THE SLAVE REDEEMED
John 13 - “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?”
“Hitler could die and rise again fifty times and I would not regard him as the Son of God. And if the Gospels were to omit all mention of the resurrection of Christ, faith for me would be easier. The Cross alone is sufficient for me…the Cross produces for me the same effects that the resurrection does for others.” - Simone Weil
“The Lord of the universe then took up the servant’s towel.”
John, Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture
Maundy Thursday.
Of all days within the Triduum and the Liturgical Year, Maundy Thursday is when my heart is most renewed. I whispered to my son tonight, “this (Maudy Thursday) is everything to me.” The weight of love is almost overwhelming. Tears are never far away during the readings. My eyes are washed before water ever touches my feet. When I think of the One who is before all things and in whom all things hold together, taking on the form of a slave and kneeling to wash the filth and dirt off his disciple's feet, when I think of the church washing my feet, it becomes a fully felt reality. This is Philippians chapter two incarnate, manifest in real-time.
Most have heard the historical background: In antiquity, roads were traversed on foot. People and animals traveled down dirt roads, where dust, mire, waste, and excrement were trod through. Upon arriving at a dwelling, a basin would be at the door. Nobility, royalty, and the wealthy would have enslaved human beings or servants wash their feet. Those who did not own or command the will of another human would wash their own feet. It was considered undignifying and degrading to wash someone else's feet, and yet here is The Lord of the Universe kneeling as a slave. Weil writes that a slave is
“a person entirely at the disposal of others (who) does not exist. A slave does not exist, not in the eyes of the master, or in their own eyes. The black slaves of America, when they injured their hand or their foot accidentally, said, ‘It is nothing. It is the master’s foot; it is the master’s hand.’ Someone entirely deprived of goods, whatever they may be, around which social consideration crystallizes, does not exist. A popular Spanish hymn says in words of marvelous truth, ‘If anyone wants to make themselves invisible, there is no better way than to become poor.’”
And then she writes, “Love sees the invisible.”
In this text, Jesus orients the Church. He draws our attention gently to look down to see the invisible. The God who is love gives us the gift of sight. From this perspective, and only this perspective, can we rightly see ourselves and our neighbor. As we read in the The Christological hymn, even though Jesus “was in the form of God, he did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself (he made himself nothing), taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death — even death on a cross.” (Phil. 2).
The form of a slave.
Through affliction, Simone received the mark of a slave, in a very true sense, “like the mark of a red-hot iron that the Romans put on the foreheads of their most despised slaves. Since then I have always regarded myself as a slave.” In this state, in a village in Portugal, she encountered what seemed to be a thin space and a revelation that would forever mark her. “Suddenly, I had a certainty that Christianity is the religion par excellence of slaves; that slaves cannot help but belong to it—myself among them.”
Our world is filled with those made invisible, those reduced “far below the degree of beggary” who are denied every human dignity, even that of “reason itself.” And they, in fact, are the only ones who can tell us the truth, “all others lie,” says Simone. Here, she is showing us where to look and how to listen. Weil companions our attention all the way down to the bottom so that we may rightfully see God, our neighbors, and ourselves. Christianity is a way of seeing and being in the world, and it has a direction and orientation. My friend Fr. Preston said it best, “The majesty of Jesus is revealed not when we look up but when we look down.” We must look down to see. This is what woos our hearts, draws us in, and bends our knees.
A love so deep.
At St. John’s Episcopal Church of Youngstown, it’s common to sing the hymn, O Love, How Deep, How Broad, How High. A hymn attributed to Thomas á Kempis, it is filled with language that evokes wonder and awe of the God-Man who takes on the kenotic form:
“O love, how deep, how broad, how high,
how passing thought and fantasy,
that God, the Son of God, should take
our mortal form for mortals’ sake!
He sent no angel to our race,
of higher or of lower place,
but wore the robe of human frame,
and He Himself to this world came.
For us baptized, for us He bore His holy fast, and hungered sore; for us temptations sharp He knew, for us the tempter overthrew.
For us to wicked men betrayed, scourged, mocked, in crown of thorns arrayed, He bore the shameful cross and death for us at length gave up His breath.
For us He rose from death again, for us He went on high to reign, for us He sent His Spirit here to guide, to strengthen, and to cheer.
All glory to our Lord and God for love so deep, so high, so broad— the Trinity whom we adore forever and forevermore.”
I believe this to be how “every knee bows”—not from force but from a heart that sings “for us…” and then erupts in praise for a love so deep, so high, so broad. Adoration flows in Maundy Thursday’s waters. The foot-washing is a river of grace that transforms the human heart.
Tonight, as I knelt by Jon Luke and Maudie’s bed while they drifted off to sleep, I gave room for my heart to swell with love. It’s the easiest thing to do. I hug them and often allow memories to flow, like when they first came home as newborns. Amelia Frank Meyer talks about the centrality of “belonging” and how this stage is a powerful example of how belonging is vital for human connection and survival. It’s tacit in caring for an infant. Human beings are born the most vulnerable mammals. Infants lay there and cry until another person comes to connect, claim, and care for them. If another human being does not come, they die. This is the “intuitive knowing” from birth. She says infants are ready to connect; they smile early and make cooing noises that make us fall in love because “when we are in love, we will do the incredibly challenging work of raising a child.” We will wake up to feed and care for them and wash off any and everything that dirties them. Love makes the bond possible. Love moves our hands and feet, bends our knees, and lowers our bodies to grab the towel and bowl. This is how we have the mind of Christ Jesus.
I, like Weil, could witness countless men and women rise from the grave and not be moved in the slightest bit to regard them as holy or divine. And, with her, if the Gospels were to omit all mention of the resurrection of Christ, it would not impede my adoration. What is sufficient for me is the love so deep, so high, so broad. The love that kneels down and becomes nothing, taking on the form of a slave. That produces for me “the same effects that the resurrection does for others.”
Howard Thurman’s proclamation, “the slave undertook the redemption of a religion that the master had profaned in his midst,” is a prism that shines through many facets. It speaks to the reality of Maundy Thursday. When we struggle to see and our hearts are at risk of hardening, when we are world-weary and calloused, we find a cure in “the gift of tears” by looking down. There, at our feet, is the slave redeeming that which has been profaned in our midst. From there, our vision is made whole: “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”
Force and domination are left in the bowl, washed by a love so deep, and we all walk in freedom.