“Not My Thing” — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

This dialogue was written in 2025, and I wanted to reflect how washing feet takes some clergy out of their comfort zone, and yet Pope Francis went to prisons to wash feet, including the feet of 12 women.

In 2024, as Pope Francis poured water over their feet, dried them with a towel and kissed their feet, 12 women inmates at Rome's Rebibbia prison wept.... By washing his disciples' feet, Jesus humbles himself, the pope said. "With this gesture, he makes us understand what he had said, 'I came not to be served but to serve.' He teaches us the path of service."

"Not My Thing" — A Maundy Thursday Encounter

Setting: A dimly lit chancel. Candles flicker along the altar rail. The congregation has gone home. The vicar, Rev. Joel, is tidying up the communion vessels. Suddenly, a figure appears in the doorway—barefoot, robe dusty, eyes radiant.

Jesus:
You kept the table.

Rev. Joel (startled):
I—yes. We shared bread and wine. The sermon was strong. People were moved.

Jesus (stepping forward):
And the basin?

Rev. Joel (hesitating):
Ah. No basin this year. I’ve never really connected with that part. It’s not… my thing.

Jesus (gently):
Not your thing.
Yet it was mine.

Rev. Joel (defensive):
I mean—it’s symbolic, isn’t it? We talked about service. I preached John 13. The theology was solid.

Jesus (kneeling beside the empty credence table):
I didn’t preach it. I did it.
I bent low. I touched the dust.
I washed what others ignored.

Rev. Joel (softening):
I know. But people feel awkward. Some don’t want their feet touched. It’s messy. Vulnerable.

Jesus (looking up):
Exactly.
It’s the awkwardness that makes it holy.
The vulnerability that makes it mine.

Rev. Joel:
I’m trying to build something here. The parish was struggling. I’ve brought energy, music, young families. We’re growing again.

Jesus (rising):
Growth is good.
But what grows when the least are left unwashed?

Rev. Joel (quietly):
I didn’t mean to exclude anyone.

Jesus (walking slowly to the font):
There was a woman tonight—hard of hearing. She watched the liturgy unfold, lips moving, gestures unclear.
She longed for touch.
Not performance.
Not polish.
Just presence.

Rev. Joel (voice cracking):
I didn’t see her.

Jesus (placing hand on the font rim):
She saw you.
And she wondered if the water had dried up.

Rev. Joel:
I thought I was making it more accessible. Less pressure. Less discomfort.

Jesus:
Comfort is not the command.
Love is.
And love kneels.

Rev. Joel (sitting on the front pew):
I didn’t know how to do it well.
I feared doing it wrong.

Jesus (sitting beside him):
Then do it broken.
Do it clumsy.
Do it with trembling hands.
But do it.

Rev. Joel (tears forming):
Would you show me?

Jesus (smiling):
I already did.
But I’ll show you again.

[Jesus walks to the sacristy and returns with a small basin and towel. He places them at the vicar’s feet.]

Jesus:
Start here.
Not with the perfect liturgy.
Not with the clever sermon.
Start with the feet.
Start with the ones who feel unseen.
Start with the water.

Rev. Joel (removing his shoes):
I’m not ready.

Jesus (kneeling):
Neither were they.
But I washed them anyway.

[He begins to wash Joel’s feet—slowly, reverently. The silence is thick with grace.]

Jesus (as he dries the feet):
Next year, let the basin speak.
Let the water do the preaching.
Let the towel be your theology.

Rev. Joel (whispering):
I will.

Jesus (rising, preparing to leave):
Then I’ll see you at the basin.