At the Feet of the Disciples

 

John 13:1-35

Matthew’s were full of calluses. His feet were hardened by the Galilean roads, the flimsy sandals he wore, the miles and miles he walked with them. When I washed his feet, after the initial shock, he relaxed into the experience, a pedicure, a day at the spa. I rubbed right under his instep, trying to soothe all those places he held his fear. 

Andrew’s toes cracked loudly when I washed his feet. He stretched them out as if he’d been wearing too tight shoes for too long. He was embarrassed by the sound, and the other disciples laughed. They’d all been holding so much in. I’d taken them on quite a journey. And now it was almost over. 

John’s feet were thin and swift, nails short-clipped, he had high arches and a strong heel. He was our runner, he could walk for miles without getting tired, he never complained. 

James’s feet were dry and cracked and brittle. He always looked as if he were on the brink of tears. I was gentle, dabbing the cloth rather than wiping, so as not to tear his tender skin. 

Thomas’s feet had been severely neglected. He was our wanderer. We’d lose track of him for hours, and then somehow he’d show up right at mealtimes, usually with a new mouth to feed or a sweet pastry to share. His feet were crooked with bunions, from trying to force his feet into shoes that didn’t fit. I gently pulled on his toes, stretched out his ligaments, tried to tell him that he belonged. 

Peter, well, Peter took me awhile. I could hear everyone’s eyes rolling as he argued with me. They were ready for dinner. But Peter had pulled his robe taut over this legs, trying to hide the feet below, as if he were trying to convince me that he had no feet at all. He wouldn’t let me near them at first. I think he was ashamed of the state of his feet, the dirt under his nails, the corn on his heel, the mud in all the little cracks and wrinkles of his sole. So silly. Doesn’t he know that everyone’s feet get dirty? But when Peter is passionate about something, he dives right in, all the way, and neglects everything else around him, including his feet. So of course, when I insisted, when I told him that I must wash his feet in order for him to have any part of me, he went in whole hog, he wanted his whole body cleaned as well. Easy there, Peter. You’re clean, you’re fine, just as you are. There is such thing as moderation, you know. 

Finally, I came to Judas. His feet were blackened by the tar in the roads, bruised from pacing and worry. I washed his feet too. I started in back, with his heel, the one that would turn against me. I dipped the towel into the basin, let the water seep into its folds. I wrapped the towel around his heel, felt his achilles tendon contract at the touch. It’s ok, I tried to tell him. I know what these feet must do. But still I tried to scrub them clean. They were such strong, willing feet. Earnest feet. Feet ready to change the world. I thought about his father’s smile the first time his feet carried him to his arms. About the giggles that would erupt when his mother tickled and kissed his toes. About all the roads his feet had seen. All the roads we’d walked together. I rinsed out the towel in the basin, rung out the excess, and as I worked down over his tibia, the ligaments in his instep, I thought about the first day we met, how I loved him immediately, without hesitation. And about how I loved him still. Even though he was breaking my heart. 

They say that there is a connection between each part of the foot and every part of the body. The eyes are connected to the third metatarsal, the stomach, pancreas, and kidney to the arch, the sciatic nerve to the line that follows the achilles tendon. Just to the outside of the ball of the foot, they say, is the connection to the heart. I worked that spot hard, willing it to be clean, knowing it couldn’t be, loving it anyway. He was too much in his toes, where his brain and ears, neck and spine were kept. Again and again I wordlessly begged him with each swipe of the towel not to do this, to find another path, to walk a different road. Some tears mixed in with the dirty basin water. Maybe if I cleaned them really well, these feet would not walk out on me. Maybe if I paid closer attention to his arthritis, if I listened better to his heel spurs, massaged the tendonitis, he’d change his mind, he’d take a step back. But like a ballerina in her first pair of pointe shoes, he was all on his toes, all in his head, wrapping and fortifying his feet around so his toes could bear the weight. 

When the right foot didn’t seem to work, when I couldn’t get it clean, I tried again on his left, dipping the towel, wringing out the towel, unfolding the towel, the water splashing out if its bowl. I washed around the bottom, base and edge, around his heel and arch, past the ball, over his thick cuticles and between his toes. He almost laughed, a little smirk, when I reached his toes. Did he remember, then, his mother’s loving touch? 

