I'm sitting here at my computer in a somewhat pensive mood, hoping that inspiration to write a blog will miraculously drop out the sky. Well, inspiration didn't drop from the sky, but it did open the window of the apartment next to mine and appear in the form of my 80-something year old neighbour hanging her knickers and brassieres out to dry. It's not quite the inspiration I'm looking for, but it'll do. After each of our encounters I always leave with a smile. She refers to me as 'that boy from Africa'. Each time she calls me that, my mind conjours up images of me in the deepest, darkest jungles of Africa, dressed in tribal gear with a bone through my nose, standing next to a black cauldron with two bound European explorers quietly simmering away in a gourmet jacuzzi. Despite me being as white as the white-washed walls of our building, she has repeatedly asked me if my parents are black. Not only that, but also whether I come from a tribe and what's its name, and have I come to Spain for asylum and how many more of 'us' live in the apartment. We have struck up an odd sort of friendship. From her side it's about curiosity and intrigue to know more about my world, and from my side, well, as long as she keeps making me tuna empanadas (a Spanish pie like thing), I'll keep talking.
Last week we had a particularly amusing conversation as our wires were very obviously crossed. Being the Easter weekend, I wished her Happy Easter, to which she responded by asking me if I'd kissed Jesus' feet recently. That took me totally by surprise as that's a rather abstract Scriptural concept taken from Lk. 7:38 where the woman with the alabaster jar anoints Jesus' feet and then kisses them. Most people only remember the part of her washing His feet with her tears, drying them with her hair and pouring the expensive perfume over them, but not the kissing part. Me thinking that this was all metaphorical for worship, replied by saying that as a matter of fact I had just done so that morning. "Wonderful!", she exclaimed clasping her hands in joy, and asked me where I'd done so to which, much to her further delight, I replied in church. Obviously elated by the knowledge that the Gospel had reached as far south as South Africa, she raised her now teary eyes heavenward and thanked God that the savage world of the Dark Continent had obviously been evangelized and again asked me where I'd kissed His feet. Not sure how much more specific I could get I quoted the full street address of my church, to which she clarified herself further by wanting to know if I'd kissed Jesus on the toe, the ankle or the heel. Confusion was now really setting in, as I'd never thought of any specific location and the thought of the toe, the ankle or the heel kind of grossed me out. I tried as best I could in Spanish to explain that I imagined it was on the upper part of His foot just before it turned upward to His shin. "What?", she said somewhat horrified, "what did you do that for?", as if the Gospel that had reached Africa had been corrupted and perverted. Not wanting to upset her further, I tried to justify myself by saying that my imaginary kiss had actually been very close to His ankle and possibly the part of my lips at the side of my mouth had probably even touched His ankle. It obviously wasn't a good enough explanation. She then went on to explain where she was coming from. Every weekend from the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, in her church, they take down the effigy of Jesus and people come from all over Spain to kiss His feet. You kiss His toe in worship and thanksgiving for coming from Heaven to Earth, you kiss His heel for walking the Earth and bringing the Gospel, and you kiss His ankle INSTEAD of the top part of His foot representing where the nail was driven through in His crucifixion. Apparently, if you do this it guarantees you greater blessing throughout the rest of the year, and you feel the presence of God when your lips touch His feet, which is why people come from all over the show and stand in line to do it. I had actually seen the lines of people queuing for several blocks waiting to get into this particular church a few weeks back when I went to an art exhibition. I had passed a comment that maybe revival was breaking out in that church - little did I know that they were lining up to kiss a toe, an ankle or a heel.
Very obviously I had done a sacrilegious act by kissing the upper part of His foot and she was not at all impressed. But, it did get me thinking this Easter. How grateful I am to God for everything He has done for me and for those who put their trust in Him. I'm even more grateful that His mercy, His blessing, His favour, His forgiveness and His love is not dependent on whether I kiss His toe, or His ankle or heel, but simply on that I love and obey Him. I'm even more grateful that I can 'kiss His feet' at any time of the year and feel His presence with me all the time, and not just from Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday. It's been one week since Easter, and I hope that all that that weekend signified has not been forgotten already, but that the gratitude for all that God has done still is alive and fills your heart. Sadly, it's also been one week since my last tuna empanada!
God bless
