Note: prior to the sermon, the Senior Minister Dr. Sam R. Matthews and the Lay Leader, the Honorable Robert E. Flournoy, III, washed one another's feet.
Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love.
He got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.
It wasn’t the right time to wash their feet. Feet are washed before you sit down for the meal, especially before a meal eaten while laying across couches. You don’t put dirty feet on a couch. You don’t want the dirty feet of others near you and your food.
Even more importantly, he was not the one that should have washed anyone’s feet. That’s the duty of a servant—the lowliest servant. In fact, Jewish tradition stipulated that a master could not force a Jewish slave to wash his feet, only Gentile slaves could be forced to take on this humiliating duty.
The room grows quiet as they watch as Jesus moves from one disciple to the next. Lift a foot. Pour water over it. Wash off the dust and dirt of the road, the debris and refuse that clings after the day’s journey.
Embarrassed, they look away. This is Jesus, the man they have been following for three years, listening to, trying to learn from. This is Jesus whom crowds came to meet him as he entered Jerusalem, crowds waving palm branches, and shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! This is Jesus who kneels at their feet, rubbing at the grime.
No more talk about who will sit at the right and left hand of Jesus when he establishes his kingdom. No more speculation about how the religious leaders, the Pharisees and Sadduccess, are likely to react to the crowds shouting for Jesus.
This night there is silence. Jesus moves from one disciple to the next. In the hush, they hear the sound of dirty water trickling off a foot and into a basin. The sound of the basin dragged across the floor to the next disciple.
Jesus places the basin before Peter. Peter looks down into the eyes of Jesus and cannot stand this anymore. This foot washing must stop. “No. Not you. You shall never wash my feet.”
Jesus looks up into the eyes of Peter and answers. “I must. Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”
When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and told them, I have washed your feet; you also should wash one another’s feet. A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. This is how others will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
It’s not an easy command, to love one another, to wash one another’s feet. It’s a command to step outside of the comfort zone, to allow ourselves to be vulnerable.
We cover feet with socks and shoes, not just to protect them, but to hide them, and to protect ourselves from embarrassment.
What if you take off your shoes, and there’s a smell; what if there’s lint and grunge between the toes. Worst of all, what if you take off your shoes and the other person reacts with revulsion, cringes, and looks away?
I’ve tried my hand at washing feet. I once had the brilliant idea of taking a Sunday school class of eighth graders to cook supper and serve the people at a soup kitchen. The kids were excited about it, although their parents were a little worried about the expedition.
We planned the menu one week, and the next week went grocery shopping—who knew Kroger could be so fun?
The night we cooked dinner they had way too much fun with the kitchen utensils—but they did it, the eighth graders cooked the whole meal, and that evening when we opened the doors a group of about fifty people stood in line, waiting for dinner.
My eighth graders knew exactly what to do—they lined up in the kitchen where they could serve—dish food onto plates in an assembly line—one put the meat on the plate, the next the macaroni—these students loved macaroni— the next one puts a roll on the plate, at the end of the line hand over the plate.
I looked at that line of students so proud of them and realized that if we weren’t careful we were on track to serve these people and never see them—just hand over plates of food to strangers.
I guess you can wash feet that way—keep your head down, eyes on the feet, never make eye contact, never really see the other as a person, like washing dishes, just another pair of feet to wash before moving on to the next set, one down, 11 to go.
I can’t imagine Jesus washing feet that way.
So after serving everyone else, my Sunday School class and I fixed our plates too, lots of macaroni, sat down at the tables, trying to make eye contact, trying to start a conversation.
I talked with Joe who picks up aluminum cans along the road, turns them in for cash, not enough to live on but it helps him get by while he is looking for work.
Joe told me about his son in California that he hasn’t spoken with in a few years. He misses his son, so he’s slowly making his way back to California. Joe wants to call, but didn’t depart on good terms, and doesn’t know if his call would be welcome. He worries about his son.
I told him I have two sons too, and we talked about how hard it is sometimes to get along with teenagers. I shared my theory that God makes teenagers the way they are so that it’s not so hard to say good-bye when they leave the house.
That evening, before we left, I asked Joe if he wanted me to pray with him. So I prayed for him, that he would be find work, that he would somehow get to California to see his son, and that his son would welcome him.
When I said Amen, I thought we were done praying, but Joe started praying—for me and my husband Ed, and for our children, and that our family would find ways to show on another that we love each other.
I thought I was washing his feet, but it turns out I had taken off my shoes and Joe was washing my feet.
It’s not an easy command, to love one another, to wash one another’s feet. It’s hard to be vulnerable, to allow another person to see who you really are, the parts you would rather hide.
It’s much easier to be the Sunday School teacher, or the woman in the back room dishing up plates of macaroni. It’s much easier to hide behind a smile, and say fine, fine, everything is all right, how are you doing today.
It’s hard to show someone Cyndi, who worries about her children, and wonders if she spends enough time with them and do they even know that I love them?
When I sat down with Joe, I thought I was sitting down with someone who looked like he was going through hard times, who might need someone to talk to and wash his feet. But it turned out that we were Joe—just Joe, worried about his son—and Cyndi—just Cyndi, worried about her sons.
Jesus looks up into the eyes of Peter and says, “I must wash your feet. Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”
If we take seriously this idea, that we who follow Jesus are the body of Christ, then when we wash one another’s feet, we wash the feet of Jesus.
When Joe, who picks up cans along the side of the road, prayed that my family would find ways to show each other that we love each other, this was the voice of Jesus.
When the Rev. Dr. Sam Matthews, senior minister of First United Methodist Church in Marietta, GA sits down in this chair, he is no longer Reverend, he is no longer doctor, he’s just Sam. Beneath the robe are bare feet that need to be washed.
When the Honorable Robert E. Flournoy, III, Cobb County Superior Court Judge, sits down in this chair, he is no longer Judge, no longer chairman of the administrative council and lay leader of this church, he is just Rob. Beneath the robe are bare feet that need to be washed.
A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. As I have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.
How does the body of Christ respond when we see bare feet? When we expect someone to say, “oh I’m doing just fine” and hear instead “well, actually, I’m worried.” When we notice shoulders that droop and eyes that seem tired.
How does the body of Christ respond when we see bare feet? Do we reach out with warm water and soap, wash off the caked mud from life on the road. Do we tend the scratches and bruises, handle the raw spots with gentleness and love?
Because this is how others will know that you are my disciples, if you see one another, bare feet and all, and love one another.
