Once upon a time, a small, oppressed people gathered together to share a meal.  Called together by Moses and Aaron, they heard of God's plan to set them free from their slavery in the land of Egypt.  Invited to leave behind the pain of their past, they re-embraced their true identity as God's Chosen People.  This meal, the Passover Seder, was to mark the beginning of Israel’s exodus from slavery to freedom.  It was to be a constant reminder of God's covenant with them, his unconditional care and love.  It was to be for the world a reminder that God forever takes the side of those who are poor, oppressed, and enslaved.

Centuries later, faithful to the traditions of his people, another great teacher, the Rabbi named Jesus of Nazareth, called his friends together to celebrate the Passover.  They shared the Paschal lamb together, said the blessings over bread and wine, listened yet again to the stories of how God had saved his people in their need.  It was a Passover meal like hundreds of others celebrated that evening in Jerusalem, like millions celebrated before and since then.

Then Jesus does something different, something totally unexpected.  Rising from his place as head of this household, Jesus removes his robe, wraps a towel round his waist, kneels humbly before his disciples, and silently begins to wash their feet. 

Jesus, the Lord and Master, kneels at their feet, performs the task of a slave.  We can just imagine the shock that must have gone through the room, the discomfort, the embarrassment. 

Benedictine Sister Macrina Wiederkehr captures this image beautifully in her meditation entitled God in an Apron:

Tenderness encircled us as He bowed before us. He knelt and said, “I choose to wash your feet, because I love you.”  God in an apron, kneeling.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I was embarrassed until his eyes met mine.  Then, I sensed my value.  He touched my feet.  He held them in his strong, brown hands.  He washed them.  I can still feel the water.  I can still feel the touch of his hands.  I can still see the look in his eyes.

Tonight, we have repeated this ritual.  In Rome, just a few hours ago, our Holy Father Pope Francis travelled to a refugee center about 40 km outside of Rome.  There he knelt and washed the feet of eleven refugees and one volunteer, fleeing war and religious persecution, seeking a safe haven. They are Catholic, Coptic Orthodox, Evangelical, Muslim, and Hindu; they are from Nigeria, Eritrea, Syria, Mali, Pakistan, and India; they are men and women, two holding their babies in arms. Pope Francis performs this radical gesture with tenderness and sensitivity: with a smile, a kiss, an encouraging word.  Contrasting the humble, foot-washing Jesus with Judas, who betrayed his Master for the sake of money, he invited them to draw a similar contrast between the gesture of hope they were enacting, and the gesture of violence, fear and greed unleashed in Brussels a few days ago. 

Though we are from different religions and cultures, we are all children of the same Father, and so brothers and sisters. When I wash your feet as Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, then all of us together are doing a gesture of peace. We are brothers and sisters and we want to live in peace.  All of you have a story of so much suffering, but you also have a heart that is open, that wants fraternity and peace.  So, let us all together, each in our own religious language, pray to God and ask for an increase in solidarity, peace and goodness.

Jesus asks us also to go outside our comfort zone, to receive this gift and to share it generously with the most vulnerable and despised in our society. 

What must it be like, to have the Pope kneel before you and wash your feet?  What was it like for Peter – or Judas, or the other disciples, to have Jesus wash their feet?  Am I at ease with a God who kneels before me, who looks upon me with love and compassion, who tenderly bathes my sore, misshapen, callused feet, tired from the burdens of life?  Or do I feel "unworthy" of such love, such attention?  Perhaps it is easier to believe in an austere, punishing, distant God, rather than one who shockingly and unexpectedly kneels before me, asking only that I receive this gift of his love.

So like Peter, we resist.  But what Jesus said to Peter, he says to us: "unless I wash your feet, you can have no share with me.”  In other words, “this is who my Father is; this is the God I have come to reveal.”  So, Jesus goes ahead.  He continues his work.  When he has finished, he explains his last and most beautiful parable:

If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet.  I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you.

In this simple gesture, Jesus speaks volumes: leadership is not about being popular or powerful or controlling, but about humble service, walking in the footsteps of the One who came not to serve but to be served, and to give his life for those he loved.  As Church, as God’s people, we all share in the ministry of Jesus.  Not just the priests and deacons, the “professional church people” who renew their formal commitments to ministry this evening, but all of us.  And we don’t only do it in church, either.  We do it at home, at work, in the neighborhood; with family, with friends, with acquaintances, with strangers.  We do it with a smile and an encouraging hug, with a visit over a cup of tea, with random acts of kindness, forming a pattern of compassion and loving service.

I see this all around me.  I see it in the way my family has come together to care for and accompany my mother since her diagnosis with cancer last month.  I see it in Anna’s weekly visits and daily concern for her elderly parents, no matter how many hours she has worked at the parish or taking care of her own family that day.  I see it in Deacon Dennis and Marcelle and all the food pantry volunteers who treat their “clients” with dignity and friendship.  I see it in Fr. Bertoli and our pastoral home care volunteers who patiently visit the sick and suffering members of our parish.  I think of how many of you are in the same situation, caring for family and friends at every stage of life, old and young, native-born and immigrants, with faithfulness and tenderness.  Caring for the transformation of our parish, our neighborhood, our nation and our world so that these become places where all people are cherished, welcomed, and loved.

Sr. Macrina concludes her “God in an Apron” meditation by inviting us to imagine Jesus handing the towel to us, saying:

As I have done, so you must do.  Learn to bow.  Learn to kneel.  Let your tenderness encircle everyone you meet.  Wash their feet not because you have to, but because you choose to. It seems I’ve stood two thousand years holding the towel in my hands.  I feel so inadequate to the task.  I keep saying “There are so many feet to wash!”  But then I hear God’s voice resounding through the years:”No.  There are only MY feet.  Whatever you do for them, you do for me.

Tonight, we celebrate our connection to the gestures of Jesus at that final meal with his friends: his gift of himself in Word and Sacrament, in bread broken and wine outpoured, in humble service offered graciously to one another, especially to those who are poor or vulnerable in any way.  This is our Passover: the meal of the new covenant between God and humanity.  Jesus invites us to be Eucharist for one another, to become his Body in a world which cries out for compassion and healing.  Let us embrace this invitation together as we enter into the saving mystery of his life, death, and Resurrection, poured out in love for us.