In the Gospel of John, the focus on the Passover meal as described in the other gospels—including the dipping of bread and sharing of the cup—is replaced with a tender, yet stunningly disturbing, moment. Jesus stoops to a most humiliating task: washing the disciples’ feet (John 13.1-15).
Now we have a foot-washing service at our church, but I can guarantee you that we all come having washed our feet. We stand barefoot in the aisle as we come forward to sit and have another parishioner pour warm water over our feet and dry them with a towel. It’s all a little embarrassing, unless you have nicely pedicured toes, and we make it as symbolic and sterile as possible.
This, however, is not what was going on in this gospel story. We come to church with layers and layers between the dirty ground and us: socks, shoes, carpet, flooring, concrete. First-century Jews, however, traditionally wore open sandals, and the dust and gravel and filth of open streets used by animals and humans alike were the reality of feet. This is why hosts would always offer water for washing the feet when a guest arrived, and those who were rich enough to have a slave or servant had them do the dirty work.
Something was amiss in this gospel scene. No one had offered them water for washing, and none of the disciples offered. So Jesus stood up, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, and took a basin of water over to one of the disciples. He knelt and took the man’s feet firmly in his grasp, untied his sandals, and began to wash. The shock and silence as the men watched him do this are evident in all the white spaces of your Bible as you read these verses. Jesus? Washing feet?
Of course, it’s Peter who blurts out what all the others are thinking and feeling. Impossible! This is a nasty job fit only for the lowest. Our feet are caked with dirt and whatsoever-else-we-might-have-stepped-in; they stink; they’re cracked and calloused, and our toenails are broken and chipped, and our legs are hairy and scarred.
This is the problem with most forms of Christian spirituality. We like it spiritual. We like it mental and emotional, prayerful and pure. We like sweet words and holy feelings. We like leather Bibles and padded pews and Sunday morning worship. But the other parts of us—the hidden, icky parts of our bodies, souls, and minds—need to stay hidden. For everyone’s sake.
Look carefully at this painting by Ford Madox Brown. See the confusion on the faces of the disciples, the one in particular clasping hands over his head in complete befuddlement. Look at Peter’s grumpy face, scowling at the indecency of it all. “You will never wash my feet!” Or, as we might say it, “You’re above all that fleshly stuff, Lord. You’re all about saving my soul, and my feet have nothing to do with all that. Leave the nasty parts of me hidden, as they should be. I’m tracking with you doctrinally, of course, but this filth I’ve stepped in is really just part of the human scene, you know. I’ll take care of it later, privately.”
Jesus pays no attention. Instead he lovingly and thoroughly washes the grime away, quietly acknowledging that “you do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Do we let him do what we don’t understand?
And then, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Are we willing to let him get his hands dirty, let him take hold of the very lowest parts of us? He loves us down to our toes, down to the very smallest, darkest, smelliest corners of our existence.
There is no one whose toes Jesus does not love. Judas was there, and he doesn’t leave to betray Jesus until later in this chapter. This means that Jesus washed Judas’ feet too. Jesus “knew who was to betray him.” What did Jesus think as he took Judas’ feet in his hands and carefully cleaned them? What does he think as he gently kneels before you and asks you to let him wash you?
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