Maundy Thursday, in most traditions, commemorates the Last Supper. But here’s the thing I’ve missed, year after year after year.
Many scholars echo that the English term “Maundy” comes from Old French and Middle English and Latin. Mandé, from the Latin mandatum.
It’s John 13:34, flesh and blood and action and life, right there in the Last Supper. Washing of the feet and all the love that comes with it.
Chubbiness is thing one, yes. But chub aside, the thing I loathe most about my body is my feet. Disgusting in the modern sphere of beauty. I’m way overdue for a pedicure . . . or three or four.
Were my Savior to touch my feet, much less wash them? I’d be first embarrassed, then ashamed.
Really, Sarah? I’d ask myself. You didn’t bother with a pedicure? That Target-brand loofah wasn’t doing much and now? Your feet? In your Savior’s hands?
Enter grace. Grace enters again and again and again. LOVE. Grace for calloused, dry, scaly feet. Grace for grown-out nail polish, grace for my right ring toe that finally grew back. Grace for the weird shape right before the big toe. GRACE in imperfection. Because seriously, no one has perfect feet.
Grace is love where we fail, love where we stumble, love where we totally wreck it all. And that’s Maundy Thursday.