Following Palm Sunday Mass, there was a call for volunteers for the upcoming washing of the feet. It struck me as strange that they requested parishioners approach a member of the clergy to offer their tired, dirty feet. In other parishes, the request was the other way around, or they selected people who were involved in the church in some way (lectors, teachers, etc).

They did get volunteers, or at least it seemed to be that way. Maybe (or, most likely), people are less timid about these things than I am. I sat in a pew near the front on Holy Thursday, watching those volunteers remove their shoes before the congregation. They glanced at one another, smiling nervously as the priest knelt before them. I don’t know if I’d be able to do it. Maybe that’s the point.

I realized in that moment—though it was the point of the homily—this submission is exactly what Jesus did. I envisioned Him handling the apostles bare feet, which would be considerably dirtier than our modern shoe-clad feet. I tried to picture God Himself pouring water over my dusty soles, and doing so willingly. Where I sat, I was also directly in front of of a crucifix that hangs at the side of the church. Having these both right in front of me was overwhelming.

We hear all the time that Jesus died for us, and even if we believe it, can’t fathom what it means. We often can’t comprehend extreme concepts: dying for someone like me? Sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your head around it. But something seemingly menial, like washing feet? In the words of St. Peter, “You shall never wash my feet!”

It magnifies the larger sacrifice of the crucifixion. The disciples heard countless time that Jesus was going to leave them, a less-than-subtle allusion to His death. They didn’t get it; it didn’t seem possible. It isn’t until Jesus kneels on the floor, dirtying his hands so that we may be cleansed, that we begin to understand what sacrifice means.

I always had to be the rebel. I followed life’s path to a certain degree, but in my own way. Not that I tried to be rebellious, most of the time. I wanted to make sure certain things made sense, and that I understood why I was doing them. The most obvious was my conversion to begin with—I’d been told “believe this, this is the truth,” and when I started asking Why, I discovered more answers (and more questions) than I’d expected. And the Church.

It was the same when I started doing Lent. Most people give something up, but not me. I wanted to do more, be more devout, spend more time in prayer. These things are fine and good on their own, but maybe I was missing the point. When people asked “what are you giving up?”, I’d provide the semi-snarky answer of “being lazy.” Rather than veg in front of the TV, I would read more. Rather than mindlessly scroll the Internet, I would take that time to pray.

But it’s not helpful to start with what you’re going to do. All along, I should’ve started with the giving up part. Once you decide to give something up, other things fill in that space. Things like all those intentions.

I botched Lent this year, despite my good intentions. It started out fine: I intended to see the beauty in the world by taking more pictures, at least one a day; I wasn’t going to snack after dinner. There was a third that I’ve already forgotten. (This isn’t boding well for me.) But to be effective, I should’ve turned it around: give up something, like everyone else does, so those good things naturally fall in place of them. One year I gave up TV after 9:00 p.m. That was probably my best Lent, because it forced me to something else—something good—and I also got to sleep at a normal time.

Not all is lost this year, though. We still have Holy Week to look forward to. So I will give up screen time between working hours and dinner, because I stare at a computer enough during the day. I will give up snacking after dinner, again, because snacks are the very least I can sacrifice. And in that time, the world’s beauty and prayer will easily fall into place.