As an adult, perhaps like many of you, my spiritual imagination was shattered by pastors who believed themselves to be above serving the smallest. But today, on Maundy Thursday, as I put my feet up after vacation where we walked miles + miles, I remembered I have a better story.
When I was a girl, we'd observe Maundy Thursday in a circle at church, kneeling to wash each other's feet. In the quiet, we'd encircle ourselves in the story of a God who was not above washing his followers' grimy feet before serving them the Passover meal before his death.
Grown men would stoop to wash the feet of elderly widows. Friends would wash the feet of friends. No stinky feet disqualified a soul from receiving care. No foot left that sanctuary unwashed.
I remember my pastor kneeling down in front of me, asking if he could wash my feet...
I remember my pastor kneeling down in front of me, asking if he could wash my feet...
Me, little kid me—my pastor wanted to wash *my feet*. He slowly prayed for me while washing my tiny feet in his big hands.
Tonight I can almost feel my feet arching in remembrance of what it feels like to be held in a story where I am one for whom God bends down to the ground.
Tonight I can almost feel my feet arching in remembrance of what it feels like to be held in a story where I am one for whom God bends down to the ground.
May you find a circle of quiet tonight to dwell on this and feel it down to your toes: you belong with the God who bends down to the ground to show you love. Your story is encircled by his tender hands and costly love.
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