Year A, Maundy Thursday It seems to me that we here today are not all that comfortable with the whole footwashing thing. I wonder why that is? Part of it, I’m sure, is that the whole concept is so foreign to us that we don’t get it. And some of us think our feet are too ugly, though we are created in God’s image. And we don’t like this forced humility—it reminds us of being dependent, and maybe even of our own mortality. After all when are we washed by others? “As helpless babies we are washed by our mothers on whose love we are totally dependent. When we are sick and unable to move [we are washed] by nurses to whose care we must entrust our selves.” We imagine ourselves as old and unable to care for ourselves, having others see to our every humiliating need, including bathing, and we resist the image. And when we are dead, we are washed. So why would we want to have anything to do with being washed here, tonight? But I’ve forgotten another washing, the intimate pleasure of bathing with lovers. Still, in all of these cases, letting others wash us raises the issue of dependence, trust, and vulnerability. And this, this humbling, this lack of control, troubles us. In 1st century Judaism, foot washing was an everyday occurrence, appearing as a ritual of daily cleansing, or as a religious act, but commonly as a token of hospitality when someone entered a home. The roads were dusty and dirty, sandals were the only shoes worn, and feet got dirty. So they needed to be washed. But this was such a menial task that it was assigned to the lowliest of servants. In fact, it was so menial that in wealthier homes even Jewish slaves were exempt and the job was kept for Gentiles. Sometimes this lowly task was done by a wife for her husband, by a child for a parent, or by a student for a teacher, as an act of extreme devotion. There’s an ancient Jewish story where a new bride is overcome with love for her husband and offers to wash his feet. He protests, believing it too humble a task, and sends for a servant girl. The new bride protests, saying “no, my Lord, because you are my lord from now on and I am your maidservant. For your feet are my feet and your hands are my hands. . . another woman will never wash your feet.” For Jesus and his disciples, foot washing was very common, very ordinary. But it was an act with social implications, and under no circumstances would the person with a higher status wash the feet of those beneath them. When Jesus ties a towel around his waist to wash his disciple’s feet, he is taking the form of a servant. Peter gives voice to this shocking turn of events. Imagine, their beloved Lord, their Master, their Messiah even, stooping so low as to perform the work of a servant—this can’t be!! Jesus however insists that he is their servant, that he must do the washing. Peter’s resistance is to being served by his master, served by Jesus. He must be willing to yield and say yes Jesus, yes to the shame of being washed. Because of Jesus’ atoning death, we too must say yes, yield and surrender our pride, our control. Jesus says, If I do not wash you, you have no part in me. There is no room for compromise. We must face our reluctance to be served. Up until now, we have been in control. We have been in charge of ourselves, independent. We see dependence as humiliating. We want love, but we want it on our own terms. We think we need to earn it, to buy it, and when that doesn’t work we replace our desire for love with gratification from things or even from our own endeavors. But this independence, this control, leaves a lonely place inside of us. If we are truly honest with ourselves, we are not satisfied, but instead yearn for . . . something. And here is Jesus, at our feet, with a towel around his waist and a basin in his hands. In his humility he confronts our refusals, our control, our other loves, and instead inflames our hopes to be loved by the Father. This love is tested in the Cross, and vindicated in his resurrection. On Maundy Thursday, we are called to abandon our resistance to being served and to being loved. We are too much like Peter, appalled that Jesus should wash our feet, and we insist that we wash his. As Christians, we have accepted the love of God on the Cross, and yet we still want to keep some parts of ourselves, for our self. There are things that we want to hang on to. And still, we want to deserve love. We are pretty good at giving gifts, exchanging gifts, but we are not comfortable with receiving, are we? We would rather serve than be served; rather give than be given to. Even in our prayers perhaps: Do we look at Jesus and ask him to wash away the dirt and grime of our lives, our frustrations, our struggles, our mistakes? I think most of us would rather do it on our own. Let’s imagine ourselves in the scene with Jesus and his disciples. Let’s let Jesus come and wash us. Let us pray: Heavenly Father, I pray that you will send your Holy Spirit to us, the Spirit who will enable us to say yes, to let go, to accept, to receive in humility. Help us to see Jesus as servant, ready to wash us and serve us. Though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men, and being found in human form he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. We need you, Lord, to help us to be open to your unconditional love, open to being served by you, ready and willing to accept your act of loving service on the Cross in a way that is deeper and more profound than words. Help us to let Jesus was us, serve us, because it is only when we can accept this from Jesus, that we can even begin to do it for others. Amen. Let’s just be quiet for a few minutes. If you want, I would be honored to wash your feet, but its also perfectly fine to sit and reflect.
Sources: NIVApplication Commentary: John (Gary M. Burge) A Season for the Spirit (Martin L. Smith) |