If I were an invisible time-traveling photographer, I would go the the upper room, where Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. I’d get my camera aimed and ready to get a shot of Jesus washing Judas’ feet.
It’d be hard to decide where to take the picture from. Would I take it from Jesus’ back, as he held one of Judas’ dirty feet with one hand and a soaked his towel in the other, ready to gently scrub away the dirt-stains? I could get a straight shot into Judas’ eyes– furrowed with conflicting thoughts, yet unmistakably resolute; twitchy. Mesmerized by what Jesus was doing, but always avoiding the lamb-like eyes of his Rabbi.
Or I could position myself over Judas’ shoulder and shoot directly into the face of Jesus. His concentration intense on Judas’ feet, his strong carpenter hands moving gently like a shepherd stroking his ewe lamb. Firm, and tender– cleansing. His eyes tell of his involvement with something beyond Judas’ comprehension; like a man present in body but absent in spirit– obviously engaged in something much deeper than the mere washing of feet. Utterly humble, yet with a confidence and authority never before seen. An apparent deep sorrow and a contradicting glint of joy.
Was that a smile on his lips?