No Washing Feet Allowed

“No Washing Feet Allowed.” Tonight at bedtime my 5 year-old son announced we needed such a sign in the church building. And Thomas, our almost 7 year-old who has looked forward to and taken part in the Maundy Thursday footwashing ritual for years, decided this year that he’d wash my feet but he didn’t want his washed, thank you very much.

Once again, I am struggling with the church’s lackluster participation in what I have found to be a deeply meaningful liturgical action. To confirm this as an ongoing struggle, I read over two short reflections I had written five and six years ago, my first two years living in a small rural farming community in Minnesota. Then as now, I was struggling with the silence, the stillness, the reticence of the people in the parish I attended. My question is my son Thomas’ question, the one he kept whispering during the prayers tonight: “Mom, why didn’t everyone come up to have their feet washed?”

I tried to quietly answer his question, talking about how not everyone has experienced a footwashing and that they may be scared or uncomfortable. I don’t know if my answer satisfied him, but he was able to tell me at bedtime that Peter didn’t want his feet washed. Thomas was living the contradiction: wishing all would have their feet washed but unsure about his own participation.

Rilke talks about living into the unresolved questions in our heart. From Minnesosta to Pennsylvania, I’ve been longing for something that may only exist with a bunch of seminarians. For it was during a class retreat at seminary that I experienced a footwashing in which all participated; it was a thoroughly communal event. Ever since, the footwashing has felt more performative: a few people up front being willing to wash feet as others look on.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised at the lackluster participation. Yes it could be many churches simply haven’t lived into the Three Days. It’s an ancient/new experience for many congregations; it will take time. But I think the reticence reveals something deeper, something about who we really are as church. Though the church calls itself the body of Christ, isn’t it more the body of Peter, a bunch of denying, stubborn folks who just don’t get it?  We may ask our selves WWJD, but in reality, we are Peter. Peter, the one who denies Jesus three times. Peter, the one saying with my son Luke, “No washing feet allowed.” What a rock on which we are built!

I might long for a different place, a different kind of Maundy Thursday, one with a bunch of folks eagerly walking to those basins, fearlessly removing their socks and shoes. But in my longing, I am tempted to neglect the greatest commandment, the mandate: Love one another. The command is not to wash feet; the command is to love one another. Love them even in the reluctance. The church by nature may be Peter, but because of God’s grace, the church is also Christ’s face, and hands, and yes, even feet.