CHRIST'S FEET

Andy preached a sermon during Lent about Mary anointing Jesus' feet. That's always been one of my favorite Bible stories, but for some reason that morning, the story stayed with me and I knew I wanted to paint the story.

A couple of weeks later, Andy preached again, this time about Jesus washing the disciples' feet. He reminded us that those two incidents were only days apart, and that there's a huge possiblity that Mary inspired Jesus--that his washing their feet was a direct result of her washing his feet. I had never thought of that, but I knew there was a painting in there somewhere.

I felt a painting forming in my gut. I had been so moved by both sermons, and I felt the painting forming on my insides, so I simply asked, stated my intention, then waited.

Also during Lent, we had a priest from the Episcopal Diocese of Texas in Houston come and talk to us about Social Justice and EDOT's ministry to the homeless.

And the photo--this photo of aching, injured feet that inspired this painting--I must confess, it came from a National Geographic Magazine. I pulled it a couple of years ago, and kept it. It's haunted me and it's been "in my face" since our Social Justice evening.

I started the painting Easter Sunday afternoon, and today I've been thinking of it this poem that St. Theresa of Avila wrote; I first heard it at the Cenacle in 2003:

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.

I've loved that poem since the first day I heard it, but over the last few days, I've seen these feet as Christ's feet...are they the feet of the homeless? or the feet of someone in a third-world country? an illegal immigrant who's found his way across our borders? I don't know who's feet they are, but I believe they are Christ's Feet, and he waits to see if we'll wash them, if we'll anoint them.

It scares me, this tug I feel on my heart. I kind of like watching someone else from the sidelines care for the poor. But something's moving; albeit slowly.

When I joined the Catholic Church, I had just lost my job, and the position of the Director of St. Thomas Center in Angleton was open. It is a ministry to the poor. "Shoot," I thought..."I can do that!" But first I had to take a Parish Social Ministries class in order to qualify. So I did--3 months of classes a couple of days a week, driving to Houston. For the most part, it undid me. I discovered all my prejudices toward the poor--all my thoughts and concepts that had been formed over my lifetime. I never even knew I had them. But I learned how mis-informed I was and how UNready I was to work with the poor. At the end of the class, the teacher asked how we planned to use what we had learned. I confessed that first I had to digest it. It was part of the "Great Reveal" for me. I knew nothing.

The last few years have simply been a growing awareness of God's love for the poor, and God's heart for justice, a simple growing awareness of how unfair life is. I am lucky to have been born this side of the border. I'm lucky to have been born white. I'm lucky to have been born middle class. I'm lucky to be married to an engineer who's had a job for at the same place for these 30 years. Flat lucky. I deserve nothing more than they have, and they don't deserve what they have.

So, I still don't know anything, but awareness is growing. And my heart of stone is being softened and "Love one another as Christ has loved you" is being written on it. Don't have a clue what the next move is. For the last couple of days, it's simply been to paint and think and ponder and listen to wonderful music and to say once again, "Here I am Lord..."