Ukraine is burning. Gunmen are taking target practice in New York subways. Dumpsters are overflowing with food. And pretty soon Jesus himself will be executed by the stupidly powerful. But right now he’s going under the table. At least that’s what it sounds like.
“During supper Jesus, knowing the Father had put all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took a basin and towel and began to wash the disciples’ feet.”
I usually picture Jesus today sitting at the table, not under it. It’s his last supper before tomorrow’s big showdown. In 8 hours, all his friends are going to say they don’t even know him. Like a family member who has been called in to identify the body, when the coroner asks if they recognize the hands, the feet, the eyes, the curve of the head, they’ll all say, “No, I don’t know him at all.” But for the moment, they’re perfectly glad to eat the bread he gives them, the bread he calls his own body. What grace on his part. What a scandal on theirs.
Then, to really make his point (what is his point?), Jesus gets under the table.
Things look different under the table. The table itself looks different. From underneath my own table, I can see all the scratch marks from where my children have kicked each other a time or two because one or both of them wouldn’t pass the potatoes when they were asked for. Or, because they passed them, but not before taking a helping hand for themselves first.
From underneath the table, I can see all the crumbs that have been dropped—a reminder not only that I need to vacuum more, but also that I waste so much food. A reminder that in this world there are still five thousand times five thousand people starving for a couple loaves of bread. A reminder that with Jesus there is no difference between abundance and generosity.
From underneath the table, the crumbs remind me of my Golden Retriever, and of that Canaanite woman who once went to Jesus begging for mercy on behalf of her tormented daughter. When Jesus told her that he had come to serve only the children of Israel—“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs,” he told her—the woman told him, “Yes but even the dogs get to eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.”
From underneath the table, I can hear the words of Sojourner Truth: “I could work as much and eat as much as a man – when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain’t I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother’s grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain’t I a woman?”
From underneath the table, I remember just how easily food comes to my table, and how many there are who have no table, or no home, or no family to call their own.
From underneath the table, I can hear the sound of my mother’s voice above me saying, “No playing under the table during dinner. Get back up here.” But from here, I am that much closer to the sight of my feet. I can see how badly they need to be washed clean of this day, of the stumbles and falls I took.
So I want to say, don’t move from where you are down there on the ground. You’re in perfect position for what is about to happen. Because it was during supper that Jesus got up, bent down, and washed some feet. No one was even done eating yet. I guess Jesus couldn’t wait to show everyone what love really looks like.
PleaseGrace 