You’re invited to a story about foot washing. Foot washing is not commonly preached; it barely gets a mention (if at all) in most worship services. And yet, the greatest man who ever walked the face of the earth practiced foot washing (John 13:1-20). Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, then told them they should do the same (vv14-15). So why is it so infrequently a part of our worship or even part of our discipleship? God used foot washing to teach me some indelible lessons a few years ago. I am inviting you to hear God’s voice in this story.
I serve as a pastor in Charleston, South Carolina. Our city was stunned on June 17, 2015, when nine Christian people were murdered during a Wednesday night Bible study in Emanuel AME Church. Myra Thompson taught the lesson that evening. When Dylann Roof entered the church, Myra invited him to come sit next to her. She wanted him to feel especially welcome since he was the only white person in the room. Myra taught the study, and Dylann sat quietly for the entire lesson. As they closed in prayer, Dylann took out a .45 caliber pistol and shot Myra multiple times at point-blank range. Then, he turned the gun on the others, loading and reloading, killing nine people.
The city was in shock, the stillness only broken by the weeping of families who were confronting the horror of that night. One by one they learned of loved ones murdered because of what the killer proudly admitted was racial hatred. Roof had left one person alive, telling her he planned to start a race war. His plan may have worked — the nation had seen race riots that year in Ferguson and in Baltimore — but in the words of an AME bishop, “Roof went to the wrong place; he went to church.” Roof failed to understand that the church does not give in to hatred, or fear, or revenge, even when horribly attacked.
Thirty-six hours after the murders, the victims’ families were in bond court for a hearing with Roof present on video. When given the opportunity to speak, what took place was almost as shocking as the killings. Family after family stood in court, looked at Dylann Roof, expressed their pain, and did the unthinkable: they forgave him. Myra’s husband, Anthony Thompson, stood, forgave Roof, and then shared the Gospel with him. “What you really need is to confess your sins and give your life to the One who loves you the most, Jesus Christ.” Rather than a race war, the grace of God broke out of the courthouse that day. Amazing grace, indeed.
In the wake of the shooting, Christian leaders across the city gathered in multiethnic meetings to work on building a bridge over the racial divide in Charleston, a city with a long history of slavery, segregation, and racial division. One of those meetings was scheduled in First Baptist Church, where I serve as pastor. A team worked together to plan the service, mainly focused on prayer. That night, the room was filled with people, black and white, ready to pray and hoping to sense God’s presence. I was asked to provide pitchers and towels for a foot washing that would be part of the service and to welcome everyone at the beginning of the gathering; nothing else was on the schedule for me.
The music was powerful, the prayers were heartfelt, the Scriptures were inspiring, every testimony was moving. I was grateful to be part of this historic moment in our city. Then, it came time for the foot washing.
With no notice, Dimas Salaberrios and I were named as the two pastors washing each other’s feet. Dimas is an African American pastor from New York who was visiting, and he was as surprised as I. He and I were acquaintances, but neither of us was prepared for this. Thrust together in the moment, we took turns washing each other’s feet with real water, real towels, and a real bucket.
I cannot adequately describe the feeling of having Dimas wash my feet, an African American pastor whom I esteemed was washing my feet. I felt humbled, undeserving, and awkward all at once. Perhaps that was the point, I was thinking too much about myself. This moment was much bigger than me. I could hear the Apostle Peter in the background, “You will never wash my feet …” and Jesus saying to him, “If I don’t wash you, you have no part with me.”
As I washed the feet of Dimas, I found it easier to serve him. I could see in his expressions, it felt as awkward for him to have his feet washed by me. We both could hear the voice of our Savior in the background: “For I have given you an example, that you also should do just as I have done for you.” In a way, serving him like this was a unique privilege. I was doing for him what Christ had done for His disciples. As we dried each others’ feet, we both felt the depth of the moment and understood the symbolism. A black pastor and a white pastor washing each other’s feet in the wake of the racially motivated murders of nine people. This moment had depth, a meaning far beyond our two lives. It is as though I washed the feet of every black person in the room, and Dimas had done the same for every white person.
It felt even more momentous, but why?
The Lord’s voice was teaching me. The goal, I learned, was not cleaning someone else’s feet; rather, it was cleansing my heart and that of Dimas. Were not our hearts clean already? In some ways, yes, Christ had already paid our sin debt and our hearts had been made new by his grace alone. Still, that night my heart was changed in surprising ways.
God was purging my heart of pride and arrogance. Desiring center stage comes easy for a pastor, way too easy. When it came to washing feet in front of everyone, I was too self-conscious and self-focused. I preferred my seat in the congregation. I wasn’t above washing feet, I knew that, but I had no interest in being center stage for foot washing. Heaven had other plans. God was clearing my heart of my resume so that I would care less about my image and more about loving Jesus and serving my brother. God vanquished a heart filled with self-centeredness that night, in public, in front of everyone—something I desperately needed.
The Spirit drew me to see Christ more fully as I washed my friend’s feet that night. Jesus told his disciples to do this for one another, just as he had done it for them. He followed up with, “A servant is not greater than his master” (John 13:15-16). I cannot grasp all the indignities our Savior endured on behalf of His people. Washing His disciples’ feet was one of the easier ones. He was spat upon, ridiculed, mocked, beaten, nailed to a cross, and then every ounce of the shame of my sin fell upon Him. None of us can bear such a severe weight, yet Jesus did. Kneeling and washing the feet of my pastor friend magnified Jesus in my heart unexpectedly. I could not help but think of Jesus, who did far more than wash my feet. Nails pierced His feet and into the cross in order to cleanse my sin-infested heart.
Pastor Dimas went back to New York City shortly after, but neither of us were quite the same. The old saying is, “The ground is level at the Cross.” A black pastor and a white pastor, side by side before the Cross, humbly served one another with a Christ-honoring symbol to help build a Gospel bridge in our city. And yet, for me it wasn’t about the city or the gathered congregation that night. God used foot washing to change and refresh my heart. Like anything, foot washing can be performative, but if the Lord inspires it and you listen for His voice—when you wash the feet of another, you may never be the same.
