, Jesus was talking about baptism there.) So Peter’s response makes a lot of sense. The Son of God touching the most ritually unclean part of your body? Absurd! But if that’s what it takes, I’ll put up with it. I’ll get through it. This is classic Peter, and perhaps the most memorable part of this story. Yet what most struck me about tonight’s gospel reading wasn’t Peter’s objection, but the fact that some of the other disciples didn’t seem to protest at all. John says that Jesus “began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him,” and only then did he come to Simon Peter, who raised all the questions and did all the misunderstanding. How many disciples sat there and let the Savior of the world wash their feet, we don’t know. But some, at least. Did they understand why Jesus was washing their feet? Probably not. Did they wonder whether they were worthy of such divine servitude? Certainly. But did they say anything? Did they put up any objections? No. They just sat there and let Jesus do what He obviously wanted to do, and therein lies one of the great lessons of the foot washing. We can question why Jesus did what He did. We can wonder how well this ancient ritual translates into our modern world. We can try to figure out what it means, what the protocol for it should be, and all of that. We can be just like Peter, so anxious to do the right thing, to get what we want out of it. Or we can be like the silent disciples, who let God do with them what He wanted. Who didn’t need a rational explanation. For they trusted that God knew what He was doing, and they had faith enough to go along. And let’s be clear – this isn’t a very hard thing God asks us to do. The Way of Sorrows will come soon enough, when God will ask us all to pick up our Crosses and walk with Him to the place of the skull. But the footwashing is as different from the Crucifixion as you can get, for tonight is all about friendship, and community, and a meal shared, and an intimate act of love – so profound as to defy understanding. In some ways I think we have an easier time with the command to pick up our crosses, than with the command to just sit there and let God wash our feet. Because when it comes to carrying our crosses, daunting as that might be, that’s something we can do. We have some control over it. When all’s said and done we can feel like we did something good, and we deserve something good in return. But the footwashing is all gift. It’s all grace, and undeserved. God calls us to sit and let Him serve us. He asks us to allow Him to touch the dirtiest part of ourselves – not just our feet, but our sins, and our scars, and our deepest regrets – and let Him wash us clean. In the end, we can take no credit for it, because it’s all God. And while that might be uncomfortable, it’s also liberating. Because you don’t need to have accomplished anything or understood anything or be any particular kind of person to sit in the chair and let the Savior of the world wash your sins away. That is God’s gift to each of us, freely offered, and all we need to do is sit still long enough to receive it.
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