For the Ones Who Never Got Their Feet Washed
May this Maundy Thursday blessing be a reminder:
You are not forgotten. You are not alone. You are holy, and you are held.
For the Ones Who Never Got Their Feet Washed
A Maundy Thursday blessing for the ones left kneeling, longing to be called “Beloved”,
by Sarah Skinner, April 2025
This is for the one I lost—
the one who bore too much sorrow in a collar.
This is for the ones who stay,
wounded, but singing still.
I see you.
This is for the ones who pour water
but are never invited to sit.
For the ones who kneel—always kneeling—
never hearing:
"Beloved, rest."
I see you.
This is for you—
yes, you, in the last pew,
feet always tired,
with stories never told at the table.
I see you.
This is for the wild-haired saints,
the outcast clergy called "too much,"
for the one holding the candle lit for everyone else,
even as the wax burns.
I see you.
This is for you,
holding the basin.
No one but the Holy One saw your hands shake.
No one saw how you poured yourself out
and were called too tender, too loud.
I see you.
This is what the Holy One whispered:
"Beloved, you don’t need their permission to be holy.
The stage is not sacred—you are.
You don’t need the ceremony
to claim your washing."
Come. Sit in the circle.
Let us welcome you.
Take off your shoes.
You do not need to kneel tonight.
Let this poem hold you.
Let us speak your name
in invitation.
You are clean.
You are loved.
You are worthy of the water.
You are blooming like wildflowers
the Holy Spirit planted in spring.
You are joyful surprise,
laughter between hymns,
the sparkle in the chalice,
the voice that says "Love" and means it,
the glimmer of a Christmas candle,
the warmth of peace passed.
You are Sacred Refuge, yes—
and you belong to the table and the dance.
Let these words wash over your feet now—
let there be lightness in each step,
a joyful, holy mischief that is blessed.
Remember, when you feel the weight,
that the Holy One skips down the aisle some Sundays,
plays hopscotch with the youth group.
Each laugh is a healing balm—
yours is, too.
Your smile is sacred.
And when you find yourself
unexpectedly laughing,
especially after sorrow,
know the Holy One is laughing with you—
with a laugh the tomb could not hold.