Did he remember the first times his heart was broken, when his father didn’t return, when the kids laughed at school, when his mother cried herself to sleep every night? Did he recall all the times it cracked in two, again and again, from the disappointment, the broken relationship, the hope deferred? 

Did he remember all the hearts he’s broken since?

Did any of these disciples, my dear friends, recall the moment when they never thought they’d recover from the spurned love, the foreclosure on the house, the illness, the accident, the child who ran away? 

Do they remember the hearts they’ve broken, the mistakes they’ve made, the poor choices chosen? 

There is more to come. Soon, my broken heart will break theirs, and somehow they will have to find a way to keep going, to keep walking, to keep stepping forward. Somehow they will have to take their broken hearts and wash the feet of those who have broken them. They will have to find a way to let someone, whose heart they’ve broken, wash their own feet to healing. These are the only steps forward.

They are going to break each other’s hearts. 

Their hearts will all be broken. 

But, I wonder, will they wash their feet anyway, will they let their feet be washed? 

This is the only way. 

Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives these broken hearts receives me. And whoever receives my broken heart, receives the heart of God. 

Thanks be to God.

Choose Your Gate Adventure

 

John 12:12-19

So come with me to early Spring, circa AD 33. It’s been a dry winter in Judea, and you’ve been preparing the fields for planting. It’s hard work, ploughing the fields with rudimentary tools, and you are exhausted from day. They’re not your fields, of course; they belong to a rich overseer, who, once he has been paid, will sometimes condescend to throw you a few pennies in return for your toil. And, since you work for a “kind and benevolent" landowner, you are getting a few days off soon, so that you may celebrate the most sacred days in the Jewish calendar, Passover. You’re not sure how you will afford the offering necessary from all Jews in good standing, but this year, like all the years before, you are relying on God to somehow make this possible. Maybe there will be a sale on unblemished lambs at the monopoly grocery store down the road. Or maybe the road will be too dangerous altogether, what with all the rowdy insurrectionist groups popping up to protest throughout Galilee. It’s been pretty wild lately, what with the demonstrations and the angry mobs organizing and gathering momentum. It’s a tinderbox out there. One small disruption and the whole place will go up in flames. You know that it’s your faithful duty, but you are tempted to sit this Passover out, just this one time. Things are tense out there, politically, economically, and socially. You just want to keep your head down and survive.

But today, at the end of the day, for once, you come home from the fields and, as your wife is adding more water to the soup, and as you’re sorting through the mail, separating the junk mail ads, from the bills you have no idea how you’ll pay, from the past due tax notices, you find something different — an invitation from the Temple priests in Jerusalem.

You are cordially invited to the yearly celebration of independence, called Passover. This is a weeklong feast, with prayers to God, delicious food, singing, dancing, and connecting with extended family members from miles around. You’re invited to this year’s family reunion, where you will connect and celebrate with hundreds of people who share your language, your lineage, your customs, and your stories. Come. Wear your finest robes. Bring a dish to share. Invite your neighbors. The more, the merrier. This is the day the Jews gather in Jerusalem to celebrate their freedom from the slavery and oppression of the Egyptians. It’s the biggest party of the year. Imagine boy bands and parades with floats and character balloons, a giant illuminated ball that will drop from the sky as we count down the final moments to freedom. This is our Fourth of July, a celebration from the tyranny of imperial rule, a proclamation of Jewish freedom, a time to rejoice and, perhaps, ignore the fact that you are still under imperial rule. Your oppressors have simply changed names, if not tactics — once they were Egyptians, then they were Babylonians, and today they’re the Romans, and two thousand years later, they’ll be the giant corporations that make unprecedented profits that they hoard for themselves at the expense of the working poor. But for now, you’re invited to ignore all that for the sake of remembering that, even though you’re still oppressed from every side, you’re no longer being oppressed by folks named Egyptians.

When you arrive at Jerusalem, you will need to come in to the city from one of two gates. There’s a front door, and a back door. 

