Malodorous
Jesus knew that the Father had given him
authority over everything and that he had come from God and would return to
God. So he
got up from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist,
and poured water into a basin. Then he began to wash the
disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel he had around him …. After washing
their feet, he put on his robe again and sat down and asked, “Do you understand what I was doing? You call
me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and you are right, because that’s what I am. And since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought
to wash each other’s feet. (John 13:3-5; 12-14)
Hurts. Too many
of them. When kids mock the way you walk, or teachers ignore your work, or when
your girlfriend drops you, or your husband abandons you, or the company fires
you, it hurts. Rejection always does. As surely as summer brings sun, so people
bring pain. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes randomly.
Victoria Ruvolo
can tell you a thing or two about random pain. On a November evening in 2004,
this forty-four-year-old was driving to her home on Long Island; she'd just
attended her niece's recital and was ready for the couch, a warm fire and some relaxation.
She doesn't remember seeing the silver Nissan
approaching her from the east. She remembers nothing about the
eighteen-year-old boy leaning out of the window, holding – of all things – a
frozen turkey. He threw it at her windshield. The twenty-pound bird crashed
through the glass, bent the steering wheel inward, and shattered her face. The
violent prank left her fighting for her life in the ICU. Fortunately, she
survived – but only after doctors wired her jaw, attached one eye with a synthetic
film, and bolted titanium plates to her skull. She can't look in the mirror today
without a reminder of her hurt over a decade ago.
Now, you
probably haven’t been hit by a frozen turkey, but maybe you married one, work
for one, or got left by one. So where do you turn? Hitman.com? Jim Beam and
friends? Pity Party Caterers? That’s probably why we can relate to the reaction
of some U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan a while ago. One of the Marines had received
a “Dear John” letter. Understandably, he was devastated. But to add insult to
injury, his girlfriend wrote, "Please return my favorite picture of myself
because I would like to use that photograph for my engagement picture in the
county newspaper." Wow. But his buddies came to his defense. They went
through the barracks and collected pictures of all the other soldiers' girlfriends.
They filled an entire shoe box. So the jilted Marine mailed the photos to his
ex-girlfriend with this note: "Please find your picture and return the
rest. For the life of me, I can't remember which one you are."
Retaliation has
its appeal, doesn’t it? But Jesus has a better idea. John 13 records the events
of the final night before Jesus' death. He and his followers had gathered in
the Upper Room for Passover. John begins his narrative with a lofty statement:
"Jesus knew that the Father had given him authority over everything and
that he had come from God and would return to God." (John 13:3) Jesus knew
who he was, where he’d come from and where he was going, "so he got up
from the table, took off his robe, wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured
water into a basin. Then he began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them
with the towel he had around him." (John 13:4-5)
To tell you the
truth, I’m not a real big foot fan. Ask me to look you in the face? Sure. Shake
your hand? Gladly. Put an arm around your shoulder? Happy to. But rub your feet?
Come on, now. Feet stink. No one has yet to create a fragrance named Gym Sock Musk because feet are not typically
known for their sweet smell. Or their good looks, for that matter. We want to
see faces, not feet. Feet have heels. Feet have toenails. Bunions and fungus.
Corns and calluses. And although there are some exceptions of course, feet can smell
bad and look pretty ugly, which, I believe, is the point of this story. Jesus
touched the stinky, ugly parts of his disciples.
Knowing that all
authority was his, he exchanged his robe for a servant's garb, lowered himself
to knee level, and began to rub away the grime, the grit, and the grunge his
disciple’s feet had collected on the journey. This was the assignment of a slave,
the job of the lowest servant on the totem pole. But in the Upper Room there were
no servants. A pitcher of water? Yes. A basin and a towel? Sure – sitting on the
table in corner. But no one touched them. No one so much as made a move in
their general direction. Each disciple had hoped someone else would reach for
the basin first. Peter thought John would. John thought Andrew would. Each
apostle assumed someone else would wash their feet. And Someone else did.
Jesus didn't
exclude a single follower, though we wouldn't have faulted him had he bypassed
Philip, for instance. When Jesus told the disciples to feed five thousand
hungry people, Philip, in effect, snapped back, "That's impossible!"
(See John 6:7) So what does Jesus do with someone who questions his commands?
Apparently, he washes a rebel’s feet. James and John lobbied for cabinet-level
positions in Christ's kingdom. So what does Jesus do when people use his
kingdom for personal advancement? He slides a basin in their direction. Peter
quit trusting Christ in the storm. He tried to talk Christ out of going to the
cross. Within hours Peter would curse the very name of Jesus and hightail his
way into hiding. In fact, all twenty-four of Jesus' followers' feet would soon scurry,
leaving Jesus to face his accusers alone. Ever wonder what God does with
promise breakers? He washes their feet.
