You Want to See What?

"The Small Passion: Christ Washing St. Peter's Feet" by Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471-1528) is marked with CC0 1.0

What are human beings that you are mindful of them? Mortals, that you care for them?-- Psalm 8:4

It must have been absolutely mortifying to be a disciple when Jesus started washing feet at the Last Supper. 

I mean, imagine. You're walking around ancient Judea getting dirt and donkey crap and who knows what else all over your feet all day, and working up a sweat because you have to walk everywhere. Maybe you kicked a rock or something and busted a toenail so that it's a weird shade of purple. Your feet (and probably your shoes) are in a truly disgusting state by the end of the day. They're not exactly the most presentable part of you. 

And yet, once you finally get to dinner, your boss, the guy that you've followed around for three years, seen do countless miracles including raising the dead, the person you've come to love and respect and look up to--throws on an apron, gets down at floor level, gets a really good look at your feet, and starts washing them. 

To put it in modern suburban mom terms, I feel like this would be roughly analogous to an esteemed guest, maybe your parish priest or mother in law, coming over to the house, rolling up their sleeves, and cleaning the bathroom that your toddler had an accident in that morning. Or maybe thoroughly cleaning out the fridge that has you-know-not-what-but-you-made-it-at-least-six-months-ago lurking in the back corner. It's not only something that you don't want a guest to have to do; it's something that you're probably at least somewhat embarrassed about. 

So I think what Peter does when Jesus gets to him is totally understandable. "You want to wash my feet?" 

And He doesn't just want to, He insists on doing so, "If I do not wash you, you have no part in me." 

There's a certain immediacy and intimacy to this that's startling, and hard to wrap my mind around. Especially now that we know that the universe is so much bigger than we could have guessed. That's one part about being a geek and learning about the countless light years of space and then turning around and realizing what having the second person of the Trinity incarnate really means: the creator of galaxies, nebula and black holes, all of which are ridiculously bigger than our own tiny little mote of a planet, took time out of His day to wipe shit off of someone's feet. 

Really, what does one do with that information? We have an infinite God who goes to the ickiest parts of us, the parts that we really don't even want to deal with ourselves, and asks to see them and clean them up. Even insists we need to let Him do so if we want to remain His followers. 

It does make me wonder what exactly we are, that He should take the trouble. I know that we're tiny, the very planet that we live on is less than microscopic in relation to the created universe. I also know that the God that created said universe became incarnate on that microscopic dot, died so that everyone on it has a chance at salvation, and if that wasn't enough, wants a real and personal relationship with me and takes a conscious interest in whether or not I say "yes" to that. 

I'm beginning to see what the saints mean when they say that to be loved by God is everything, and that you have everything when you realize that. The sanctity of human life becomes starkly apparent as well; creatures that an infinite God loves enough to take that kind of trouble with are apparently very precious.

I'm wondering more and more what exactly we are to God that He'd take the trouble. It seems to be something worth wondering. 

Why are my feet worth cleaning?