Following Palm Sunday Mass, there was a call for volunteers for the upcoming washing of the feet. It struck me as strange that they requested parishioners approach a member of the clergy to offer their tired, dirty feet. In other parishes, the request was the other way around, or they selected people who were involved in the church in some way (lectors, teachers, etc).

They did get volunteers, or at least it seemed to be that way. Maybe (or, most likely), people are less timid about these things than I am. I sat in a pew near the front on Holy Thursday, watching those volunteers remove their shoes before the congregation. They glanced at one another, smiling nervously as the priest knelt before them. I don’t know if I’d be able to do it. Maybe that’s the point.

I realized in that moment—though it was the point of the homily—this submission is exactly what Jesus did. I envisioned Him handling the apostles bare feet, which would be considerably dirtier than our modern shoe-clad feet. I tried to picture God Himself pouring water over my dusty soles, and doing so willingly. Where I sat, I was also directly in front of of a crucifix that hangs at the side of the church. Having these both right in front of me was overwhelming.

We hear all the time that Jesus died for us, and even if we believe it, can’t fathom what it means. We often can’t comprehend extreme concepts: dying for someone like me? Sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your head around it. But something seemingly menial, like washing feet? In the words of St. Peter, “You shall never wash my feet!”

It magnifies the larger sacrifice of the crucifixion. The disciples heard countless time that Jesus was going to leave them, a less-than-subtle allusion to His death. They didn’t get it; it didn’t seem possible. It isn’t until Jesus kneels on the floor, dirtying his hands so that we may be cleansed, that we begin to understand what sacrifice means.