footwashing

i realised a few years ago [after years of living with an extravert… it’s always the ‘other’ who makes us understand ourselves!] that i have a quota of words that i can say each day, and when i’ve used it up, that’s it.

that’s happened with easter this year. i have no words left to say.

i wanted to write something about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet… and how maybe that wasn’t so much about service and being willing to wash the feet of others, but about the followers of Jesus being willing to have their feet washed by one who was on the downward slide, who was about to be betrayed, who was about to die, who represents all the world finds unattractive, unnecessary and wrong. the real question of faith for me is am i willing to have my feet washed by ‘them’, rather than just being willing to wash theirs.

i doubt that i am.

luckily, Kester hasn’t run out of words. Go read him instead [start here and move your way up]

and come along to this on Saturday:

eastersat1.jpg

4-7 pm in the basement at 130 Little Collins Street. Entrance off Coromandel Place. i just put the finishing touches on a part of it, and had that fabulous feeling you get when you realise that it might just all come together. i can’t wait.

1 Comments

  1. Last week, on Maundy Thursday, I had my right foot washed along with that of other Vestry members, by one of our priests as part of the liturgy, and as our congregation of 300 or so looked on. Normally not one to feel comfortable in front of an audience already, I was all the more self-conscious about what it was that was being done. Nevertheless, I loved what the priest said, that this exercise was a reminder to him of his sacred vows, of being a servant, etc. I had new-found appreciation for the humility that the event offered for all in attendance, both participants and observers.

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