H.E.B. Feet

John 13:14-16 - If I then, the Lord and the Teacher, washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet.  For I gave you an example that you also should do as I did to you.  Truly, truly, I say to you, a slave is not greater than his master, nor is one who is sent greater than the one who sent him.

When I was a little girl, I don't think I spent a single summer in shoes.   Before Old Navy and the $1 flip-flop blowouts, kids ran around the neighborhood barefoot.  I sprinted across streets so hot, my feet sizzled like frying bacon.  I dug my toes into cool, plush grass and pretended I was walking in the clouds.  I danced in my driveway to the music of the katydids.

I don't know if H.E.B. had enacted the "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service" policy, or if 1982 was too early for the antibacterial movement, but I remember lots of barefoot kids at the grocery store.  The young ones sat in the front of the cart, their dirty, blackened feet dangling there like dead fish.  The older kids wore their black feet like badges of honor.  The filthier the feet, the cooler the kid.  Each layer of dirt was a memento of freeze tag and hide 'n seek and fort-building and digging holes to China.  Walking barefoot around H.E.B. added an entire layer that was like the gold medal of grime.  I was so jealous of those kids and their H.E.B. feet.  My mom never let me go barefoot to the store; my dirty feet were concealed in a pair of pink Jellies that gave me the world's worst blisters, made my feet sweat, and turned the filth to a tar-like paste.  Those kids probably didn't have to take a bath every night like I did.  I hated baths.  It it felt like I was washing all the fun away.

Thirty years later, I still dread bath time.   My knees and back ache from leaning over the tub to scrub filthy little feet.  I'm hoarse from explaining half a dozen times that it is impossible for your eyes to burn when there is no soap in your hair!  Waterlogged Barbies bob around the tub like bleach-blonde buoys.  And you could jet ski on the bathroom floor.

The other day, I got tired of my kids smelling like chlorine and decided (sigh) it was time for a real bath.  The girls piled in the tub with strict instructions to wash what they could reach.  When I returned to duty, I was surprised to find my oldest daughter washing her little sister's feet.  As she rubbed the soap between her sister's toes, she explained the finer points of foot washing.  She was very thorough. 

Jesus was a first-rate foot-washer, too.  It's a good thing, because His disciples had some crazy H.E.B. feet.  They were faithless, fickle, dishonest, untrusting, two-faced, corrupt, and dirty.  When Jesus got down on His knees to wash their feet, they were surprised.  At first, Peter refused.  Seems to me he should have expected the unexpected from Jesus.  After all, He'd healed a parapalegic, cured a leper, resurrected the dead, walked on water, and calmed the sea.  But Peter doubts.  What servant allows His Master to wash his feet?  Jesus gives him an ultimatum
(I wash your feet or you're outta the Top Twelve),
and Peter the Passionate Prophet begs Him for the works.  A head-to-toe cleansing, and don't forget to get behind the ears.

How often does Jesus try to cleanse us of our humanity?  He wants to remove our filth so that we can be His hands and feet in a battered, broken world.  Sometimes we let Him, but like Peter, it doesn't take long before we are running barefoot down Life's Highway to places where sorrow and doubt live, where fear and hate breed.  A recent road trip took me through these places - dying towns, where lifeless homes leaned on each other like battle-scarred veterans.  Vacant store windows followed me with their cracked stares.  Tangles of yellowed, brittle weeds chased the whisper of life that I'd brought into a dying thing, determined to suffocate it.  I stopped at a diner, and saw what the world can do to a soul.  Sterile smiles and empty eyes.  Faceless ghosts.  Forgotten lives.  I walked away and thought, "Thank God that's not me."

But they are me!  I've been empty, drained like water through a colander.  But God has blessed me with people to fill my holes.  I've felt so forgotten I might as well be a blur huddled in an abandoned corner of Nowhere In Particular.   But by His mercy, I've come into focus.  I've been a vacant soul.  But He fills me with His selfless love every time He gets down on His knees and washes my filthy H.E.B feet.

And what do I do with my freshly-washed feet?  I don't give a genuine smile to the faceless.  I don't reach out to the forgotten.  I don't pray for those empty eyes.  I am a stubborn child who races back into the street barefoot.  I am a doubtful disciple who refuses a bath.  Sometimes it seems easier to put on a pair of Jellies and hide my crud instead of giving it over to the only One who can wash it away.

Each day is a journey on the tightrope.  I wake up ready to walk steady in His light.  But sooner or later, I stumble.  I go to bed every night with H.E.B. feet.  I could say, "What's the point, Jesus?"  I could go ahead and put on a fancy pair of shoes (thank you, God, for ridding the world of Jellies) and keep on trucking.  But I don't.  Instead, I put my dirty feet in Jesus' basin and allow His loving hands to wash away the world.

Then I wake up in the morning and try again.  And isn't that the point?

Let Jesus wash your feet today.  Let Him fill your holes and bring you back into focus.   Let His grace and mercy drench you.   Let Him fill your soul.

And then spread the Word.  With a smile.  With an outstretched hand.  With a prayer.

Because it feels so good to be clean.