Office of Communications > Weekly Reflection >March 21, 2008

On a church mission, they entered the home of a Dalit widow, one of the untouchables of India. After greeting them, she got down on the floor. Cupping her hands, she took water from a bucket and poured it over the strangers’ feet, catching the runoff in an old tin plate.  She took off her scarf and gently rubbed them dry.  In a final sign of gratitude and humility, she took a tearful sip of the bathwater. 

For anyone with the dignity that comes from indoor plumbing and a sense of self worth, it was sad and humiliating.  But for this woman, it was her widow’s mite of hospitality.  She didn’t have the food for a feast or the money for a gift, but she could make this sign of respect.

Now, in a more antiseptic world, we reenact the supper story of John, where basin and towel are the cup and plate of offering.  A minister in a white alb washes the feet of members of the community.  It should remind us all that the holy one, as the poet said, turned the mantle of power into an apron of service.  But culture and hygiene have highjacked the impact.  The ritual is planned, the act rehearsed, and the chosen come with pedicured and pre-washed feet.

Our Dalit lady may serve a contextual truth.  The disciples followed in sandaled feet, stepping on donkey droppings and rotting garbage.  The foot was covered, not just with dust, but with all of the foul and the fetid that humans and animals leave behind.  Washing it was a demeaning job that not even a Jewish slave could be forced to do.

In the world of the poor, foot washing is more like cleaning a public restroom than a ritual rinse.  But Jesus did it, rolling up his sleeves and falling to his knees to honor those who still didn’t get it, who would, within hours, deny and desert him.  It’s a dirty job, but it begs the question:  Whose feet should I be scrubbing?