Dirty

I sometimes wonder if modern shoes have undermined the effect of Maundy Thursday.

Hear me out: I have observed Maundy Thursday for several years now. I've participated in my fair share of foot-washing services, whether that practice takes place around Easter or other points of the year. These are often meaningful, important moments in life and faith, a reminder of Christ's extreme humility and his heart of service.

And at the same time, the people whose feet I wash are normally pretty clean. (And yes, I blame shoes for this fact.) It often doesn't seem like a big deal to wash them. Today I served my roommate by washing her feet. I know exactly how often Sara showers (answer: far more often than I do). The discomfort I felt wasn't because I had to lower myself to the part of a servant, though I do not do that as often as I should. It wasn't because I was face to face with my roommate's dirt-- there wasn't even any visible.

It was uncomfortable because it was intimate. Even with this person who has been closer to me than anyone in these last few months, who has comforted me when I wept and has laughed alongside my exhaustion-induced giddy, it still feels awkward to be that close. That intimate. And heaven forbid if her feet or mine had actually been visibly dirty, because it would have made it even more strange.

I sometimes wonder if this is the struggle of the Church. We're this body that's tied together by a Savior, a book, a cup and some bread; a body that's supposed to hurt when one part hurts and rejoice when one is rejoicing. We're supposed to not only be acquainted with one another's mess, but to be so familiar with it it is as if we are on our knees before that person, up to our elbows in the basin, helping one another get cleansed in a way that only God can clean.

Do we do that, though? Do we let people into the mess? Or are we still struggling so much with intimacy, struggling with the act of touching one another's feet in the first place, that we feel like we need to shower before we take our seat in front of the basin? Do we even recognize our dirt?

So often I start to take Maundy Thursday for granted. So often I fall into the exact opposite response of Simon Peter. Instead of questioning whether Jesus is going to wash my feet, I start to feel like I'm entitled to that treatment. Physically, at least, my feet are never that dirty anyways. What's the big deal?

One of the side effects of serving in camping ministry is that you spend the summer dirty. Really, really dirty. My first year in Maine I took longer showers than I ever had before, scrubbing away at my legs without knowing whether I was trying to rub off caked-on mud from the single track or bruises acquired from landing on my bike frame. I've slipped on wet grass, swam in silty ponds, wrestled in mud pits. I've eaten lunch outside in the rain because I didn't want to track mud into the dining hall. I've thrown away shoes and socks at the end of summers, knowing they were so far gone that I could never again wear them.

I've been dirty. Really, really dirty.

And in those moments I don't want people to touch me -- especially the ones I think are clean.

I have to notice my dirt and be appalled by it before I truly realize what a gift it is that Christ modeled leadership in this way. It's in those moments that my response does start to follow that of Peter. I realize how dirty I truly am and I find myself begging Jesus to wash not only my feet, but my hands and my head as well.

I want to be real with Christ about my dirt this Easter. I want to lay my mess before him. And I want to be vulnerable with others, too. I don't want to take a shower before church so that everyone thinks I'm okay, only to walk back out in the muck once I leave. I want to be intimate and messy, recognizing that everyone else has stains, too.

I also want to be open to the idea that just as I am called to wash others' feet, sometimes I have to humble myself in a different way: I have to let others see my stink, my filth, the scum between my toes, and let them wash my feet, too.

After all, I can't get myself clean -- not well, anyways. Just like those moments when we jump into the lake after mud day at camp, sometimes I need my co-laborer to tell me when there's still gunk behind my ears.

So as I walked back to my apartment this evening, I stopped for a moment to walk through the recently dug flowerbeds. I wanted to remember what it was like to get my feet actually, honestly, authentically dirty. As I walked through my front door I thought about how I should hop in the shower and wash off before my roommate got home and realized what I did. Instead, though, I curled up on the couch, just like I would on a normal day. I'm letting myself sit in the reality that I'm a mess, and I need Christ to wash me clean. I'm probably leaving a trail of dust everywhere.

And you know what? You can go ahead and tell Sara. I'm not hiding the dirt today.