This time last year, I was asked if I wanted to serve as an apostle in our parish. I readily agreed. I knew it would be fun. I told myself, “What would be so difficult in donning some theatrical clothes, walking around the village and asking for alms?” I was particularly excited for Maundy Thursday, when, before the sumptuous Last Supper, my fellow apostles and I would get a free foot spa from the priest.
I didn’t expect I was in for a surprise: after the priest had washed the feet of the apostles, the apostles had to wash the feet of the other churchgoers. When I learned what I had to do, it was too late to back out. It was already Holy Wednesday, and I had started to go around the village with the other men. So I told myself that the next day, I would just grit my teeth, hold my breath and get the job done and over with.
Also, the washing of feet was the least of my worries that Wednesday. My calves had started to hurt, and I was feeling the onset of a cold. My fellow apostles and I had taken a long walk since Holy Monday, and we sometimes had to run under the drizzle. I thought we would just drop by the houses at the center of the community. It turned out we had to visit all Catholic homes, even the ones in the outskirts of the village.
Most houses in the sitios are built in the middle of a farm. That means neighboring houses are usually far apart. Some can be as far as half a kilometer from the nearest neighbor. In such places, we spent more time walking in the fields than staying inside the homes. From Holy Monday to Holy Wednesday, we visited at least a hundred households in four puroks and three sitios. We traveled about 20 kilometers. We trekked more than a dozen hills, crossed two creeks and, between the 12 of us, slipped on the muddy ground a hundred times.
I found out that being an apostle is more than just asking for alms. In fact, what we received could not be considered alms at all. We didn’t ask for any payment; the village folks just handed us whatever they could afford or wanted to. About half of what they gave us was money, most of which were coins. The other half was fruit and vegetables. (We liked fruits; we ate them as we walked. But we couldn’t say exactly the same for vegetables, especially squashes—especially squashes that weighed more than a kilogram each.)
The primary duty of apostles is to lead the prayer inside the homes and during processions. In the course of the Holy Week, I must have recited “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” in the vernacular 150 times. I had not been that involved in a community activity for a long time. The last time I actively served in the church was when I was still in grade school. I was an altar boy then, and my father was the apostle. When I moved to other places to continue my studies and to work, my participation in parish activities lessened. That was why, last year, I no longer knew that apostles had to wash the feet of other people.
The washing of feet turned out to be not as unpleasant as I thought it would be. I even found myself enjoying it. My parents happened to be seated on one of the pews assigned to me. As I washed their feet, it dawned on me that I had never touched their feet before, while they had touched, washed and even kissed mine when I was a baby.
Why would washing feet, a lowly act, be a good experience? It’s because you cannot feel greater than a person who helps you clean yourself. When the priest washed my feet, I felt unworthy of such a service. When I washed the feet of the other churchgoers, they fidgeted and smiled shyly. No one made me feel that I am a lesser being because I touched his foot, washed the grime off it and patted it dry with a towel. From being hesitant of performing the rite, I found myself wishing there were more pews and more people who came.
In his homily, the priest asked those who attended the Mass, “Among the leaders of our country today, who do you think is willing to wash the feet of an ordinary person?” Faces ran inside my head—faces of national and local government officials—and I wasn’t able to come up with a sure answer. The rest of the congregation seemed to be in the same quandary. Silence answered the priest.
Father then went on to say that it is the biggest difference between Jesus Christ and most politicians. Christ was a king, but he led like a servant. Our leaders are public servants, but many of them act like kings. I can only agree with the priest. Many of our leaders will resign first before they will wash the feet of, say, a laborer, though they won’t resign in the face of corruption charges with damning evidence. Perhaps they will wash a laborer’s feet, but only if there’s a camera around. But if no one is looking, they will kick the man—or do worse to him—if he keeps on complaining against inequality and injustice.
It is difficult to follow the footsteps of Jesus Christ, but I believe our leaders should try to and do their best. They should learn to wash the feet of the masses, if not literally, at least figuratively. They should always keep in mind that they hold office by people’s consent, not by divine right. Because if they remain greedy and abusive, the people will eventually see them for the thieving slaves that they are.
Our corrupt leaders may be able to get away with their ill-gotten wealth. They may keep on eating steak in luxury hotels while half of the people in the country knead their grumbling stomachs. But all they will get is false friendship from their fellow crooks and flattery from desperate voters. They will never earn the respect of an honest, hardworking man. A laborer, in the heart of whom Christ resides, will not find them worthy to lead him. They are not worthy to serve him, not even to wash the dirt off his feet.
After Jesus washed the feet of the apostles, he said, “I am your Lord and Teacher, and I have just washed your feet. Therefore, you must also wash one another’s feet. I have given you an example, so that you too will do what I have done to you.” It’s Lent. It’s time to listen to his message, to emulate his deeds.
