Truthfully, in all my years in the church, I've never been to a foot washing. My former husband and his fellow deacons washed each others' feet on the eve of their ordination, but we never did it in any of our churches. Clearly, foot washing is not a priority in the United Methodist church.
I wasn't involved in the worship committee or its decision to have hand washing for Maundy Thursday. I can imagine being uncomfortable about taking off my shoes and stockings in church--not to mention the difficulties posed by pantyhose!
So, hand washing.
We served each other the bread during communion, dipping it in the cup. Pastor Steve read us the story in the book of John about Jesus washing the disciples feet, and how Peter wants his hands and feet washed as well. Jesus tells him he is missing the point, that it's not about taking a bath.
Going forward to the basins filled with suds and the pile of white towels, I watched a little girl wash her mother's hands, a little uncertain but determined. Then her mother washed my hands in the warm water. She washed my arthritic hands with such kindness, I looked into her eyes and saw Christ. My eyes filled with tears. It was probably less than a minute, all told, and I felt shy afterwards. I took a fresh towel and turned to wash the work-hardened hands of my husband. I felt close to him, touching him that way. I sat in the pew as he washed the hands of the woman after him. This was enacted over and over, the room filling with a softness and tenderness.
When we finished the pastor reminded us that Jesus's act of washing the disciples was the example of the way we are to serve and care for each other. Jesus said, "All people will know you are My disciples if you love one another as I have loved you."
"Let us love one another," the pastor said.