That Foot-Washing Scene

 Think about a man on death row with an hour left before his execution.  Or King Louis XIV awaiting the guillotine. He paces, he moans, he prays, he's totally quiet; his heart must feel as if it would burst. He's terrified.

Then, picture the room where Jesus met with his friends for that last time.  Jesus knows what's coming, the men do not. They have won the lottery, are dividing the spoils. They're IN. The whole city has welcomed them; they're famous, about to have a major part in the long-awaited revolution. Two brothers fight over who should get the best assignment.

Jesus tells them they've got it all wrong, but they don't understand.

Do his hands shake as he breaks the bread, pours the wine? Does he see his own blood in that glass? Is he white-cold with fear? Doesn't he want to scream to his friends to listen to him? How can he even speak?

He does speak. He tells them they will rule some day. He talks about betrayal, about safety. Then he does something very strange.

Without speaking, he gets a bowl and a towel, removes his coat, and gets on his knees before one of them. He removes a sandal; with one hand he dips the towel into water, with the other he cradles the mud-encrusted foot. He washes feet. Twenty-four of them.

 Breathe in the smells of men and dust and wine and roasted lamb. Feel the humidity, the warmth of friends who love each other deeply. See the men's confusion when Jesus says that one will betray, another will deny, all will be scattered. A night of victory and celebration, anticipation of glory turned so solemn, dreadful. And now this outrageous act.

What was he doing?  Meeting a need? Not really. They could have washed their own feet. Something symbolic? Not merely. (Surely he didn't do this so future believers would have foot-washing ceremonies.) I don't claim to know what he was really doing here. I'm trying to understand, and so I welcome any insights. But here's what I hear Jesus saying and doing:

 You've been vying for position, for advantage. I'm telling you that life with me doesn't work that way. Here's the kind of person I want you to be.

 Then he showed them what he wanted by performing a lowly job. He placed himself beneath their gaze, not saying a word. With only hours left to live, with his heart no doubt pounding, he took feet into his hands and washed them with water, dried them with a towel.

 And I chafe, balk, and even refuse to wipe off the countertop after someone else.