The road to the front gate will be decorated with flags and paraments, with parapets towering above you on either side. This is the gate that most will enter. If you decide to enter through this gate, you’ll get to watch as Pontius Pilate, Roman governor of Judea, parades into the city on a majestic white horse. He’ll be wearing a polished helmet with feathered plumes jutting out from the top. He’ll be wearing his full armor, and leading a regiment of troops marching behind him. Security will be tight. After all, this is a celebration of our freedom, and Rome would hate for us to get too carried away. We might start demanding freedom from them, and not just from the Egyptians of old. So Pontius Pilate will be coming in to keep the peace, to keep people in line, and to quash any hints of insurrection by any means necessary. That’s why, if you enter through the front gate, you’ll see the gleaming metal of swords and spears, shields and daggers. Behind this brigade will come the religious leaders, who cooperate and collaborate with the Roman Empire so that they, too, can keep their roles as the powerful elite. They are here to keep you safe. They are here to keep the peace. They are here to maintain order and the status quo. They are here to decide what is best for you. They are here to remind you who is in charge. They are here to enforce the laws and to brook no conspiracies, demonstrations, or protests. Going through the front gate is definitely the safest option. If you’re lucky, they’ll toss you a couple of coins in exchange for your “authentic” enthusiasm. You just need to celebrate freedom from Egyptian rule, all the while celebrating Roman rule. Come through the front gate, and you will come to Jerusalem under the protection and ever present eye of the Roman Empire, upon which the sun never goes down. You’ll be searched at the gate, you’ll pay the proper entrance fee and any outstanding taxes, the soldiers may take your temple offerings for themselves, and you’ll have to swear allegiance to the empire, but hey, it’s safe and guaranteed and legal. Most folks decide to enter Jerusalem this way.

There is one other option, although I don’t recommend it. But hey, you do you. It’s to enter Jerusalem through the back door. This is definitely the more dangerous route to take. If you enter through the back door, you won’t find a powerful military leader on the back of a majestic steed; rather, you’ll probably encounter a peasant man, riding a donkey, in mockery of all the pomp and circumstance going on out front. The road to the back gate will be lined with hoodlums and revolutionaries, delusional protesters who believe that through nonviolent resistance, they have a hope of toppling this powerful regime. Rome doesn’t pay much attention to them, and when they do, they will stamp out any fires of rebellion with a couple of token crucifixions just out of town. This road is lined with a parade of folks in rags, the sick, the poor, the smelly, the mentally ill, the lame, the lazy. They’ll be waving sticks and branches that they’ve torn off the trees, and they’ll be shouting Hosanna! Save Us! At the unarmed, defenseless man on the donkey. If, by chance, you get close enough to get a good look at him, you might notice his sad but resolute expression as he slowly heads toward the back gate. He knows what he’s getting himself in to. This is his “triumphal entry” that will not be a triumph at all. He is marching to his death, and this is his one last feeble attempt at a prophetic symbol, at mocking the Roman Empire, at demonstrating against the Imperial powers that hold us captive, that decide our fates, that keep us from living our fullest lives. 

Anyway, if you go through the back gate, you’ll probably lose everything, if you had anything in the first place, and you’ll figure out first hand what happens to those who stand up against the tyrants and dictators who oppress them. But, you’ll start to question the dirty, rotten system you’ve been living under, you’ll start to love your neighbor as you love yourself, and you’ll probably start to imagine what life might look like if wars ended, if everybody was fed and housed and cared for, and if God were the one put in charge for once. Through the back gate you’ll find a completely different way of life, one without guarantees or luxuries or stock options. You’ll have a different kind of king, who has totally different values from the rest of this world. You’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb. You’ll probably start doing weird things like search for impossible solutions to impossible problems, and you’ll be hopeful despite the facts, and you’ll refuse to give up. If you go through the back gate, you’ll start to question authority, and you’ll ask “why” a lot. You’ll start feeling connected to every living thing.  And that means that your heart will probably be broken. Probably a lot. But you’ll be seen and loved and treasured. And you’ll learn how to see, and love, and treasure. For as long as you’re here, anyway.

You are invited. Please RSVP as soon as possible, indicating your choice of chicken or fish, and your desire to enter either the front or back gates. We will plan accordingly. If you enter through the front gate, you’re guaranteed to have a nice time, to get home safely, and to keep living your life as you always have. If you decide to go through the back gate, I’m not sure what will happen, but just know that your life will be changed forever.

Thanks be to God.