His feet. I don’t know why, but I’ve been meditating on Christ’s feet. 

I think of the woman who pours out her perfume on Jesus’ feet and wipes his feet with her hair and tears.  I imagine, also, the woman caught in adultery falling at Jesus’ feet. And perhaps the woman who was bleeding for twelve year finds herself humbly falling at Christ’s feet only moments after she is exposed for touching his fragment.

Guilt, pain, suffering, shame, accusations, condemnation, fear, isolation, grief, anxiety, pride, anger, sloth, vanity… it all falls away onto Jesus’ feet. In his presence it is all exposed, and there is no response but to fall at his feet, to kiss them, and to weep.

It is in this posture that we see his weary, blistered, dirty, calloused feet that have traveled so far and wide to meet with us. The feet that walked on water. The feet that were pierced, bled, and carried the weight and burden of his body as he suffered and hung on a cross. The feet that carried the weight of the world, and the feet that brought Good News. Blessed are his feet.

All we can do is cling to his precious feet and weep and love.

We have nothing to offer Jesus except our tears and our sorrows, and we ask meekly that he might accept them. And miraculously, he does. He accepts them all as his own, and he offers his own suffering in return.

In this exchange of suffering, we find a mysterious communion. It is a place where we encounter God. It seems empty, futile, foolish, hopeless from afar, nothing but an abyss of suffering and death; but as we enter in, we find that within this very abyss exists a wellspring of divine love and life. Praise be to God.