Holy Thursday always sneaks up on me a little.
It’s one of those days that sits in an in-between space—part of Holy Week, part of the lead-up to Good Friday, but often quieter, less defined in my mind than Easter Sunday or even Palm Sunday. And yet, it carries one of the most intimate and, frankly, unusual traditions in Christianity: the washing of feet.
I’ll be honest—feet have never really done anything for me. I know foot fetishes are a thing, and if that’s what someone is into, more power to them, but it’s never been my thing. There is, however, one small exception. In the summer, there is something undeniably attractive about a guy in shorts and flip flops—thongs, as some people call them—with a good tan and well-kept feet. I enjoy the look, I’ll admit that. But that’s about where it ends. Admiration, not participation.
Now, receiving a foot massage after a long day? That’s a different story. I don’t think there’s a person alive who doesn’t appreciate that. Giving one, however, is another matter entirely. I’ll pass on that, thank you very much.
All of this was on my mind this morning because today is Holy Thursday—also called Maundy Thursday—and in many traditions, especially in the Roman Catholic Church, there is the ritual of washing feet. It’s meant to symbolize humility and equality, recalling the moment when Jesus Christ washed the feet of his disciples during the Last Supper, on the night before his crucifixion.
It’s a striking image when you really think about it. A teacher, a leader—someone his followers believed to be the Son of God—kneeling down to do the work of a servant. Not just symbolically lowering himself, but physically, intentionally taking on a task that was considered beneath someone of his status.
That wasn’t a tradition I grew up with.
There weren’t many Catholics where I lived, and it certainly wasn’t something practiced in the Church of Christ. The first time I really became aware of foot washing as a religious act wasn’t in a cathedral or during Holy Week—it was driving past a small, plain church and being told, almost in passing, that they were “Foot Washing Baptists.”
That stuck with me.
Officially, they’re known as Primitive Baptists, a group that tries to hold closely to early Baptist traditions and theology often associated with figures like John Calvin. But what I remember wasn’t the theology—it was the practice. They would wash one another’s feet as part of their worship, usually after communion, or the Lord’s Supper as we always called it.
Even then, I remember thinking how unusual it seemed.
And yet, the more I’ve thought about it over the years, the more I realize how deeply human—and how deeply uncomfortable—that kind of ritual is meant to be. It breaks down barriers. It asks people to step out of their usual roles, their sense of dignity, their personal space, and to meet one another in a place of vulnerability and equality.
So here we are: Holy Thursday bringing together a strange mix of thoughts—foot washing as a sacred act, childhood memories of small churches and unfamiliar traditions, and, somehow, the modern reality that feet can also be the object of entirely different kinds of attention.
It’s funny how the mind works, especially at four in the morning. It wanders. It connects things that don’t seem like they should belong together. And sometimes, in those odd connections, something meaningful—or at least interesting—emerges.
Maybe that’s part of what today invites us to do. To sit with the unexpected. To consider humility in ways that feel a little uncomfortable. To remember that the most powerful acts of love and equality are often the least glamorous.
And maybe, just maybe, to appreciate that even something as ordinary—and, for some of us, as unappealing—as feet can carry a deeper meaning when placed in the right context.
🐈⬛ 🐈⬛ 🐈⬛
I swear sometimes Isabella can read a clock. More than once, she has started trying to wake me up at exactly 4:00 a.m., as if she’s got an internal alarm that’s more reliable than mine. I’ll post an Isabella Pic of the Week after this—because if she’s awake at 4 a.m., she has decided she should not be alone in that experience… and that it’s clearly time for her wet food.
Joe
The Closet Professor 