By Robert Clements
Why Wash Feet, Touch them…!
In Indian culture, the act of touching the feet of elders is meant to symbolize humility, gratitude, and deep respect. It’s more than just a ritual—it’s a silent gesture that says, “I honour you.” But somewhere along the line, what began as a sacred sign of humility has become a one-way transaction.
Very often demanded, not deserved.
And that’s the irony, isn’t it? Those who should be the most humble, our spiritual shepherds, political leaders, public servants—have turned this beautiful gesture into a show of status. Instead of lowering themselves in service, they stand waiting, stomachs out, legs apart, as others stoop at their feet.
What was once an act of honour is now an ego boost.
Foot-touching has become a spectacle, a selfie moment, a symbolic salute to inflated egos.
Each year, during Maundy Thursday, Christian leaders go through their holy choreography: a bishop kneels, pours water, wipes a chosen few feet. Cameras click, drones hover, Instagram posts are ready before the water hits the floor. Choirs hum in the background, the congregation nods piously.
But by evening, the towel is back in the sacristy, and the bishop is back on his throne—yes, throne—with his priestly entourage.
The feet may have been washed, but the heart remains dry.
When Jesus knelt before His disciples, He wasn’t orchestrating a ceremony. He was issuing a command. “If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” (John 13:14) Not “occasionally” or “when convenient,” but as a way of life.
He didn’t say, “Once a year, put on a show.” He said, “Do this, like I did.” But the clergy today? They’ve got it upside down. Pulpits have turned into platforms for power. Robes hang like royal cloaks. Collars are tighter than ever—not from humility, but from inflated egos.
You can’t bow when your neck is stiff with self-importance.
Where once were basins and towels, now there are gold rings to be kissed and fancy titles. Sadly, you need a microphone to hear the gospel these days because the humble voice of service has been drowned by the booming voice of self-glory.
But let’s not stop at the pulpit.
Let’s walk down the corridors of power. Our politicians—ah yes, the netas of our beloved democracy. How they love to be touched! Feet, hands, sometimes even cheeks—if the cameras are rolling. They glide through crowds like emperors, while their supporters trip over themselves just to stoop. And they allow it. No, they expect it.
They forget they are public servants. Servants, not sultans. They were chosen because they promised to serve—but have you ever seen one of them bend? Not even to pick up their own moral compass, which they dropped somewhere between promises and power.
I once watched a chief minister being garlanded with such a heavy floral arrangement, he nearly lost balance. But not once did he bend to the people. Not even a nod of real thanks. Just stiff politeness, a token wave, and off he went in his bulletproof SUV, leaving behind the very people who lifted him up—quite literally.
And if you think it’s just the bigwigs, let’s stroll into the local police station. There, in that Frankenstein labyrinth of chai-stained tables and missing complaint books, you’ll find officers puffed up like balloons. They don’t serve; they summon. They don’t listen; they lecture.
Try lodging a complaint, and you’ll feel like you’re the one being investigated.
How many poor people walk into police stations and enter as if they are entering the court of a king. They come with fear, when they should be coming with confidence. They enter bowing to the sahib in uniform, when that same sahib is on his seat with money from taxes paid by the common man.
Even our babus in government offices have joined the parade. You would think the desks came with thrones attached. “Sahab is busy,” the peon will say, while Sahab is scrolling through cricket memes. He’ll keep you waiting, file in hand, until your self-worth is shredded and your dignity left in tatters.
We’ve created a culture where elevation matters more than empathy, where being seen matters more than serving.
We’ve institutionalized arrogance and labelled it leadership.
But here’s the twist: the greatest leaders—whether in sandals or suits, or even simpler like our Gandhiji—have always knelt. They’ve known the strength it takes to bow. True leadership is not in the command, but in the compassion. Not in the robe, but in the towel.
If you’re a priest or pastor, bend low—not just once a year, but daily. Touch the feet of the lonely widow, the weeping child, the doubting teenager.
Touch the feet of your congregation!
And listen to them. Really listen. You’ll be surprised what your ears pick up when your head is closer to the ground.
If you’re a politician, take off your sunglasses and see the calloused feet that stood in lines to vote for you. Kneel—not for a photo op, but in gratitude. Build roads that won’t destroy those feet and not to put money into the contractor’s hands and your hands too.
Provide shoes, if you can’t walk beside them.
And if you’re a police officer, remember your badge is meant to protect, not petrify. Serve, don’t scare. Carry towels of justice, not batons of fear.
Because, my friend, only the one who kneels to touch, is worthy to lead. The rest are just standing on borrowed pedestals—waiting for them to collapse.
Today, on Maundy Thursday, let us learn—at least—to touch the feet of the people we serve, from God, who washed the feet of those He created..!
(The author conducts many activities connected with writing and speaking. To find out more, log onto https://bobsbanter.com/a-phone-call-away/)