INK ARIA

PUTTING MY BEST FOOT FORWARD

Renee Gehman

Reaching into the depths of a linen closet, to a shelf filled with multitudes of cosmetic-and-beauty-product-gifts of Christmases past, my hand rested on a plastic container marked with graphics of white snowflakes and green footprints.

A natural herbal exfoliating treatment specially formulated with rare earth pumice granules to gently scrub away rough dry skin. Enriched with the antiseptic, deodorizing, and healing properties of Australian Tea Tree Oil, cooling Mint & Wintergreen, and soothing botanicals to condition and revive dry, callused skin during exfoliation.

Perfect.

I contemplated the various superior-sounding ingredients as I massaged them into the neglected soles of my feet. If the earth pumice granules were rare, did that mean I was perpetuating their scarcity, or were they somehow being replenished? Why were Mint and Wintergreen capitalized? Does "American Formula" sound as enticingly exotic in other countries as "Australian Formula" does to me?

Why did I feel a little cheated when I discovered in the container’s fine print that this was actually a product of the USA, created in New York? Oh well, at least I’m stimulating the economy, I thought.

Rinsing my feet in warm water before towel-drying them, I checked the clock and regretted that I would have to bypass the foot scrub’s complementary foot repair balm, featuring aloe vera and chamomile. I quickly clipped my nails and set about applying two coats of a dramatically red polish named Salsa.

Second coat applied and dried, I gave my feet a final inspection. Satisfied, I slipped into my black heels, grabbed my keys, and was out the door.

I was ready for foot washing.

I think it was somewhere between the first and second coats of Salsa that I started to question the ethics of my preparation for foot washing. This would be my first foot-washing experience, and though I thought I had done well to allow this extra time in the morning to get ready for it, it just somehow didn’t seem quite right.

Look at the circumstances of the situation we are trying to model, the Foot-Washing Prototype: Jesus and disciples are gathered for dinner on a day not too far from the crucifixion, when out of nowhere Jesus—Son of God, teacher and master of the disciples—gets up from table, fetches a basin of water, and stoops to wash the feet of Simon Peter. Peter, embarrassed by this atrocious faux pas—no way master should be washing feet of servants—declares this unacceptable. But he concedes when Jesus rebukes him, saying, essentially: No foot washing? Then no share in me.

Jesus goes on to wash all the disciples’ feet. Then he explains that he has been modeling for them the servant lifestyle he wants them to lead, a life of never perceiving themselves to be better than anyone else.

It’s a beautiful tradition, really, laced with humility and intimacy and community. As the washer, I experience humility: I bend down to another’s feet and do something that in Jesus’ time was reserved for the household servant—and in my time is seen as dirty or awkward or both. In having my feet washed by another, I also experience humility, having to yield the dirty work of my own personal hygiene to the hands of another, dealing with the discomfort of being served by a peer as if I am "higher up" than she.

When I over-prepare, then, the humility is lost on both sides. After all, why should my washer find the experience of touching finely pedicured feet distasteful? On the contrary, her hands will probably smell quite pleasantly of Australian Tea Tree Oil afterwards. And Mint and Wintergreen, capital M and W.

As for me, how could I possibly experience the same humility having my Salsa-polished, tea-tree-oiled feet washed as I would if I presented feet to washer callused and sans-Salsa?

Am I suggesting that a favorable way to prepare for foot washing would have been to run a marathon the day before, wearing those lucky socks worn without washing throughout my rigorous 20-week training program? Or that the lessons of foot washing would have been more effective if my sister in Christ had to wash my feet when I had a bad case of foot fungus? (Apologies to any readers whose appetites I’m spoiling.) No, I don’t think so, and furthermore, I certainly hope not.

But would it have been so very bad if I had gotten out of bed that morning as usual, taken the usual shower, and walked into church with my chipped-nail-polish-nothing-spectacular-everyday feet? Why didn’t I just do that?

I wanted to put my best foot forward. I wanted to give my foot washer a break. I wanted her to behold my pedicure and think, Oh this’ll be a piece of cake! These are not abominable sins. But, I then reason with myself, what is to be gained from "cheating the system" in a church tradition meant to symbolize what Jesus called me to? That is meant to teach me about humility and servanthood and unity?

If Jesus had wanted his disciples to prepare to have him wash their feet, he would have warned them. Instead, he surprised them, forcing them to come as they were. And considering that those were days of dirt roads, that these were men who spent a lot of time walking around or in boats, and that this was the Son of God with the towel tied around his waist and basin at his feet, I imagine this was a situation more embarrassing and humbling for the disciples than it could ever be for me.

Dear Next Person to Wash my Feet on Communion Sunday: Don’t worry, I won’t walk around in the dirt and the bottom of a fishing boat to properly prepare for an authentic experience. But please don’t get your hopes up for feet that have no need for washing.

—Renee Gehman, Souderton, Pennsylvania, is assistant editor, Dreamseeker Magazine, and a meditator on foot washing.