Jesus Wants Your Smelly Feet

I opened a wound I didn't know I had—attending an Episcopalian church service.

Earlier this month, I went to a Maundy Thursday service at Saint Mary's Episcopal Church in Provo. I didn't really know what to expect.

The man studying for the priesthood told us a time would come in the service for feet washing: the person in front of you gets their feet washed, then turns and washes yours, then you turn and wash the feet of the person behind you. A continuous chain of strangers kneeling at each other's feet. He said it was optional but hoped we would do it.

He acknowledged, with gentle humor, that this is uncomfortable. That nobody really wants a stranger looking at their feet, let alone touch them. That we spend a lot of energy hiding exactly what you can't hide when someone is kneeling in front of you with a basin of water.

And then he said something that has stayed with me ever since.

That's exactly how Jesus wants us to come to him.

All of it. The parts we hide. The parts we're embarrassed by. The mess.

Jesus wants your smelly feet.

❋

My friend Diana and I went together. We're very close. She was my mom's friend and after my mom died 12 years ago, she became mine. I joke she came to me in my mother's will. As we got in line, we were quietly strategizing. Maybe we could maneuver things so we'd end up washing each other's feet. That way it wouldn't be quite so... exposed.

Then the line split. Diana went left. I went right. We were each on our own.

Just as I was about to sit down, the priest lifted the basin to change the water. Something went wrong with the handles. The water gushed out. All of it, everywhere—the floor, the towels, people's feet. It was, in the most solemn possible setting, a complete mess.

The priest's face said everything. But she didn't cry out. There was music playing and a service in progress. She grabbed the basin and walked quickly out of the chapel to get more water.

And then—without a word, without any instruction—every person in a white robe moved quietly toward the puddle. They just came with towels. They knelt down and started cleaning it up.

I stood there and watched, not sure if I should help or not.

Nobody rolled their eyes. Nobody whispered. Nobody made the priest feel worse than she already did. They just came with towels and took care of the mess together, and within minutes the service continued as if it had never happened.

Isn't that what Jesus does? When we spill everything, when our careful composure tips over and makes a mess we can't contain, he doesn't stand back with his arms crossed. He comes with a towel. He kneels down. He just helps us clean it up.

Because of the spill and the shuffle that followed, I ended up going left after all. And Diana was the one who knelt at my feet.

The whole time she was washing them, I was thinking about my mother.

My mom died with badly damaged feet. She had a condition called Charcot foot. Her bones would spontaneously fracture, and she had no feeling below the ankle. Because she couldn't feel, she'd hurt her feet without realizing it. A foot resting too close to a heater. A key left in a shoe. Wounds that became infections. Amputations. Deep, open sores that never fully healed.

I was always scared of my mother's feet. They seemed fragile and foreign to me. I never went near them. I never touched them.

So as Diana dried my feet slowly, carefully, I just tried not to cry. I wasn't fully present. I was somewhere else. I was in my mother's home, over a decade too late, regretting what I should have done.

When it was my turn to kneel, I took my time. The woman in front of me was a stranger. I tried to wash her feet the way I wished I had washed my mother's.

❋

Afterward, Diana found me and pulled me into a hug. I told her I'd been thinking about my mom the whole time.

She went quiet for a moment. Then she said, I was thinking about your mom too.

I asked her why.

She said: Washing your feet reminded me of when I used to take care of hers.

I said, What?

She said she used to clean my mother's foot wounds. That they were deep. That she did it because she wanted to.

The story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet (John 13:1–17) strikes me in a way it never quite did before. Jesus didn't wait for the disciples to clean themselves up first. He didn't ask them to present their best selves. He knelt in front of people who were confused, frightened, and about to abandon him—and he washed their feet anyway.

He took the part of them they'd been walking on all day. The tired, dirty, calloused feet. And he touched them. He washed them. He made them clean.

While I was looking away from my mother's feet—because they scared me, because I didn't know how to be with that kind of brokenness—my friend was quietly kneeling down and lovingly cleaning her wounds. I began to feel a regret so deep, I almost couldn't bear it.

I used to read that verse as a call to serve strangers. And it is. But I think it also works the other way. When someone kneels at your feet—when someone tends your wounds without being asked, while you're not even watching—that is Christ. That is exactly Christ.

Diana was Christ to my mother when I didn't know how to be.

And on Thursday night in Provo, she was Christ to me.

Why couldn't I have been Christ to my mother?

Then I remembered Peter's story doesn't end at the feet washing. It doesn't end after the rooster crowed. Jesus goes back to Peter on the beach, he makes Peter breakfast and gives him something to do. Jesus forgave Peter. He can forgive me. I can still wash other people's feet.

Whatever mess you're carrying—the thing you hope nobody gets close enough to see, the wound you've been keeping your shoes over—Jesus already knows.

He's not waiting for you to clean it up first.

He's already on his knees.

Wishing you a great Sabbath,

Heather Ruth Pack

Continue the Study

In first-century Palestine, foot washing was so degrading that Jewish law exempted even Jewish slaves from doing it. That job belonged to Gentile slaves alone. So when Jesus picks up the basin in John 13, it was scandal.

Peter's reaction wasn't false modesty. It was shock. You shall never wash my feet.

Jesus kept going anyway.

For more on the cultural background, the International Standard Bible Encyclopedia has a thorough entry on foot washing.

Question to Ponder

Whose feet have you been afraid to touch?

The Latest News

April has been a busy month. I have two exciting announcements.

Line Upon Line Volume 1: The Journey Begins ​ Get now

I'm releasing Line Upon Line: Daily Devotionals from the Book of Mormon for Women, Vol. 1 as a free ebook.

The Book of Mormon is full of women—most are just hard to find. Line Upon Line is my attempt to hear their voices. Each short reading is designed to help you notice the unnamed women behind the scenes, and see the Savior through their eyes.

If you've been wanting a way to spend just a few minutes a day in the Book of Mormon, this is for you. I made it digital so you can access it on your phone. You could get your daily reading done while in line at the grocery store or in a waiting room.

Note: If the price on Amazon says $.99, be patient. Amazon will eventually price match and make it free. But it is available now on other platforms like Barnes & Noble and Smashwords for free.

Women Outside the Garden: When Sovereignty Becomes Holy Disruption Earlier this month I was a guest on the Latter-day Faith podcast as part of Terri Petersen's "Women Outside of the Garden" series. We talked about what the New Testament actually says about women, and how we can also become holy disruptors. 06_Women Outside the Garden:... Apr 18 · Latter-day Faith 76:25   ​

About Times of Faith

Times of Faith explores the historical world of scripture, the language behind the text, and the voices often overlooked in familiar biblical stories.

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