Communion Sabbath? Today?! That’s the last thing I wanted to hear while walking to church in flip-flops, splattering muck across my ankle-length skirt, and desperately trying to avoid stepping in the dung- strewn, muddy road. The recent tropical storm had definitely wreaked havoc in the little Honduran town of El Suyatal.
As I looked down at my filthy feet, I couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between today and my past Communion services. My feet, and the feet of most other church members, usually received a special deep scrub on Communion days - just to make sure there weren’t any traces of dirt. All remnants of toe-nail polish were meticulously removed. The taste and texture of the Communion bread was evaluated in the never ending debate of which church makes the best kind. How many times have I wished that the Barbie-sized grape juice cups could be enlarged? Oh yes, Communion was a special event.
But today, far from home, I tried not to fidget in the lean-to type church as I self-consciously stared at my mud-caked feet planted firmly upon the church’s dirt floor. Between the car horns blaring, dogs barking, roosters crowing, and the ever-present loudspeaker advertising “fresh” produce, I listened to the speaker rattle off in Spanish about which room to enter into for the foot washing. Lynette, a precious Honduran friend of mine, leaned over to me with a smile and asked if she could wash my feet. My confident, affirmative response did not match the hesitant look on my face.
As I scrunched my oversized foot into the water basin, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly the water changed to a muddy brown color. Expecting the usual two second splash, I was surprised when Lynette began to drench my feet with water and gently massage the mud away. For several minutes, she scrubbed and scrubbed between my toes and around my nails just to make sure that every spot of filth had been cleansed. “She shouldn’t have to do THIS!” I thought. “That’s not fair. I can take care of it!” After all, who would want to touch such muck with their bare hands? But I slowly started to feel something change. I began to fight back the tears as I realized what heartfelt love and sacrifice she was showing. If it wasn’t for the paper towels they had given me to dry Lynette’s feet with, I would have gladly dried her feet with my hair. At that moment, it all began to make sense. Through the muddy-water surrounding my feet, I saw a clearer picture of Jesus. I saw myself as Peter: self-conscious, self-sufficient, and works-oriented. Yet, Lynette’s example gave me another picture as well. I couldn’t help but feel the warmth of God’s presence as He told me He does this and more for me! He didn’t have to, He doesn’t deserve to – but He loves me! As I felt the tears begin to fall on my cheeks, I prayed to God, “Please, cleanse all of me! Please, give me that heart of love as well. Lord, I surrender all.” I didn’t want this moment to end – I felt so close to Christ. I had never realized before how beautiful a Communion service can be – but I know now.
Since my return from Honduras, in all honesty, I have avoided Communion service. It just doesn’t compare to the genuine experience I had in that adobe walled room. But the next time I do, I plan on looking for a stranger whose feet I can wash. Not the nicely scrubbed, perfectly manicured type; but the filthy ones that look as though they have traveled many hard roads. You know, like the feet that my Saviour washed.
