People say I talk with my hands.
They come up out of nowhere sometimes, bearing down like a summer thunderstorm. Raised to affirm a point and shaken to deny an accusation.
They slide up when I say hello and usually take a final bow when it’s time to say goodbye. They yearn and seek out a solid high-five, but will settle for a fist bump.
They cling to items inside my pocket when a praise band tells me to lift my hands to the heavens. They clinch over a steering wheel when the person in front of me forgets their turn signal. They cover a grin, one finger over my lips when the oldest child lets fly a “dammit” after dropping a slice of pizza on the floor.
My hands create wells in mounds of delicate flour before they measure and pour in biting buttermilk for the biscuits I regularly serve my family. They change diapers, wipe butts, and put on the needed bandaid when the outside play goes awry for my less-than-surefooted offspring.
They break bread and pour wine on one Sunday a month. They focus my fingers to pound on keyboards and flip the pages of the books I often start and sometimes finish. They are always busy, rarely at a standstill.
If the devil truly prefers the hands of the idle, mine are not his first pick. My feet are equally in demand.
They chase children, a perpetual pursuit that has caused the heels of my shoes to wear quickly. They slide into Crocs, catching compost and pollen through the holes like a trap catches lint in a dryer.
For six years, they wandered the wilderness of New England before remembering the path that would take them back South. They have reached an age where doctors recommend that I use them for exercise instead of the occasional stroll.
They walk in the well-trodden paths of those who have come before me. I think of this when I march in protest against the injustices I see.
Weekly, they climb a handful of steps to stand behind a pulpit that often feels both too small and too big. As much as it pains my ego to admit, they ache more than they used to. I prop them up with ice and stumble around in the mornings like Frankenstein’s monster because of the stiffness that has taken up residence.
They have hard miles on them like a 1994 Honda Civic.
I know my hands and feet tell a story. Without words, they tell others what I do and where I go. Knowing this, I’m apt to pay attention to the hands and feet of others.
I saw pairs during Holy Week that left me in a state of fear and trembling. A reminder that followers of the radical Galilean who would defy the power of empire are the body, the hands and feet of a kin-dom that has come near.
They just so happened to belong to my spouse and children.
For over a decade now, I have watched as my spouse, Lauren, uses her hands to embrace uncertain futures. When I first told her I felt called to attend seminary, she said, “I don’t know what it means to be a pastor’s wife.” I told her that was okay because I didn’t know what it meant to be a pastor.
Her hands replaced mine when life felt overly heavy, and her feet showed me new paths when I thought I’d come to dead ends.
I knew she was a minister long before she was officially ordained last summer at the Wild Goose Festival. There, gathered around a dozen or so ragtag Jesus seekers, those who were no longer tethered to religiosity, she knelt with hands placed upon her. All the steps of her life led to this moment. My eyes are still wet just thinking about it.
In the following weeks and months, I would ask her what her ordination meant to her. She told me right fast that she didn’t see herself serving the institutional church.
Her ministry, her life, would be off the grid—showing up, surfacing like a jellyfish, producing a shocking jolt of unhinged holiness when needed. On Maundy Thursday, she did just that.
Midweek worship at mainline churches tends to be light, so as I prepared for an intimate gathering, I wondered how many would show up. I am still in the honeymoon phase of my new call, so I suspected a certain level of support from the congregation.
This service was traditional. The people here had done it before.
But my curveball was to swap out their familiar communion for a foot washing, with the option to wash hands instead for the less adventurous. When I mentioned this during the previous week’s announcements, the pews filled with a smattering of laughs and several arched eyebrows.
Standing in my office, I pulled out the robe and stole I reserve for those higher days on the church calendar. It was then, likely a mighty gust of wind that has been known to fill rooms needing change; the Holy Spirit spoke through me in a way that I wish happened more often.
Looking at Lauren, I said, “Hey, you wanna robe up? I’ll wash the feet, and you can do the hands.” She smiled, letting out a “Yesssssss” as I grabbed extra vestments from the closet.
What happened next? Words are a poor excuse for trying to relay it.
The people came down like Moses toward a burning bush, feet and souls bare with humility.
I bent down and used a pitcher to pour water over the toes of those I’m still getting to know and somehow already love. With the towel at my side, I dabbed the trickles of remaining liquid and gently set each foot back on what was now holy ground.
As I reached for the hand of the next person, I looked and saw Lauren. Her eyes filled with compassion.
Her hands perform a ritual that still gives meaning. She said no words. She was faithful in action—a priest in the line of Phoebe, Priscilla and Mary Magdalene.
As our lines came to an end, my children materialized out of nowhere. They joined their mother and helped by bringing me an extra pitcher to finish the last few folks left.
And then, Lauren came to sit in the chair before me. Her feet rested in my hands, the way they do sometimes when I massage them on our couch at home.
I covered her feet with water and prayer, only to have my children follow suit. They are still small creations, with feet that don’t touch the floor.
Lauren came to kneel beside me, the two of us washing the small bit of flesh and bone we helped bring into this world. We had been to the zoo earlier that day, and all of our feet were covered in dust. When my turn came, I sat silently as my wife and children washed and dried my feet. In the middle of it all, I plucked the stole around my neck and draped it over my oldest daughter. She’s already a disciple who understands grace and forgiveness better than most.
As the basin caught the dirty drops falling into it, I asked God to keep my hands from washing away the memory of what took place at that moment. An impression etched in my mind of witnessing the hands and feet of my wife, my children and my congregation living out the good news of a scandalous message that welcomes all.
A gospel that works with or without shoes.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University and Wake Forest University School of Divinity and is currently enrolled in the Doctor of Ministry program at McAfee School of Theology. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
