Footwear in the time of Jesus was pretty basic: sandals. That was about it. And the roads and streets were pretty basic, too: lots of dust and dirt. So when Jesus took a towel and knelt to wash his followers’ feet, he wasn’t dealing with the pre-washed (so as not to offend) feet of respectable white-collar folks (his followers were a blue-collar lot). What he was washing were callused feet that had seen a lot of wearying wear—and not a pedicure among them.

Nowadays we frequently see a lineup of solid citizens, often members of the parish council or other worthies, sitting up front somewhat uncomfortably, with one shoe and sock off, waiting for the presider to pour a little water on the unshod foot and dry it with a towel and move silently on to the next. In some parishes, those chosen are always all men. Some have twelve men, so it’ll be just like that first Holy Thursday.

Well, no. It won’t. Apparently we’re fine with replicating an action as long as it doesn’t get to close to reality.

I think about the people whose feet never get washed. People like one of the most prayerful people I ever met, who knew how to work the balky dishwasher and cheerfully did so for every parish event. People like the father who was there every week with his autistic son, patiently calming the boy when he got stressed and cried out. People like the guy who mowed the church lawn in the worst heat, or the 80-year-old who climbed up ladders to inspect the leaky roof. People like those who bring communion to the sick and homebound every week, or deliver Meals on Wheels and spend time just talking to lonely people.

Those are the people we’re supposed to be serving. They’re the servants of the servants of God. Why aren’t we washing their feet?

M.D. Ridge