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A number of years ago, when I was praying my way through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola, I “met” someone in my prayer, and he made his way into my journals. He was a younger version of myself, maybe 12 or 14 years old, and for some reason he allowed me to see in new and clearer ways just what was going on (or at least what was going on in me) in the stories of the life, ministry and passion of Jesus. For the next three days of the Triduum, I’m hoping he will once again meet me in my time of prayer. If he does, I’ll tell you the story. (How’s that for a self-imposed writing challenge?)   

Triduum: Thursday, an upper room…

I don’t know why but I decided to follow him. It was Passover and the city was bustling. With my short, skinny legs I had trouble keeping up with him and his friends as they wound their way through the crowds and the shops. They stopped to buy some bread and wine but I stood off at a distance.

I mean, I knew who they were. I had heard the stories from my old man. He had been interested in them, too, at first. But then it all seemed to turn dark and dangerous and he stayed away. He told me to stay away from them but that, of course, only made them all the more interesting. The stories I had heard were too good to be true and perhaps they were just that. Miracles. Healing. Interesting stories that revealed deeper meaning. I’d see about that.

He put the bread and wine into a canvas sack slung over his shoulder and moved on. I picked up the pace and moved closer. I saw them enter a house near the fish market and I ran and stood outside the door. Steps led up the dusty stone stairs and I could hear them talking and laughing, moving furniture around, preparing for the meal. I tiptoed up the stairs and rested my back against the rough-hewn wall next to the doorway. I waited, listening to their easy conversation, more like friends than master and students, even though that’s how they were known. I peeked around the corner and saw they were busy on the far side of the room. I ducked in and hid myself behind a pillar. They quieted down and he spoke.

“My hour has come,” he said. “It’s time to pass from this world to the Father.”

I didn’t know what he meant, so I risked being seen and peered around the pillar hiding me. He rose from the table and took off his outer garments. He tied a towel around his waist and poured water into a basin. Slowly, reverently, as if it was the most important thing in the world, he began to wash his followers’ feet. It made no sense. Shouldn’t they be washing his? 

He looked up as if he could sense my thoughts, and I thought for a moment that he had seen me. I hid myself again and held my breath. I could hear as he continued, one by one, the sound of water softly splashing, the padding of cloth against the rough and calloused feet of fisherman and tax collectors.

One of them finally objected and insisted that he do the washing, but the teacher was adamant.

“What I am doing, you do not understand now, but you will understand later,” he said. “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me.”

“Then wash my hands and head as well!” the man replied, but the teacher just laughed.

“This will do for now,” he answered. “You are clean enough.”

I looked again and his back was toward me. He was facing the table pouring more water into the basin. He turned and, before I could hide, he was upon me. I couldn’t run or hide. I didn’t want to.

“Your turn,” he said, calling me by my name and my father’s name.

I did not understand. I looked at my feet — small, dirty, unwashed for many days. But he took them into his hands and washed them clean and dried them with the towel. His friends looked on in disbelief. He put his garments back on and went back to sit at the table with them. He motioned for me to join them. I arose and walked to him, standing beside him. His arm touched my shoulder.

“Do you realize what I have done for you?” No one spoke. “You call me ‘teacher’ and ‘master,’  and that’s who I am,” he said. “So if I am master and teacher and I wash your feet, that’s what you’re supposed to do to others. This is how I am asking you to act, to live, to continue when I am no longer here. This is how others will know us. By our love for one another.”

Silence still, as if they were all trying to find another meaning in his words they could more easily understand. They shook their heads gently back and forth, as if weighing the words for truth.

“Even me?” I finally asked.

“Especially you,” he said. “Now and for all time. This is what we are all about.”