Can you picture the feet of Jesus?
As we trace the images of His feet throughout His life on earth, first we see the precious little baby feet, punching the air vigorously from a blanket laid in the shade of a tree, delightedly inspired by the moving branches riding on the wind. Then they are smaller feet among numerous bigger, older feet. These feet are mostly stationary as the owners’ brows are knit in thought, new concepts racing through their minds, and their lips poised to further the dialog. Next we see adult feet descending into water, coming out again with purpose and direction as they move toward the burning sands of the desert.
Often we see walking feet, treading up and down trails and mountains, surrounded by many feet of all shapes and sizes, though most often encircled by twelve pairs of masculine, hairy-toed, dusty, sweaty feet. Once we see His feet dangling as he sits on the rock wall surrounding a well. They are resting and waiting feet—waiting for the feet of a woman who have wandered fruitlessly, searching from man to man for a meaning to her life, though often experiencing rejection. Another time His feet are extended behind a friend while they are reclining at a table, having been invited to a dinner. However, the feet are still dirty and weary, not having received the attention of an honored guest. That is, not receiving attention until suddenly drops of water fall on them. But the drops aren’t really water, but salty tears, falling so profusely that they wash away the grime of a long day. Then the feet are lovingly embraced and wiped clean with long hair. An incredibly sweet aroma fills the air as these once weary and sandy feet are now clean and anointed, honored as only they should be.
On the feet go. Too soon the picture of straining feet fills our minds, feet splashed with blood and grime, doggedly digging into the pavement and weakly dragging a heavy beam behind them. They stagger once and then again, until the load is lifted and the weary, weakened feet are shoved on again, struggling still just to carry their own body weight. At the end of the road, the feet are crossed one on top of another. Unbelievably, a huge square-shaped spike is poised over the ankles and then mercilessly hammered into position, skewering the feet to the heavy wooden beam. They remain in that position, blood coursing from the holes, the body too often having to push its weight down on the metal invader in order to allow the suffocating lungs to purge themselves enough to last a little while longer. At last the struggle is lost, and the feet, no longer aware of any physical sensation, are removed from their torture and wrapped in linen. Enclosed in a cool cave, they stiffen into undisturbed repose. . . .for three days . . .only. Suddenly, life flows through them again, and they support the body without benefit of healed bones or wounds as they exit the cave. A woman briefly embraces them, but is quickly given a message to deliver.
For a time the feet pass through doors without the benefit of those doors being opened. They bend before a fire, preparing lunch for eleven pairs of familiar feet. Those same eleven pairs of feet are there the day the feet suddenly begin ascending, up, up, over their heads, continuing up to the clouds, like an amazing gas-filled balloon without the benefit of the helium.
Much time has passed here in this temporal world, yet now the feet, burnished bronze (Rev. 1:15), reside at their heavenly home beside their Father. Often the feet are rested as He sits. On occasion, when He receives a martyred, faithful saint, the feet support Him as He stands to welcome the believer home, such as when Stephen was called to Him (Acts 7:56).
Just as the feet waited those thousands of years ago by the edge of the well, even now they wait for the Father’s pleasure and the appointed time of His marriage and His upcoming, incredible anointing to His throne.
I want to see the feet of Jesus. My chosen destination is to lay prostrate before those feet, bathing them with my tears, kissing them. Until that day, He has chosen that my feet follow where His have gone before, being honored to serve and walk and wait and even suffer. Then perhaps those waiting feet will stand for me.