A Maundy Thursday Reflection: Will You Let Me?

All kinds of washing happen in scripture . . . the washing of Jesus’ feet with a woman’s tears . . . the washing of Jesus’ hair with annointing oil . . . the symbolic washing of bodies in baptism . . . washing of the feet in Genesis and in John, a simple act of cleaning up for supper . . . washing of animals in preparation for their sacrifice . . . washing of clothes in preparation to come before the presence of the Lord . . . washing as an act of healing, as with the blind man at Siloam . . .

And then there was the time in Matthew when Jesus and his disciples got in trouble with the Pharisees because they didn’t wash their hands . . . because they didn’t make themselves ritually pure before eating . . .

The washing of his disciple’s feet by Jesus was a very simple and routine act in the life of a Jew living in that time – comparable in our own time to washing our hands before dinner.

What, then, was so remarkable, that Peter refused to have his own feet washed?  That Jesus, as leader, teacher and as host, did the washing himself, was extraordinary. . . there were servants for the lowly work of washing dirty feet.  That’s how it seems the disciples saw it. . . but Jesus saw it very differently.

When I think of the love of this simple act from Jesus’ point of view, I am reminded of going to a Turkish Bath in Amman, Jordan.  At the Turkish Bath, you are pampered beyond belief.  After a shower and time in the sauna and before the massage, you are bathed.  Lying on a marble slab, your body is scrubbed, but the last thing is the best – your face is washed.  I don’t think anyone has washed my face for me since I was a child.

To have someone hold your head in their hands while they tenderly wash your face is to feel like a baby . . .  safe, cherished, and utterly vulnerable.

How gently Jesus must have spoken to Peter, “Peter, unless you let me, I cannot love you.  Will you let me?”

Will we?

Thoughtful Thursdays

It’s the day of Passover.  Are the streets quiet with folks going about their tasks a little softer than usual and the women cooking inside or out back?  Or are they filled with the noise of time taken away from the usual work-a-day way of things?

Signs are understood best in hindsight, it seems.  Yet I wonder if there were portents and omens or was it just another Passover day to the observing eye?

Feet will be washed by a different hand this day – did the water know of its honor?  Did it cling a bit longer to the caressing palms so soon to be pierced?  Or did the droplets draw back in horror at what was to come?

Did the women creep in a little closer or wander away shaking their heads at the certain folly about to come?  Did they bring in the wash early against a coming storm they could sense but not see?

Did the taste of the bread on the tongue leave a taste bitter or sweet?

Did even the betrayer sip from the cup or did he just pretend?

Were they skittish like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof?  Or were they languid, the others, the accompaniers who would so soon abandon their posts?

Did the day passing into evening rest lightly on their shoulders?  Or was there a whisper barely caught but unsettling in its passing that turned their heads to stare into a space they knew not?

It is Thursday.  The day when it all comes to a head, a day filled with meaning.

Did they know it?  Were they just a bit more thoughtful, more quiet, this Thursday?

Or did they think it was a day like any other – one bleeding into the next – barely noted in its passing – memorable only for what happens after?

Did they feel the storm coming?

I do.  It crawls along my skin and burrows its way into the itching underneath of things.

It is Thursday.

Just a day – like any other.

The Beauty of the Painted Toe

I love having a pedicure.  My only regret is that I came to such pleasure so late in life, having only had my first professional pedicure within the last ten years or so.  And I don’t go that often – maybe once or twice a year.

Mine is the oldest foot in the photo

On the surface of things, it’s pure silliness – having someone paint your toe nails some outrageous color seldom, if ever, seen in nature.  That’s actually part of the draw for me – there are far too few ways to be silly when you’re in your 50's – trust me on this.

But whenever I slide into the welcoming chair and place my feet, one at a time, into the warmth of the waiting water, my whole being immediately relaxes into the experience.  And I am always reminded of Jesus’ very simple lesson of hospitality: if you really want to welcome another into your life, wash their feet. . . get down on your knees and embrace and caress the part of them seldom seen . . .

And as Peter attests, as hard as it is to be the one doing the serving-welcoming, it’s not easy being served either, for we, both the server and the served, are reminded in a most intimate way of the mutuality of vulnerability.

I seriously doubt if Jesus was about to give Peter a choice between pink shock and cocoa motion (yes, real nail polish colors), but the gift given and received was even more beautiful, more sensual, more intimate – the giving and receiving of time spent caring for and being cared for by another.