Holy Thursday 2026
Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14; 1 Cor 11:23-26; John 13:1-15
You may recall that Pope Francis, instead of washing the feet of cardinals, as was customary on Holy Thursday, went into a prison, and washed the feet of inmates, including a young Muslim woman. This gave rise to shock and horror among liturgical rigorists, who raised a cry that he wasn’t allowed to do this, as the rubrics—the instructions printed in red in the Missal—specified that it was VIRI who were to be washed, in other words MEN in the literal sense of that word, namely adult males.
I suspect that they were offended also that prisoners, and especially a Muslim woman, should be chosen to represent the apostles. I must confess to having been blissfully unaware that the rubrics specified VIRI, and in various parishes had been happily washing the feet of both sexes, as I suspect had most priests. Apart from other considerations, it tends to be far easier to find female than male volunteers.
Needless to say, Pope Francis was not deterred by the complaints, and to satisfy the rigorists he simply changed the rubrics, replacing VIRI with HOMINES, “human beings” regardless of gender.
It probably goes without saying that there was more than a disregard for rubrics behind the Pope’s choice of venue and “washees” if such a word exists, as there was behind the complaints. He was making a point about the nature and role of the Church. Throughout his papacy, Francis was fond of repeating “TODOS TODOS” –“All, All!” insisting that the Church is a field hospital, another of his favourite expressions, for everyone.
I have described many times my experience at the Holy Thursday evening Mass in 1988, when I was based at the Diocesan Residential Youth Centre, and was confronted by a Peter with the dirtiest foot I have ever seen in my life; and how my attempts to keep a straight face while pronouncing “though not all of you are clean” ended in a collapse into a Brian Johnston-like falsetto scream. On reflection, I was later able to use that event as material for a homily, suggesting that, as the Church, we should be “the people of mucky feet”, mucky from treading in the less salubrious places, walking where the less respectable people are to be found.
Several years later, I was well chuffed to find Pope Francis saying the same thing in different terms, and practising what he preached. Another of his favourite sayings was that “pastors should live with the smell of the sheep”, something which he himself had carried out by abandoning the Archbishop’s Palace in Buenos Aires, and travelling to work on the bus.
Incidentally, the use of public transport is something which I would recommend to the parish clergy. It was forced on me by financial considerations and by an awareness of a reduced spatial awareness when driving, but apart from environmental considerations, it has increased my contacts with people at large, outside the confines of a car.
There is another consideration. The reduction in the number of priests means that, inevitably, they are less familiar with the people of their two or three parishes than in the days when they had a “District” within a parish which they would visit regularly, even if only to distribute tickets for the Christmas draw, a mission which drew our parish priest annually to our door. (The late and holy Bishop Foley had two definitions of a practising Catholic—the stern one being “Someone who goes to church on Good Friday”; the lax one being “Someone who buys a ticket for the Christmas draw”.)
What are some of the implications of the changed situation? Does it not mean that the laity need to be more involved in pastoral “foot-washing”, whether it be by visiting the housebound, taking an interest in the needs of strugglers, or whatever.
I recall a gentleman in a previous parish who was strongly opposed to the concept of lay extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion. One summer, on holiday with his wife, he suffered a heart attack, and spent some time in hospital somewhere in the Deep South—Brighton, or Bournemouth, or another of those faraway places with strange-sounding names.
On his eventual return home, he spoke to me. “Father, I want to become an extraordinary minister, so that I can take Our Lord to people the way people brought Him to me, when I was ill.” A small miracle, if you like.
Not everyone is called to become a Eucharistic Minister, but everyone is called to wash their brothers’ and sisters’ feet in some way. That is the best preparation for receiving the Eucharist ourselves.
