At the last curtain call, long applause resounded and the annual school program came to an end. Former students faithfully came to catch a glimpse of the old days, appreciating the feeling of welcome to the school where they grew up and learned life. A young man suddenly charged towards me but stopped abruptly in front of me. He pounded his clenched fist to his heart, bowed before me and touched my feet with his fingers; a greeting bursting with love, respect and honor. Of course, it’s Indian tradition, and doesn’t always carry those wonderful tones, but when it comes from the heart it’s as good as the best hug ever.
Touching feet is significant. The one who first taught touching feet did so as a lesson to his disciples. He took off his cumbersome garments as a servant would, kneeled down in front of each of them and washed their feet. In the previous story I mentioned the little girls who touched my feet; they scoured my feet like pots and pans. My little friend, Budwara, “touched my feet” whenever she looked at me; it wasn’t just physical touch; the love and respect shining from her eyes was as good as touching my feet. Washing feet only comes from a servant heart. Clearly, transparency is where love is. Why would God touch our dirty feet?
Touch the feet for you are made from dust and you know that the one who walked in dirt, has His thrown on holy ground, so, touch the feet.
I touch the feet I feel the flesh of him whose tears and blood are mixed to become wine for me, through his sweat I touch his feet.
Touch the feet of Christ, wipe the stain from him who died, standing up unashamed, stripped of pride it remains; to touch the feet.
Lord how can I come into your presence now? Lord how can I walk through gates of splendour now?
I by your great mercy come into your house, in reverence and adoration I bow before you now.
Touch the feet for you are made from dust.