"Shoe-Shiners and Foot-Washers" - John 13

John 13:1-17, 31-35

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas, son of Simon Iscariot, to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. 

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants* are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

When [Judas] had gone out, Jesus said, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’ 

As much as I’ve bemoaned the timing of Spring Break this year, because of the way it leaves us guessing about who/how to plan for all of our events and activities this Holy Week and Easter, the fact that it inspired us to change our focus for tonight is kind of cool. In case you haven’t heard, instead of celebrating First Communion with some of our youngest Cross of Gracers, like we’ve done for years as part of this worship service, tonight we’ll be focusing on the other part of what Jesus was up that night long ago, when he celebrated his last Passover before his crucifixion.

I’m talking, of course, about how he washed the feet of his disciples. And tonight, rather than simply taking off our shoes and walking around barefoot, which is usually the extent to which we pay homage to Jesus’ grand act of humility and service, we’re going to do the deed. Pastor Aaron and I are going to get our hands dirty, as it were. And you’re going to get your feet cleaned, if you choose. 

And a lot has been said over the years – for generations – about what Jesus was up to in this; why he did what he did; what he meant to convey; what his disciples were – what you and I are – supposed to learn from it all. 

The obvious point was his message of service and humility. That Jesus, the Son of God, came to serve, not to be served. That we, as children of God, like the Son of God, are called to serve, not to be served. That God’s kind of service looks like humility. That God’s kind of power looks like weakness. That God’s kind of service and humility and power look like death on the cross, even – for which this foot-washing stunt was just a prelude.

And I don’t mean to minimize all of that. It is foundational to who/how we are called to be as disciples of Jesus, as Christians in the world, as Partners in Mission, even, at Cross of Grace. Generous. Gracious. Humble. Servants. But I feel like we’ve heard that story before. 

And I even read a blog this week about how we shouldn’t bother with the washing of feet in worship, like so many churches do, like the Pope, even, does as part of his Holy Week journey, because it cheapens the power of what Jesus was really up to that night around the table with his disciples. The assumption is that, in this day and age, we can’t accurately replicate the depth or fullness of the foot-washing Jesus offered up way back when. And there’s truth to that. 

First of all, none of us is Jesus. None of us is the Son of God. None of us is rabbi, or teacher or Christ or Messiah in any of the ways that make his humble, stooping, service as surprising or compelling or instructive as it was for those who first experienced it. Secondly, none of us has feet like the ones Jesus likely washed that night. Remember, those disciples weren’t wearing wing-tips or Nike high tops or tube socks with their sandals, even. And they weren’t walking on sidewalks or paved streets, or Berber carpet, either. They were walking on and through and stepping over dust and dirt, and mud and muck, and whatever the local livestock and beasts of burden left behind, if you know what I mean. These were some feet that needed washing. 

As Pastor Aaron said, last year, I think, it might be more instructive, more accurate, more relevant, comparatively, were we to wash your underwear, than to pretend it’s all that humbling to bend down and poor some water over your feet this evening.

So in thinking about all of that – and in talking about tonight’s plan with many of you the last week or so – it seems like a shift has happened in the hearts and minds of Christian people when it comes to the emotions this foot-washing stuff inspires. What I mean is, we’ve stopped focusing on Jesus and what it meant for him to humble himself as he did, and we worry more about what it means to take our shoes off in front of our pastors in the church sanctuary. To a person it seems, the anxiety or distaste about what we’ll do here has been about our feet; our modesty; our uncomfortability; our “whatever” that makes this so strange and difficult. 

And maybe that’s as much Jesus’ point as anything else.

I think a lot of this is about letting ourselves…letting our soles…letting our SOULS…be seen; laid bare; touched by grace; washed with water; wiped clean; and so on. 

And I think Jesus knew that before we can get about the business of getting our hands dirty for the sake of others who need it, we’re called to recognize that we need the same sort of cleansing, ourselves. Maybe this foot-washing – for the first disciples, then, and for us, still today – is as much about who’s feet are being washed as it is about who’s doing the washing.

