Holy Thursday
Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper
I will never forget the first time I participated in a Holy Thursday service that included foot washing.
I walked in and took my seat on one of the folding chairs in what used to be a living room in a house on the east side of Pittsburgh. I was a graduate student at the time. And this was a house church associated with a Mennonite Voluntary Service unit that ministered to prison inmates in the area. I don’t remember the sermon on that day, though I’m sure it was quite good. The pastor of that church was a really gifted preacher.
What I do remember was that after the sermon I remained in my chair and watched as my fellow church members moved toward other folding chairs that had been lined up and set in pairs with a basin and a towel in between them. Over the course of the next 45 minutes or so each of us made our way to one of those chairs and washed the feet of another.
That experience really stuck with me. It felt as though in the act of having my feet washed and washing someone else’s feet (not sure which was more humbling) I was learning something really important about what it means to be a Christian.
To be clear, I wasn’t at all keen on baring my feet to someone else. I remember that I had been teaching that day, which meant I had been on my feet a good while. I also remember, as I sat down in that folding chair in front of the basin, thinking—yikes—what do my feet look like? Smell like? Feet are the pack mules of our bodies—bearing our weight in all manner of circumstances. Of course, they sweat. They stink. And it was spring—warmer weather only made it all worse! So, I had to swallow my pride, to say the least, to remove my shoes and peel off my socks and let someone else—not an intimate relation but a churchgoer I didn’t know at all well—look upon them! Never mind that, they washed them. That is to say, they spent some time with them! It was truly humbling.
And then it was my turn to wash my partner’s feet. Having faced the reality of the iffy state of my own feet, I wasn’t sure at all what I might encounter in my partner’s feet. That was also humbling—because my job was to lovingly wash them, pour water over them, gently wrap them in the towel, and dry them.
Foot washing may be my favorite ritual in the Christian church. I love how it calls upon us to put aside all pretense, all hubris, all status. When I am washing someone else’s feet or they are washing mine, I am intensely aware of what it means to follow Jesus. To empty myself out, that is.
My feet never felt so clean as they did after that foot washing.
How did we get so lucky as to have a savior who, just a day before he enters into his passion, insists on washing our feet? It is as if he felt obliged to say—do you get this? Do you see what I am doing? I—the messiah, the one with whom God is well pleased—am going to wash your feet—like it or not. And then, he tells us—this is my body. This is my blood. Both will be given up for you.
You? You mean me? The one with the stinky feet? The repeat sinner? That is the one whose feet you insist on washing?
Well, then I suppose there are quite a few feet I need to be washing. Quite a few.
This Holy Thursday, oh God, may we commit ourselves to foot washing. To making ourselves vulnerable to the grace of others and to sharing your grace with others. Many others. Amen.
- Susan Trollinger