Ildiko’s Foot

Ildiko’s foot, the great comedian of the moment, was not visible to the others waiting for their feet to be washed.

He came to Simon Peter [who said]… “You shall never wash my feet,” and Jesus replied, “Unless I wash you, you will have no share with me.”

This passage in the 13th chapter of John is the model for Holy Thursday services in many Christian denominations, including my own Catholic church.

On that day virtually every priest, every bishop and even the Pope himself kneel in front of twelve people selected to have their feet washed. It is a profound gesture that makes vivid the virtues of service and humility while demonstrating how Christian leadership should be defined.

I’ve never been a priest, so I can’t tell you how it feels to humble yourself in the way demanded by this service. However, I have been one of those selected to have his feet washed and my response was a lot like Simon Peter’s.

I felt awkward, knowing that if either of us should be washing the feet of the other, then it should probably be me washing the feet of the priest. But if that was the case, then the world could spin for a thousand years before I’d be washing the feet of a priest, let alone an acquaintance or even the feet of my best friend… perhaps especially the feet of my best friend.

No, not me, not ever.

Holy Thursday provides a unique form of unease as you consider the implications of what it means to say, “I believe in Christ.”

It is a moment of universal insufficiency. And that brings me to a story about a woman named Ildiko.

When I lived in Chicago I belonged to a very large parish and Ildiko was the office manager. In a way common to most parishes, that parish depended on the efforts of an alpha woman. Ildiko scheduled, she organized, she made sure things happened. In short, she was the organizing principal that made a large, diverse and active community coherent.

In the well understood hierarchy of our parish she ranked below the pastor, but above every lay person as well as every associate pastor — and the younger the associate pastor the more she out ranked him.

Please understand, Ildiko did have a place in her heart for the newly ordained (in fact, a special place) but she also delighted in putting them in their place — often with a slightly irreverent sense of humor.

Unfortunately, for these recent seminary graduates, our older pastor reveled in a role that set him apart. So he found it easy to assign “foot washing” to freshly minted priests — plebs of the rectory who had been semi-cloistered since adolescence.

Ildiko fully appreciated this circumstance, and all the delicious human dynamics that were at play.

Also, as was typical, it was Ildiko who provided the list of the twelve people whose feet were to be washed. On this particular occasion my name was second on that list, however, first on the list was Ildiko herself, and, to my knowledge, it was the first time she had ever included her own name.

In a way not uncommon, Ildiko made sure she had a pedicure the day before that Holy Thursday. Then, on the day itself, all of the chosen sat expectantly in a line of chairs before the altar; our feet shoeless though still covered with socks.

To my right, and first in line, was Ildiko. I watched her closely, hoping to follow her lead in this novel and awkward situation.

The young priest approached us and knelt before Ildiko who had a seraphic smile on her face that seemed just slightly out of place. The basin was set to one side as he set about rolling down her sock in preparation for the central moment of the service. As the sock slipped away from her pedicured foot I saw her toenails enameled in a bright, almost florescent shade of yellow. On each of her big toes was a perfectly rendered smiley face, each with one eye rendered in a knowing wink.

The priest, now caught at a highly charged moment, suddenly allowed a chortle to escape. And there he was, on display high above a large congregation, his chortle becoming a giggle, and finally a heaving display of frustrated containment. The priest’s predicament was contagious. In short order even Ildiko was unable to control her own suppressed laughter, and ultimately the problem became my own to endure.

Fortunately, Ildiko’s foot, the great comedian of the moment, was not visible to the others waiting for their feet to be washed. I’m sure they were mystified, but given the situation we were in no position to explain. Soon enough the three of us reclaimed our composure as the priest worked his way through the other’s sense of awkwardness now compounded by confusion.

This incident might have ended there. A small absence of composure shared by three people who alone understood its source or significance. For most in attendance that moment was probably appreciated as a tiny lapse by a new priest — something that time and greater maturity would no doubt fix.

Few would suspect that it had anything to do with Ildiko.

But, as it happened, that was not the end of the incident… at least not for me.

The following Sunday was, of course, Easter. After that hugely attended service I was exiting the church with my family. In the crowded hubbub an older woman standing some distance away took her full measure of me and walked in my direction. I could see that she had a purpose, and I paused waiting for her to intersect with where I was standing.

We did not know one another, and I paused as she considered what she wanted to say. “I was in the congregation on Holy Thursday,” she said in a level and determined voice, “and I remember seeing you seated, waiting for your foot to be washed.”

Now I was fully prepared to hear about my failure to honor that holy moment with appropriate seriousness. Something I’d rather not hear in the presence of my wife and children.

But instead, she continued, “I just wanted to tell you how it affected me. To see a young priest so moved by the moment that he broke down in tears. And then to see you and Ildiko, also moved, sharing what he felt, it really mattered to me.”

I was struck by a conflagration of conflicting emotions. Here was a woman who had completely misunderstood what had happened, while at the same time fully understanding what the moment meant. On one level I was amused by her sweet misunderstanding, and on another I envied the world in which she lived… a world that allowed her understanding to be so obvious and true.

I said, “Thank you, it was special for all of us.”

I left it at that and never attempted to share what actually happened, either with her or anyone else who attended that service. However, I did share what she said to both the young priest and to Ildiko. I shared with both of them what I had heard — the unknowing genius of an old woman.