by Lynn C. Ramshaw

This Maundy Thursday at the day center is profoundly different from any Maundy Thursday liturgy I have ever experienced before. It all begins when a young man, one of our homeless guests, who is scheduled to serve at the altar and assist with the foot washing, arrives on crutches and with filthy feet. He looks at me sadly and says, "I really want to participate, but I’m embarrassed; my feet are dirty and I can’t reach them because of this cast." Distracted by the busyness of preparing for worship in the midst of the constant commotion in the center, I miss his point entirely, telling him it will be okay and to please vest. He leaves my office and goes out to the main room where all the social activities take place each day.

Probably ten minutes later he returns, smiling, and says simply, "One of the guys washed my feet for me." He vests, now ready to serve. I am hauntingly aware that two homeless men who have never been to a Maundy Thursday liturgy know more about its meaning than I do. They know the real thing, this washing a friend’s feet.

The liturgy begins. When the time comes for the ceremonial foot-washing, we set chairs in front of our table–turned–altar, signaling the few we expect to come forward for the traditional rite. As the pastor, I am to kneel in front of each person and wash each one, foot by foot, reversing the usual liturgical hierarchy. Accustomed to standing close to the altar in a position of authority, I am to become servant to everyone else.

The people do not understand. What value is there in the pastor washing a few clean feet? Quietly the tiny congregation, joined by some who have been observing from a distance, begins to form a circle with all the chairs, then widens it, chair by chair, until the congregation has nearly tripled, from ten or so to nearly thirty. Shoes and socks begin to come off. Several of our volunteers have joined the circle, along with more of our homeless guests.

They all want to be part of something they instinctively perceive as holy, truly touched by God. The liturgy is transformed. I kneel in front of the person to my right and wash his feet. Then he kneels before the person to his right and washes her feet. They continue around the circle, volunteers, guests, and ministers all mixed together. Feet unprepared, in various stages of cleanliness, we really wash one another. When the person to my left washes my feet, we are done. We remain silent. Having been mutually vulnerable, serving one another, we continue to experience the presence of Christ. Together, we know the power of the Holy Spirit in worship. Our hearts are transformed by it. Together, we are anointed into new ministry, all in a moment.

Receiving
The purpose of worship is to give thanks to God. Because of the nature of God, the way we do that is to open ourselves to receive God’s love. That is hard for us, for we like to see ourselves primarily as givers. Our pattern must be to receive from God, then give God thanks. That's what happened that Maudy Thursday. We were opened to receiving through two significant events. First, we were prepared to be washed, not by careful training in the liturgy, but by the unselfish exchange between two men before the liturgy. Everyone knew that a man had washed his friend’s feet so he would fit in. Those two men made foot washing an acceptable thing; more than that, in their action God revealed foot washing as a necessary thing, loving and Christ–like. Referring to Jesus’ washing the disciples’ feet, Oswald Chambers in My Utmost for His Highest says, "Some people do a certain thing and the way in which they do it hallows that thing forever afterwards. It may be a most commonplace thing, but after we have seen them do it, it becomes different. When the Lord does a thing through us, He always transfigures it." From Jesus’ original action, through the two men’s ordinary sharing, and on into our liturgy, Christ transformed foot washing and us.

Second, the people were confident enough to act humbly on what their hearts were saying to them. They were not afraid to speak. That circle formed as confidently and quietly and gently as could happen only with the guidance of God. The people had something to say and they said it effectively. They fully participated in the action of the Holy Spirit among us, and somehow, we listened.

There’s a third element: Foot washing as mutual ministry is grounded in Scripture. At the Passover meal just before his arrest, Jesus gets up from the table, washes the disciples’ feet, wipes them with a towel, returns to the table, and says, "So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet" (John 13:14). Obey me, he says, and you will learn to "love one another" (13:34). I wonder if Jesus understands the impact of his action because of what he himself had received a little earlier. Jesus was eating dinner at Lazarus’ home when "Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair." Jesus said then it was preparation for his burial; in Luke he said it was about hospitality and forgiveness (Luke 7:38). The point is that Jesus knew the humility of having his bare feet anointed by another out of love. He knew what his disciples — and we — would feel, receiving the cleansing touch of another. We would feel loved.