It’s about acknowledging what stinks about us; it’s about revealing what we’d rather not; showing what we try to hide; receiving care for what we’d rather ignore or deny, maybe. It’s about accepting grace…ministry…generosity…self-lessness…forgiveness…sacrifice…and everything else that God pours out through Jesus on the cross in the days to come, for the sake of our Sin. 

To put it plainly, if the disciples couldn’t let Jesus wash their feet, how in the world were they going to let him die for their sake?

It reminds me of a shoe-shiner I sat near once in the airport. His name was Moses, which is why he got my attention in the first place. That, and it was 6 o’clock in the morning and here was this elderly African-American guy at the airport drumming up business with a wide smile and a hearty laugh and an evident joy in work that would be beneath a whole lot of people – his clients, in particular, I imagine. 

Anyway, one of those clients climbed up into Moses’ chair, presented the shoe-shiner with some filthy looking wing-tips, and asked, “Do you think you can do anything with these?”

“Do you think you can do anything with these?” A question with some humility, some confession, a little bit of doubt, and some measure of hope mixed in: “Do you think you can do anything with these?”

I think that’s the same kind of question with which we are called to present our feet – our soles – our SOULS – to the Messiah who would wash them clean for our sake. And we are to present ourselves tonight and in the hours ahead as we follow him to the cross, with no small amount of humility, confession, misgiving, and hope, too, that yes, much to our surprise, God, in Jesus, will do something – something holy, mighty, gracious, loving and full of forgiveness – with whatever … whatever …  we put before him at the foot of God’s cross

Because God’s hope – and Jesus’ point that night so long ago – wasn’t just about cleaning feet. It was about moving his disciples to acts of love in return for the love they would receive; to return blessing for blessing; forgiveness for forgiveness; mercy for mercy; grace upon grace until all the world would come to know that Jesus Christ, this washer of feet, this suffering servant, this lamb of God, is still the King of kings; still the Lord of lords, and always hope for the sake of the world.

Amen

"God With Us In the Flesh" – John 1:10-18

John 1:10-18

He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to him and cried out, "This was he of whom I said, "He who comes after me ranks ahead of me because he was before me.' ") From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father's heart, who has made him known.

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Maybe you've heard this story about a pastor who was called to serve a new congregation in a town and in a place far from where he’d ever lived or served before. And on his first Sunday on the job, he dressed up – or dressed down, I guess you’d say – to look and smell like a homeless person, and then set up camp outside the church’s front door. (Or maybe it was out in the parking lot by the dumpster, or inside the warm vestibule, between the double doors, depending on the version of the story you heard.) Maybe he had a sign asking for money. Maybe he jingled a paper cup, looking for handouts. I don’t remember.

The point was that on that particular Sunday morning, parishioner after parishioner got out of their car (I imagine them to have showed up in mini-vans and SUVs and Cadillacs, just like you and I) and one by one, family by family, they walked by or stepped over or rushed passed the homeless beggar who had taken up residence on their church’s property. Some avoided him altogether. Others stared at him sideways. None of them dropped a coin in his cup or offered him help or invited him inside for worship or coffee or to use the bathroom. You get the idea.

So, as worship began, imagine the congregation’s surprise when they watched that same homeless vagrant stroll down the aisle during the Prelude or pre-service music or whatever, climb up to the altar, take the microphone, and introduce himself as their new pastor. And, if I remember correctly, because of their lack of attention to the needs of the needy, I think the point of his message and introduction that day was something like, “Boy do we have some work to do, people!”

And it made me think of John’s gospel for today: “He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.”

That’s the bit of the Gospel – John’s version of the Christmas story – that got my attention this time around, and that made me think of this modern day church story/fable/myth/legend or whatever it is.

“He came to what was his own and his own people did not accept him.”

See, the Pastor in that story did, on a smaller scale, something like what God does, in Jesus, on a cosmic scale at Christmas. God showed up, in the flesh – humble and lowly and weak and needy – on the world’s doorstep; in the parking lot of the planet; out by the dumpster, in Bethlehem, if you will. And the message was the same – without all the guilt and shame that likely came upon everyone at church in that new pastor’s congregation that day. The message was – the message is – “Boy do we have some work to do, people.”