And Judas. The
lying, conniving, greedy rat who sold Jesus down the river for a pocket full of
cash. Jesus surely won't wash his feet, will he? We desperately hope not. Because
if he washes the feet of his Judas, we’ll have to wash the feet of ours. Our
betrayer. Our turkey-throwing miscreant. That ne'er-do-well. That
good-for-nothing villain. Jesus' Judas walked away with thirty pieces of silver
for his betrayal. Your Judas may have walked away with your virginity,
security, spouse, job, childhood, retirement or investments. “You expect me to
wash his feet and let him go?” Most people don't want to. In fact, most people
keep a pot of anger on low boil. But you aren't "most people."
Look at your
feet. They’re wet; grace soaked. Your toes and arches and heels have felt the
cool basin of God's grace. Jesus has washed the grimiest parts of your life. He
didn't bypass you and carry the basin toward someone else, did he? So then, can't
you share your grace with others? "Since I, the Lord and Teacher, have
washed your feet, you ought to wash each other's feet. I have given you an
example to follow. Do as I have done to you." (John 13:14-15) To accept
grace is to accept the responsibility of giving it in return. “Forgive us our sins,
as we forgive those who sin against us.” (Luke 11:4) Victoria Ruvolo did.
Nine months
after her disastrous November night, she stood face to face with her offender
in court. Ryan Cushing was no longer the cocky, turkey-tossing kid in the silver
Nissan. He was trembling, tearful,
and apologetic. For New York City, he had come to symbolize a generation of
kids out of control.
People packed
the room to see him get his comeuppance. But the judge's sentence enraged them instead
– six months behind bars, five years' probation, some counseling, and public
service. The courtroom erupted. Everyone objected. Everyone, that is, except for
Victoria Ruvolo. The reduced sentence was her idea. In full view of the judge
and the crowd, she held him tight and stroked his hair. He sobbed, and she
spoke: "I forgive you. I want your life to be the best it can be." Victoria
had allowed grace to shape her response. "God gave me a second chance at
life, and I passed it on," she says. "If I hadn't let go of that
anger, I'd be consumed by this need for revenge. Forgiving him helps me move
on." Forgiveness helps the forgiven, and heals the forgiver.
Victoria Ruvolo
knows how to fill a basin. How about you? You can build a prison of hate if you
want to. Each brick a hurt. Design it with one cell and a single bunk because
you’ll be alone. Hang large video screens on each of the four walls so recorded
images of the offense can play over and over again, twenty-four hours a day.
Appealing? No, appalling. Harbored grudges suck the joy out of life. Revenge
won't paint the blue back into your sky, or restore the spring in your step. It
will leave you bitter, bent and angry. So give the grace that you've been
given. You won’t endorse the deeds of your offender when you do; Jesus didn't
endorse your sins by forgiving you. Grace doesn't tell the daughter to like the
father who molested her. It doesn't tell the oppressed to wink at injustice.
The grace-defined person still sends thieves to jail and expects an ex- to pay
child support. Grace is not blind. It sees the hurt full well. But grace
chooses to see God's forgiveness even more. Grace refuses to let hurts poison
the heart. "See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no
bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many." (Heb. 12:15) Where
grace is lacking, bitterness abounds. Where grace abounds, forgiveness grows.
On October 2,
2006, around 10:00 a.m., Charles Roberts entered the West Nickel Mines Amish
School in Pennsylvania. He carried a 9 mm handgun, a 12 gauge shotgun, a rifle,
a bag of black powder, two knives, tools, a stun gun, six hundred rounds of
ammunition, K-Y lubricant, wire and plastic flex ties. Using the ties, he bound
eleven girls, ages six to fifteen. As he prepared to shoot them, Marian Fisher,
thirteen, stepped forward and said, "Shoot me first." Her younger
sister Barbie allegedly asked Roberts to shoot her second. He shot ten young
girls. He then killed himself. Three of the girls died immediately; two others
died in the hospital by the next morning. The tragedy stunned the nation. But the
forgiveness of the Amish community even more so. More than half the people who
attended the killer’s funeral were Amish. An Amish midwife who had helped birth
several of the girls murdered by Roberts made plans to take food to his
family's house. She said, "This is possible if you have Christ in your
heart."
You see, sequence
matters. Jesus washes first; we wash next. He demonstrates; we follow. He uses
the towel then extends it to us, saying, "Now you do it. Go ahead. Walk
across the floor of your upper room, and wash the feet of your Judas." So,
go ahead. Get your feet wet. Set your feet in the basin. Let God’s hands wipe
away every dirty part of your life – your dishonesty, angry outbursts,
hypocrisy, addictions and pornography. Let him touch them all. And as his hands
do their work, look across the room. Forgiveness may not happen all at once.
But it can, and it starts with a grace-washed first step. Yours.
Grace,
Randy
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