Our little congregation represented all levels of economic well–being, several races and ethnicities, and a variety of church denominations, and none of us was better than the other. Although some of us had more formal education about the liturgy, we were the ones being taught, kindly and compassionately, by those who knew Jesus on the street. The guests of the center were as gentle in their teaching as we were in awe in our learning. None of us will fear our commonality in the presence of God again, a clear first step toward making a difference in a world where dissimilarity breeds distrust.

Surrendering
Sadly, even though Jesus shows us how, we resist receiving as a way of life. We have adopted one line in Scripture, Paul’s quotation of Jesus, "It is more blessed to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35), and forgotten entirely to keep it in balance. Ask your friends whether they prefer to be the giver or receiver in a relationship, and a very large percentage will proudly proclaim "giver." Taken to its extreme, that can be an example of idolatry, of wanting to be God. The giver can quickly become the controller, the one to whom all the receivers are indebted. Because we are not God, and we do sin, giving without receiving is destructive, both of others and ourselves. In fact, we deny others the opportunity to give when we insist on being the "generous" one all the time.

Receiving on its own is equally harmful; insecurity and greed are the obvious culprits. And yet, for us, the cycle must begin by receiving from the loving God who gives from utter generosity in love, not from any need to control. Jesus reveals the truth to us, for he knows to ask when he wants help (asking Peter, James, and John to stay with him in the garden, asking those fishermen to follow and serve with him). We see him repeatedly surrendering himself to his Father, and in that surrender we find our guidance.

When we surrender to God all our confusion about when to give and when to receive, we will begin to find the balance. Then, rather than holding tightly to the familiar in our worship, let us surrender our liturgies to God, open our hearts to receiving God’s guidance, and see who comes to join us, bringing new life.

Changing
Once we surrender, we will easily discover some ways (less dramatic than washing dirty feet) to open up our liturgy. Just as the secular (washing a friend’s dirty feet) and the sacred (ceremonial foot washing) were made one on that Maundy Thursday, our offertory time also could benefit by intentionally connecting symbolic act with real need. When we listen to a beautiful anthem while putting our pledge money in a plate, we are doing lovely and good things. But unless there is additional impact, calling us to more, it is incomplete. It is entirely different when we realize that the people carrying the gifts to the altar symbolize our self-offering for the work of Christ. Further, when they carry a large basket filled with our donations for the local food pantry, we can see the relationship. I remember several congregations so moved by that symbolic action that they became curious about who comes to the food pantry. Before long, several members were volunteering in pantries; in some cases, entire outreach programs evolved from that simple act.

Further, we can increase our hospitality toward people who come to worship with us. Hospitality is more than a pleasant smile during the exchange of the peace or making space available for meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous and other service groups. Surrendered to God, hospitality is truly receiving people in the name of Christ. It is invitational, with a willingness to risk being affected by every person who enters our worship space. It means reaching beyond the familiar to embrace the unfamiliar. People who are comparatively new to a congregation could be welcomed into roles of liturgical leadership early on; that simple act says, "We know Christ brings you here. We want to learn from you." And that is how mutuality in ministry really begins. Of course, the deeper question is, "Do we want to be changed by those who come to worship with us?"

One Foot at a Time
More than ten years ago, on a Maundy Thursday in a tiny chapel in a center for people who had no homes, we were reborn, both as a small group and deep within individual hearts. All such anointing of the Holy Spirit begins with God. It is an expression of God’s love for us. Our worship is intended to be responsive to that love. When it is, the world begins to be changed, sometimes just one foot at a time.

Lynn C. Ramshaw is a retired Episcopal priest in the Diocese of Chicago.