Why I am a Maundy Thursday girl

Right now, on Theolog—the blog of the Christian Century—there is a debate going on about whether foot washing is a meaningful ritual. Some call it “odd;” others say it made sense in the first century, but has little relevance to us. Our feet are already so clean.  Others say it has mysterious power, but they aren’t sure why.

This is an issue about which I feel so strongly I have to restrain myself from flying into a fury. I meekly posted a comment about how much the children in our church love foot washing, but the reality for me is far greater. Here’s how strongly I feel about it: if I didn’t wash feet in church, I wouldn’t go at all. When it comes to Holy Week—the succession of rituals that mark the end of Lent and the beginning of the Easter season—only Thursday when Christians eat a version of the Last Supper and wash each other’s feet makes perfect sense to me. The rest is, I am afraid, a blur.

About ten years ago, I returned to church with the thought, “Fine, then, I’ll be a Christian.” I didn’t like the idea for a lot of reasons, but every time I went to church I found myself inexplicably crying as though some less articulate part of myself longed for this experience, even demanded it.

The church that I “returned” to was a small, Episcopal one. The reason for my participation in this particular church was the “community meal” it hosted four times a week where I had been invited to be a cook. I began, gradually, to grasp the connection between food, community and church.  I needed both to feed my community and to be fed myself. I needed this feeding in both the simple form of the ordinary meal and the symbolic form of Eucharist--but it was the interplay between the two that provided the most meaning.   

Maundy Thursday is an extension of that connection and yet somehow more demanding. At St. George, we eat together in the community dining room—pot-luck, family style. Then we pile our plates in the kitchen to clear the dining room for an AA meeting and leave our shoes in the hallway to go into the sanctuary. Our foot washing is elaborate. This year, we had almond soap and homemade pomegranate lotion to go along with the buckets of warm water, wash clothes and towels. Usually, the children are noisy and full of jokes. This year, the younger ones used the buckets for splashing and followed the washers around the circle in curiosity. The older ones held a contest to see who could touch their noses to their toes, collapsing constantly on the floor in giggles. The adults sat quietly, soaking it all in—literally and figuratively.

And that’s what I love about Maundy Thursday—and probably why  I struggle to move past it into Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter. On Maundy Thursday, the literal is figurative and the figurative is literal. The body is the soul and the soul is the body. The walls that keep me iced in so much of the time melt, and for just a minute, through the soles of my feet, I understand what this is about. I stop arguing in my head, and I experience the good world of bread, touch, warmth and community. After Maundy Thursday, the rest of the week feels like one abstraction after another, and I try to make the most of it.

When the washing is finished—and believe me, this takes a long time—we eat bread together again and then we strip the altar of all of its decoration. The priest’s instructions are to remove anything shiny. And I understand that too. I left the church in part because there were too many shiny things in it, and I wanted to be rid of them. Once a year, I get to do that again, and I do it gratefully.

Comments

[ali lufkin]

In a beautiful little book, "Let Your Life Speak" Parker Palmer writes from a striking and honest place about his bouts with clinical depression. I am so grateful for his story. I am always relieved to the point of tears when someone can tell the vulnerable truth about the human life. I read his words and say to myself, "Thank you, thank you... now maybe I can also be this honest." He describes all the lovely, good-intentioned people who came to visit him during his depression, knowing that they might otherwise have avoided him altogether. "Depression", he says, " is the ultimate state of disconnection - it deprives one of the relatedness that is the lifeline of every living thing"

Most of the good-intentioned words, however, only made him more depressed.

He then describes a friend named Bill, who had the courage to stand with him in a "simple and healing way".
After asking permission, Bill stopped by every afternoon, "Sat me down in a chair, knelt in front of me, removed my shoes and socks, and for half an hour simply massaged my feet. He found the one place in my body where I could still experience feeling - and feel somewhat reconnected with the human race."
He never gave advice. Palmer writes, "Perhaps it is enough to say that I now have a deep appreciation for the biblical stories of Jesus and the washing of feet."

[sdgsd]

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