There are filthy feet beneath the Master's table. Feet that have gone places they should never have been. Feet that have kicked their brother while he lay helpless. Feet that run from Love, like it were a disease. Feet that have been washed a million times before, yet in a moment, are filthy again.
They have no right to be in such a place. Dirt, blood, sweat, and tears have no place at a King's feast.
But, as surely as the sun rises the King welcomes back, as often as they would come, those diseased and filthy guests. Very much in spite of their perversion and iniquity, and for all of their bloodied and battered bodies, the King hands out sparkling robes to those who would take them. He washes their feet. Bandages their Wounds. Dries their tears.
And leads them to the Feast.
Tomorrow they will slip the silver into their pockets, curse the King and run for all they are worth.
When they have run so far, that they cannot tell North from South, East from West, up from down, they cry out for rescue. And the King bursts through the wilderness, and takes them home. He has forgotten their treachery. And again, he cleans and clothes them.
And brings them back to the Feast.
I was carried to the Table, seated where I don't belong.
Eph. 2:4-5
As often as we will run, our God will seek. Though our love fails, his is incapable.
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