Well, speaking of the dice of God, I had my feet washed yesterday.
What do I mean by this?
In the Catholic church there’s a tradition that is observed on Holy Thursday, putting into literal practice what Jesus preached before the Last Supper. After instructing his disciples a final time, Jesus removed his cloak, put a towel around his waist, knelt down and washed the feet of his closest followers. This being Jerusalem two thousand years ago, where most went unshod a good portion of the hot day, this meant cleaning some mighty dirty, smelly feet. And the pastor at my church made no bones about mentioning this, in a quite humorous way that those who know him are very fond. The whole lesson here is, of course, that the true disciple of Christ must serve those around him – not just those above him in station, but even those below him (as if anyone is truly “above” or “below” another, especially as we all must, sooner or later, appear naked before that big bright light at the end of the tunnel).
I’ve grown very close to my pastor, especially in light of the two trips to the hospital in February he made visiting sick old me. Our conversations, deeply personal and of a highly spiritualized nature, left a monumental impression on me, especially as I had never before spoken to someone else about such matters. And I do believe his prayers and sacramental actions played a huge part of me getting well, eventually. So a couple of weeks ago, after mass, he approached me and asked if I would consent to participate in the foot-washing ceremony during Holy Thursday mass.
Now, I have to admit, that threw me for a loop. As he was saying, “LE, I have a favor to ask of you, something I think you’d like to do …” I was thinking he would ask me something along the lines of my writing (of which we discussed in the hospital), say, maybe an article of some sort in the bulletin. So when he asked to wash my feet, well, my face must’ve dropped.
Feet are so … private. Personal. As my pastor stated in his sermon, how many people actually touch your feet? I can name the ones who touch mine on one hand. Now, I don’t think my feet are disgusting, per se, as they’re not hairy or anything and I don’t have green-blue monster toe fungus. But … even average, normal-looking feet sweat in socks, right? Isn’t that gross enough?
Well, Christ wasn’t bothered by it. To Him, it was the loving act of service that mattered. That was all, and that’s all that should be. Us petty humans tend to get distracted by a great deal of ephemera, most concerning our selves, our feelings, and our self-images that no one else really cares about. So, after a week of hemming and hawing, I agreed.
I have to admit the ceremony was beautiful. There were twelve of us to get our feet washed, one representing each Apostle, and we went up to a chair before the altar, one at a time, and Father washed our feet. Each washing lasted a minute or so. Honestly, as I admitted to my wife as I got back in the pew, it was actually quite relaxing and enjoyable.* And I do have the distinct feeling that this was as much soul-cleansing for Father as it was for each of us.
Afterwards, as mass ended, there was a solemn procession out the front doors, following a winding, candle-lit path, through the parking lot, and into the parish rec center where the priests knelt before the Blessed Sacrament for five minutes of silent worship. Absolutely beautiful. Then, they left, without speaking, and some parishioners went up to do homage. As we had our two very young children, and it was very late, we left and went home.
Do you realize what I have done for you? You call me “teacher” and “master,” and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.
What are you doing for someone else right now?
* Later, at home, I kidded her by demanding a foot-washing from her on a daily basis. You can imagine the look I got for that …
What do I mean by this?
In the Catholic church there’s a tradition that is observed on Holy Thursday, putting into literal practice what Jesus preached before the Last Supper. After instructing his disciples a final time, Jesus removed his cloak, put a towel around his waist, knelt down and washed the feet of his closest followers. This being Jerusalem two thousand years ago, where most went unshod a good portion of the hot day, this meant cleaning some mighty dirty, smelly feet. And the pastor at my church made no bones about mentioning this, in a quite humorous way that those who know him are very fond. The whole lesson here is, of course, that the true disciple of Christ must serve those around him – not just those above him in station, but even those below him (as if anyone is truly “above” or “below” another, especially as we all must, sooner or later, appear naked before that big bright light at the end of the tunnel).
I’ve grown very close to my pastor, especially in light of the two trips to the hospital in February he made visiting sick old me. Our conversations, deeply personal and of a highly spiritualized nature, left a monumental impression on me, especially as I had never before spoken to someone else about such matters. And I do believe his prayers and sacramental actions played a huge part of me getting well, eventually. So a couple of weeks ago, after mass, he approached me and asked if I would consent to participate in the foot-washing ceremony during Holy Thursday mass.
Now, I have to admit, that threw me for a loop. As he was saying, “LE, I have a favor to ask of you, something I think you’d like to do …” I was thinking he would ask me something along the lines of my writing (of which we discussed in the hospital), say, maybe an article of some sort in the bulletin. So when he asked to wash my feet, well, my face must’ve dropped.
Feet are so … private. Personal. As my pastor stated in his sermon, how many people actually touch your feet? I can name the ones who touch mine on one hand. Now, I don’t think my feet are disgusting, per se, as they’re not hairy or anything and I don’t have green-blue monster toe fungus. But … even average, normal-looking feet sweat in socks, right? Isn’t that gross enough?
Well, Christ wasn’t bothered by it. To Him, it was the loving act of service that mattered. That was all, and that’s all that should be. Us petty humans tend to get distracted by a great deal of ephemera, most concerning our selves, our feelings, and our self-images that no one else really cares about. So, after a week of hemming and hawing, I agreed.
I have to admit the ceremony was beautiful. There were twelve of us to get our feet washed, one representing each Apostle, and we went up to a chair before the altar, one at a time, and Father washed our feet. Each washing lasted a minute or so. Honestly, as I admitted to my wife as I got back in the pew, it was actually quite relaxing and enjoyable.* And I do have the distinct feeling that this was as much soul-cleansing for Father as it was for each of us.
Afterwards, as mass ended, there was a solemn procession out the front doors, following a winding, candle-lit path, through the parking lot, and into the parish rec center where the priests knelt before the Blessed Sacrament for five minutes of silent worship. Absolutely beautiful. Then, they left, without speaking, and some parishioners went up to do homage. As we had our two very young children, and it was very late, we left and went home.
Do you realize what I have done for you? You call me “teacher” and “master,” and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.
What are you doing for someone else right now?
* Later, at home, I kidded her by demanding a foot-washing from her on a daily basis. You can imagine the look I got for that …
1 comment:
It is one of the Church's most meaningful and moving traditions. You must feel honored to have been selected, cobra toes aside....MWA
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