Wash and Be Washed

I have chronically dry skin. Even during the summer in the Deep South, I use every moisturizer I can. You can imagine how my feet are doing now; as the weather turns to spring, my feet still show the carnage of winter. I spend more time than I care to admit removing callouses from my tired feet, as I begin to consider wearing sandals again. Of course, I’ve been thinking about my feet a lot lately, because today someone will wash them.

For the many years I’ve been an Episcopalian, I’ve heard the jokes about a Holy Wednesday pedicure appointment, because naturally many of us want to quite literally put our best foot forward for the Maundy Thursday foot washing. Maundy Thursday is one of my favorite days every year, because the foot washing is very awkward, and I think God loves the moments when we are willing to be awkward with one another and call it worship.

I have washed many feet and I have had my feet washed many times. I have patted towels on the feet of children and felt curled, aged feet rest on my palms, each toe worthy of gentleness.

I have also never washed a foot perfectly. I have almost tumbled over, trying to kneel down before someone. I have trembled, picking up the pitcher to pour water. I have missed feet and basins completely, dripping water onto the floor. I have feared I moved too quickly through the washing and I have worried I was moving too slow. I have missed the cues telling me I’m next and I have sat in a chair waiting to have my feet washed, because someone else was just as confused. I have been so caught up in the beauty and holiness of such a sacred washing that my face had to be wiped almost as much as my feet before I moved on with the service. I have also been so preoccupied believing I was orchestrating the “foot washing system” that I forgot Jesus does the washing.

Maundy Thursday, blessedly, arrives to abolish whatever perfection we think is necessary during worship, because there is no perfect way to wash a foot, no perfect way to lift a pitcher, no perfect way to receive someone else’s callouses, and no perfect way to let someone else receive our own. We can only—on this day and every day—arrive, sit, kneel, let water wash over us, pour water for someone else, feel the comfort of towels on our soles, and tenderly place warm towels on someone else. Maundy Thursday removes our perfection by washing it out of us, by way of tired feet. Through this, we are given the chance to lose the perfection that hinders, in exchange for knowing there is a deeper presence, a deeper washing, a deeper way we know and are known.

Jesus decided his final bid of love before departure would be, well, awkward, because I think God loves the moments when we are willing to be awkward with one another, and Jesus knew to call it worship.

Still, I understand why some people don’t come forward for foot washing. Yes, it’s uncomfortable, but we do it because Jesus believed this awkward ritual could reach us in a way we can’t be reached intellectually and rationally. Jesus had every opportunity to lecture his disciples, but instead he knelt before them and offered what they actually needed—a moment of respite and care, a chance to have fresh feet that he knew, long before they knew, would go forth to bear good news. He received them, as they were, all their calluses and cracked feet, because he wanted to know and love them while he still could—all of them, the parts they wanted to show and the toes they might have wanted to hide.

You, too, are known and loved by a God who kneels before you and offers you what you actually need—a moment of respite and care, a chance to have fresh feet to bear good news. Jesus receives you, as you are, with all your calluses and your cracked feet, because he wants to know and love you now and forevermore—all of you, the parts you show and the toes you might wish to hide.

So I pray that this year you will, with all your imperfections and awkward moments, wash and be washed, because I think God loves when we are willing to be awkward with one another and awkward with God, because being with each other and God in our fullness is worship.