The Strangeness That Connects Us
I was in the supermarket this morning when I met a man from Nigeria. I think it was his warm, open smile that gave me the courage to speak. We began talking about customs, and the conversation reminded me of a Nigerian family we once invited for a meal. At the end of the evening, their children quietly began removing fruit and biscuits from the table and filling their pockets. From a Western point of view, it looked bizarre, almost rude. Yet when we were later invited to their home, we were encouraged to do exactly the same thing before leaving. What seemed strange at first turned out to be a gesture of hospitality.
The truth is that we all have customs that appear bizarre when viewed from the outside. Here in Scotland, supermarkets are filled with haggis, a spicy dish made from the stomach and offal of a sheep. It is eaten in honour of our national poet, Robert Burns, when his poem Address to a Haggis is recited. Even as I write this, I realise how strange it must sound to those unfamiliar with it. Still, it is a wonderful poem, and when read alongside a modern English translation, its warmth and humour shine through.
Wherever you go in the world, unfamiliar customs await you. I once met some Dutch people and shared a coffee with them. One asked, “Are you from Scotland?” When I said yes, he smiled and asked where my kilt was. I smiled back and asked him where his wooden shoes were. In moments like that, humour becomes a bridge rather than a barrier.
Many customs that feel strange to us stretch back into ancient history. In the Bible, for instance, people who were grieving, repenting, or pleading with God would clothe themselves in rough sackcloth and sit in ashes. The fabric was deliberately uncomfortable, meant to humble the body, while the ashes spoke of sorrow and mortality. It was a visible expression of an inward cry for mercy. This appears in books such as Job and Jonah, and throughout the prophetic writings.
When devastating or blasphemous news was heard, people would tear their garments. Clothing was expensive, so ripping it was no small act. It publicly declared that something had been shattered at the deepest level. Leaders often did this to show they shared the people’s grief. You see this in the history recorded in 2 Kings, and again in the Gospels during Jesus’ trial.
Feet in the ancient world were dusty and filthy from dirt roads and sandals, and washing them was usually a servant’s job. To offer foot washing was a sign of welcome and respect, while refusing it was an insult. When someone of higher status washed another’s feet, the act became startling in its humility. This reaches its deepest meaning in John, when Jesus kneels before His disciples.
Silence, too, was once understood differently than it is today. When Job suffered, his friends sat with him for seven days without saying a word. Silence was considered more compassionate than quick explanations. Mourning was often marked by stillness rather than speech, and speaking too soon could be seen as disrespectful to pain. That long, quiet vigil remains one of the most powerful moments in the story of Job.
Some prophets even named their children with symbolic names, turning a single word into an entire sermon. Each time the name was spoken, its message of warning, hope, judgment, or restoration was repeated. It was deeply personal, often painful, and unmistakably public obedience. This is especially clear in the lives of prophets such as Hosea and Isaiah.
What feels strange to us was often deeply relational. These customs used the body, silence, clothing, and shared life to express what words alone could not. Scripture does not sanitise human suffering. It steps into it, meets people where they are, and allows even the strangest customs to speak of dignity, humility, and grace.
Postscript
John 13 opens quietly, yet everything in it is charged with meaning. It is the last evening before his death, and Jesus knows it. The passage begins by telling us that He loved His own “to the end.” That phrase does not mean simply to the last moment, but to the uttermost. What follows is a picture of love that stoops.
Jesus rises from the table during the meal, removes His outer garment, and wraps Himself with a towel. These are the movements of a servant, not a teacher, and certainly not a master. In that culture, foot washing was the lowest task in the household. It was assigned to servants because feet were dusty, unclean, and frankly undignified. Yet Jesus chooses this work deliberately. No one asks Him. He initiates it.
The shock of the moment is captured in Peter’s protest. Peter is not being stubborn for its own sake; he is reacting out of reverence. To him, this is wrong-way-up living. Masters do not kneel before their followers. Holiness does not touch dirt. But Jesus gently corrects him. There are things Peter cannot yet understand, and this is one of them. Understanding will come later.
When Peter swings from refusal to excess, asking to be washed completely, Jesus slows him again. He explains that the disciples are already clean, though not all of them. The washing of feet is not about salvation in that moment. It is about ongoing cleansing, daily humility, and continued fellowship. Even those who belong to Jesus still carry the dust of the road.
After finishing, Jesus puts His robe back on and returns to the table. Only then does He explain His actions. He reminds them who He is: their Teacher and Lord. His authority has not disappeared simply because He knelt down. Instead, He redefines what authority looks like in the kingdom of God. If He, their Lord, has washed their feet, then no act of humble service is beneath them.
This moment dismantles the world’s understanding of greatness. Jesus does not deny His status; He expresses it through self-giving love. Power, in His hands, becomes service. Glory moves downward rather than upward. He tells them plainly that they are to do as He has done, not as a ritual alone, but as a pattern of life.
There is also a tenderness here that is easy to miss. Jesus washes every pair of feet in the room, including those of Judas. Knowing betrayal is coming does not harden Him. Love does not withdraw itself for safety. It continues to serve, even when it will be wounded.
Jesus ends by saying that blessing is found not in knowing these things, but in doing them. The passage does not invite admiration alone. It calls for imitation. The towel becomes as important as the teaching, and the basin as revealing as the sermon.
John 13 shows us a Rabbi who kneels. It tells us that holiness is not fragile, that love is not proud, and that true leadership is willing to get its hands dirty. In this scene, the eternal Word speaks without words, and the meaning is unmistakable: the way of Christ is the way down.