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Readings: When I was reading over tonight’s gospel, a memory came back to me. It was almost nine years ago, when I was about to start my pediatric residency. I’d moved to a new city, I was surrounded by strangers, I’d had the letters “M.D.” after my name for all of a few weeks, and I didn’t have any idea what being a doctor was all about. All I knew was that I was scared stiff. The night before the first day of residency I drove the wrong way down a one-way street – the only time in my life I’ve ever done that. A cop pulled me over, and before he could even ask for my license and registration I started blubbering about how nervous I was and I promised always to drive in the right direction from now on and I was tragically sorry about breaking the law. He probably felt sorry for me, and he let me go before I started to cry. The experience that came to mind happened during my first week. I’d been assigned to the cardiology service, and the attending physician was the chair of the department, Dr. Kan. Just a month earlier I’d been a lowly medical student, and yet there I was, a doctor, working alongside the head of pediatric cardiology at Johns Hopkins. That was heady stuff. And scary. Late one afternoon when the whole team was ready to head home for the day, we still had a few patients to see. One of them was a child only a few months old, and when we went over to examine him, he threw up all over the floor of his room. Dr. Kan immediately went into the bathroom and emerged with some paper towels and began to clean up the mess. I tried to take over for her, for after all, I was just a lowly intern, and she was the head honcho. I even came right and told her that. But then she said something that I’ll never forget. She said, “That’s not the way we work around here.” And she proceeded to clean up the rest of it herself, and I learned a few big lessons that day. I learned that your status in life shouldn’t matter when it comes to helping people. That pride shouldn’t get in the way of doing the right thing. And, over my three years at that hospital, I learned that Dr. Kan was the exception, rather than the rule. But I was glad to have seen the exception. I was glad to know that the world isn’t always about power and prestige and status. I’ll bet the disciples had a similar reaction on the night of the Last Supper. I’ll bet their world was turned on its ear, just as mine was that day nine years ago. You think you know how things work. You think you know your place. But you don’t. Imagine how the disciples were feeling that night. They were just a few days removed from the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, with Hosannas sung and palm fronds littering the streets in celebration. After three years of suffering with Jesus through all the ups and downs, when things looked bright and also when they looked bleak, all of a sudden it seemed like everything was falling into place. The authorities were scared of Jesus but the people were beginning to embrace Him. Sure, Jesus had some strange things. Stuff about the Son of Man being lifted up, and the light only being in the world a little while longer. But He’s always talking about stuff like that. We never really knew what He meant. All we know is that the movement is gaining momentum, and great things seem to be just around the corner. With that in mind, we gathered together for a festive meal, on the eve of Passover. All twelve of us disciples were there, plus Jesus. Thirteen people in the room, but only two knew what really lay ahead: Jesus knew that the hour had come for him to depart this world, and Judas knew how that was going to happen, because he’d already agreed to betray Jesus into the hands of the authorities. The other eleven of us were none the wiser. We were giddy with excitement, because just a little while back we were going about our mundane tasks – whether that be fishing or farming or collecting taxes – but now there we were, with the Messiah, ready to usher in the Kingdom of God. Truth be told, we really didn’t know what to think. We just couldn’t wait to see what the next day would bring. So you can imagine how shocked we were when Jesus grabbed a towel and started washing our feet. That’s servants’ work! And not just any servant, but the youngest or the newest or the one who drew the short straw. Walking through the dusty streets of Jerusalem with flimsy sandals on your feet and your last shower a long while back: washing those feet wasn’t for the faint of heart! But it had to be done. That was the first thing you offered somebody when they entered your home: “Can I have my servant wash your feet?” If you didn’t, people would think you were rude, or inhospitable. And in our world, there aren’t too many things worse than not showing hospitality. So of course a servant was right there, all ready to go with a basin and towel. But instead Jesus got up without even saying a word – we barely realized what was going on – and started washing our feet! The first few disciples whose feet He washed didn’t know what to say or how to react, so they just let Him. But then He came to Peter, who was pretty indignant. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” he asked Jesus. Jesus told him he didn’t understand, but Peter still put up a fuss. “You will never wash my feet,” Peter said. But then Jesus told him that if He didn’t wash his feet, Peter wouldn’t have a share in things. Peter wouldn’t belong. And then Peter, good, old, impetuous Peter, told him to wash everything, from head to toe. Jesus just smiled at him, though, and told him that wasn’t necessary. He said something cryptic about people who had bathed not needing to be washed, and also about not all of us being clean. Only later did we realize that He was talking about the waters of baptism washing us clean of sin, and referring to Judas, who was going to betray him. Then Jesus put the basin and towel away and tried to make sure we understood what He just did. “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” We tried to figure out what He meant, because He couldn’t be telling us to wash each other’s feet right then and there, because He’d already done a great job at it. Was He saying that we should literally wash each other’s feet, unpleasant as that might be, or was He just being figurative, saying that we should be nice to each other and all that other stuff? We never really understood what He was trying to say until a long time after He’d said it. But you know as I look back on that night, the most interesting thing of all is that there was one person’s whose feet didn’t get washed: Jesus. It’s not like He washed our feet and then we washed His. It wasn’t an “I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine” kind of thing. And Jesus didn’t draw any attention to that – He just put down the basin and towel and went back to eating His dinner. We finally figured out what Jesus was talking about that night. He was trying to tell us that this isn’t some kind of temporary role reversal. This isn’t like the executives of a company serving meals on employee appreciation day, and then going back to their swanky offices. This isn’t like building a house with Habitat for Humanity, and then going back to living in your sumptuous mansion. This isn’t like washing somebody’s feet on Maundy Thursday and then going back to treating them the way you’ve always treated them. Jesus was talking about fundamental change. The kind of change that requires sacrifice and a whole new way of looking at the world. Where the last won’t just be better off, they’ll be first. And where the first won’t just be a little less well-off, they’ll be forgotten. That night Jesus’ feet never got washed, and I wonder if He even intended it to turn out that way. In some ways, it would have been more powerful if He hadn’t. If instead of trying to teach us another lesson, He’d just plain and simple forgotten about it. If He’d completely lost Himself in loving us and looking out for us. And, in the end, that’s what it’s all about. It’s about losing ourselves in the love of the people around us. It’s about leaving the world outside those doors, and turning the world on its ear in here. It’s about admitting that the world is about power and authority and status, and then saying that “that’s just not the way we work around here,” with here meaning this place, this parish, these hearts of ours. You walk through those doors, and something is different. The way we treat each other is different. Who we are is different. And so we sit here and let someone else wash our feet, and then we turn around and wash someone else’s. It’s a nice ritual. It’s a neat memory. But the work really begins when we leave this place. When we go back out into the world that plays by its own rules. Out there we have our work cut out for us. Because God wants us to live by a new set of rules, and He wants us to get so caught up in loving others and serving others and forgetting about power and prestige and status, that in the end we forget about ourselves. So that when we eventually fall asleep, exhausted at the end of the day, everyone will feel welcome, and everyone’s feet will be washed. Except our own. And we won’t even realize it, because that’s the one thing in this world we couldn’t care less about. |
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