So why is it that we have such a hard time recognizing – or responding to – the God we see in the world around us? We may not step over or around Jesus in the church parking lot, but it happens in other ways all of the time. Sometimes it is the beggar on Washington Street. Sometimes it’s the colleague or the classmate or the neighbor or the in-law we don’t have time for, or patience with, or sympathy toward, for a whole host of really good reasons. Sometimes it’s the bigger-picture, too… the nameless, faceless, “hypothetical” refugee we only have to hear about on the news or imagine as a political issue, rather than act on as a person of faith.

The holy challenge of the Christmas story is the same as it’s always been, according to John’s Gospel. Jesus is in the world, he comes to what is his own and we miss it, we don’t accept it, we avoid, deny, dodge and dismiss him, because deep down, apparently, we can’t believe or conceive of a God who would look like that or behave like that or be like that – that humble or that lowly or that weak or that needy, or that different from ourselves.

Because showing up in the flesh is cute and cuddly and fun when it looks like a baby in the manger on Christmas day. But humble and lowly and weak and needy isn’t so cute or all that fun, when it comes in the form of a homeless guy in the church parking lot; or an addict on the corner; or a foreigner at the border; or the last person we would choose to spend time with, let alone spend our energy or our resources on, or risk our safety caring for.

But as hard as this is to admit – as embarrassing as this can be to acknowledge – there is hope. There is always hope, where there is Jesus, after all. Because John’s gospel goes on to remind us that, “for those who receive him, who believe in his name, he gives the power to become children of God.” “Children of God!”

Do you see what he does there? “He gives the power to become children of God.”

God becomes like us, in Jesus. And we are invited to become – and to see others – as God’s own children, too. We are all, then, born … of … God.

By showing up in the flesh, himself, Jesus confers worth and value and love and purpose upon every human being. Every. Human. Being. And God invites us, then, to see and to respond to that worth and to that value and to that love and to that purpose for the sake of every human being. Every. Human. Being.

It means the guy in the parking lot, by the dumpster matters. It means the woman working the street matters. It means black lives matter, Syrian lives matter, refugee and immigrant and our own veterans’ lives matter. And please hear me say this: white, middle-class, Christian lives matter, too, I get that. But what Christmas – and that new pastor’s stunt on his first day on the job – remind us, is that you and I aren’t the ones – as a rule – getting overlooked in the parking lot, or shot at the park for carrying toy guns, or driven from our homeland, or persecuted for our faith.

When Jesus – the Word – became flesh and lived among us, he did so so the world would see God in new ways and in different places and in extraordinary circumstances. The Word became flesh – the flesh of a poor, outcast, homeless, refugee, born to suspicious, disreputable parents – to show once and for all that God becomes weak in order that all might be made strong; to show that God becomes lowly so that all might be raised up; to show that what is perishable might become imperishable; what is sick might be healed; what is lost can be found again; what dies will be raised to new life, even.

And vice versa, too, to be fair. God, in Jesus, became flesh and lived among us to show that the powerful (God) could become vulnerable; the mighty (the creator o f the universe) could become humble; the rich could do with less; the winners could share their victory; the privileged could do with being a little less so…and so on.

So, if we’re to really embrace Christmas this time around – the gift of Jesus alive and well among us – we’re being called to stop stepping over him in the parking lot; to stop pretending he’s not on the corner or at the border; to look for him in people and places where we least expect to find him – so that we can welcome and care for and love him, well. And that may just be the easy part, if you ask me.

Because we’re also called to look for this Jesus in the mirror, too: to humble ourselves when we want to be proud; to be generous ourselves when we’re tempted to keep more than our share; to lower ourselves when we want to be powerful; to risk our own safety or comfort or privilege, so that someone else might experience their fair share; to become less, so that someone else might become more; so that the loser can win for a change; so that the lost can be found; so that the glory of God’s grace and truth will be made known – through each of us, for the sake of the world.

Amen