I have seen the feet of Christ. Actually, now that I've recognized them, I see them every week.
After receiving Communion, I try to spend time in
prayer, but I don't always succeed. Okay, I rarely succeed. How I
envy the saints who seem to fall so effortlessly into pure
contemplation of our Lord! Sometimes the simple movement of
people is distraction enough to keep me from even the shallowest of
prayers. Since my family is sits in the front pew at Mass, I end
up noticing the feet of people going by. Keeping my head bowed, I hope
to give at least the illusion of prayerful meditation.
Considering my closet, which is almost overflowing
with shoes, I can honestly call myself a "shoe-aholic". A shoe store to
me is like a wine shop to a drunk. I realize that I should have
my mind and heart on loftier things after Communion, but I humbly
submit that I am a frail and simple human being, and disturbance is
everywhere. So what does all this have to do with contemplative
prayer? Instead of praying and offering to God my failed attempts
at prayer, I'm watching the shoes of the other communicants traipse by.
The parade of shoes at Communion is better than a
display window at the mall: a couple of huge battered tennis
shoes; bright red leather high heels that shout "Notice me!";
orthopedic shoes that are strictly for comfort; sandals with thick
platforms and open toes allowing brightly painted nails to pop out;
no-nonsense boots; a pair of ever-classic Mary Janes topped with
lace-trimmed socks; boots of the cowboy variety; and gravity-defying
heels. It's fun to imagine the story behind each set of
shoes and the feet that occupy them. I am struggling to
pray, not succeeding, when I realize these are all the feet of Christ.
I know we are called to see Christ in every person
we meet, but I usually don't. I can get irritated by the person
next to me in the grocery line who, without speaking a word, rankles
me: Doesn't that lady realize she is invading my body space with her
stupid cart? The guy in the car in front of me at a traffic light just
can't hit that green light fast enough: Come on, I've got places to go.
The woman who answers the phone at the doctor's office isn't polite
enough, in my estimation: Don't they teach their employees any phone
manners? The people I live with offer me constant opportunity to
see Christ, and I almost never do: Can't these kids ever put away
their own stuff? The fact that I don't see Christ in these situations
is not the fault of the other. I know it is mine.
I fully expect Christ to be big, to be blinding, to
be more than anything I could ever expect, to be grandiose. What a
perfectly silly notion on my part. He certainly isn't portrayed
this way in any of the Gospels. I try to see him only in that which is
extraordinary, not mundane. Then I noticed all those shoes walking by my hypocritically bowed head.
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I
can't tell you about the owners of any of those shoes because I never
looked up to see their faces. Yet that parade of feet spoke to me in a
way that the faces probably wouldn't have. I noted all the shapes
and sizes of the shoes, the money or lack of it that went into their
purchase, the wear and tear on them, and even the obvious care that
went into their presentation. And yet I knew, Here is
Christ. He is present in that pair of little girl shoes, those
steel-toed work boots, those "look at me" pumps, and the size thirteen
tennies. He is present in all these people, all their work, all
their dreams, and certainly in all their harsh realities. Christ
certainly knows what it is to walk in the shoes of a working man, a
teen, the center of attention, the child, the shoes of an accused
criminal and the shoes of a saint. He has intimate knowledge of
their footwear and the paths they must walk. He knows the roads
they have found themselves on and choices they have made. He
Himself has made the footprints left by all these shoes.
Perhaps this is why Christ chose the gesture of
washing the feet of His disciples. He knew the intimacy of such
an action would burn into our needy psyches. He knew that we
needed that body-experience of taking hold of another, of noticing the
worn sandals, the calloused feet, the dust of the road on our soles.
Christ, in His wisdom, knew that we would look for Him in all the wrong
places, and so He directed our attention to one another's feet.
Monsignor Romano Guardini, in his book The Lord, calls this gesture an
example of "the fundamental humility on which all human humility rests."
Our rich and beautiful Catholic faith teaches us
that the Christ is present in the Eucharist in a way different from his
Presence anywhere else, except for Heaven. We know He is
present Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity, in the Eucharist, and that we
enter into His Divine Sacrifice at every Mass. Being human,
though, we feel this is not enough. We want to touch and finger,
see and hear Him. We yearn for the very human experience of the
senses. We are bound by our bodies: we want His feet to walk by
us, to see His face, to touch the hem of His garment. What a
great privilege I was given that day at Mass, to actually receive
Christ into my body, and then see Him as He walked by.
Should I come to meet Christ in the Resurrected
Flesh one day, I worry that I might not recognize His face. But I
know I'll recognize His feet.
Elise
Graveline Hilton is a mother of five in Michigan. She has written on
many aspects of motherhood, including adoption. She received her
bachelor's degree from Alma College (MI) and her Master's from Western
Michigan University. Currently a writing consultant for WriteGuide.com,
she also teaches catechism, and loves to read. Elise and her husband
are Apprentices to the Franciscan Sisters of the Eucharist.
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