It was Maundy Thursday and I almost didn’t go to church.
There had been a fire in my neighbor’s garden the previous week. My windows were open at the time, leaving my walls black and my bedsheets wreaking with a noxious, unhealthy odor. After overcoming their suspicion that I had somehow thus damaged the whole room with my one small, scented candle, the university provided me with a dark, dusty, windowless room in a Soviet-looking apartment complex near the shoreline to live in while the repairs were completed. It was all very inconvenient. I was elbow deep in an eight-thousand-word essay whose deadline loomed on the other side of Easter, and the extra slog up the steep hill into town made everything seem too much. After dinner, I lay in bed staring at the popcorn-textured ceiling, contemplating whether I really needed to go to church. But scruples had their way, and drawn by a mixture of guilt and desire, I resolved to go.
I hesitated long enough to arrive late, and thus scampered into the church at the end of the first hymn. Taking advantage of the muffled cacophony of the shuffling of shoes and groaning of old wood as everyone sat down for the gospel reading, I slid into the only available seat that wouldn’t make my arrival conspicuous: the corner on the back row. The readings sped by in a whir, and my mind wandered until Father Ambrose stepped into the center of the congregation, the warm glow of candles illuminating his perfectly round glasses right along with the gold strings of the beautifully embossed gospel book he held. He kissed the book, then calmly announced, “A reading from the gospel according to John,” in his wonderful tenor voice. And then he sang, with his mouth exactly the shape of an egg, the following passage:
Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God; so he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.
He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”
John 13:3–6
It is the last scene in John’s gospel before Jesus’ betrayal, trial, and crucifixion. I mulled over the arresting strangeness of the passage. Knowing he was about to be executed, you might think Jesus would do something grand, strategic, impressive. But, no. Knowing God had put all things into his power, knowing all that would come—the suffering, the insults, the pain—He washed their feet. Knowing that one of these would betray Him to His death, one deny Him, the rest scatter at His arrest, He washed their feet. Knowing He would rise again and conquer death, He washed their feet. Their Rabbi, master, friend, washed their feet. The long-awaited Messiah washed one hundred and twenty dusty man-toes. If I were to make up a religion, I thought to myself, I would not make this up.
Knowing that one of these would betray Him to His death, one deny Him, the rest scatter at His arrest, He washed their feet.
Lost to rumination, I remember almost nothing of the service until an usher gently tapped me on the shoulder.
“He will wash your feet,” he whispered almost inaudibly.
I tried not to look horrified, as he gestured down the aisle to a handful of people dutifully removing their shoes and socks. It began to dawn on me that it would have been a practical impossibility to wash everyone’s feet in an orderly and efficient manner, so only those sitting on the ends of the rows would have the honor. Feeling nothing but remorse for having arrived late and landed myself in that cursed chair, I nodded and started to take off my shoes so the usher would know I understood.
I began unknotting the laces on my H&M canvas shoes, whose once floral patterns were now almost indiscernible after one too many rainy days and muddy walks. I usually wouldn’t wear shoes like this to church, but in my rush to arrive I didn’t have time to change after a long day of tromping to and from town. I surveyed my mismatched socks with a pang of embarrassment; they were plastered to my feet after a rainstorm earlier in the day. Peeling them off revealed my wrinkled, pink, and puffy feet. And, oh! Oh, they smelled. Biology generally makes us inured to our own stench, so it’s a terrible sign if you can smell your own feet.
Father Max was doing the washing, Father Ambrose standing stalwartly beside him with fresh water and a towel. Father Max is an old priest, with snow white hair, a whiskery beard, and wild, ice blue eyes. He wore a purple stole, whose oversized shoulders jutted out like a suit of armor. He trembles slightly as he walks and speaks, but there is a wiry power in his presence. Mine were the last pair of feet to be washed, and as I beheld the priests’ slow journey toward my dark corner of the church, an embarrassed dread reached a low boil in my chest. I hadn’t bargained on another human being touching me that evening, and much less touching the most used, tired, dirty part of me.
Finally, it was my turn.
With difficulty, Father Max stooped to his knees as I presented my offensive feet. He tenderly placed my foot in the fresh lukewarm water. It was no symbolic foot washing; he really did wash my feet thoroughly, and dried each toe with the towel, like I was a little child being bundled off to bed after a warm bath. And then, with solemn dignity and unspeakable tenderness, he bent all the way to the ground, his white head shaking, and kissed my feet.
Tears sprang into my eyes, welling up from some deep, untouched chasm in my heart. I didn’t know where to look. As Father Max stood, with effort and dignity, a prayer rose in my heart:
Lord, are you going to wash my feet?
All I remember after that is stepping out into the damp spring air and watching as the golden light of evening bathed the broken cobblestones. I thought of the old cathedral, whose broken body had been used to build many homes in the old gray town. It was like Jesus, who loved dearly enough to break His own body.
(an excerpt from Aggressively Happy: a realist’s guide to believing in the goodness of life)
I had never been to a Maundy Thursday service til two years ago, and as I looked around the full room of people, I thought “there is no way they’re going to wash everyone’s feet”. But sure enough, unbothered by time it took, the priests washed the feet of every person at the service. My little Protestant brain couldn’t believe it.
This was beautiful! Made me cry. What a loving and humble act. Blessed Holy Week to you, Joy, and to everyone reading <3