Were I a betting person, I would bet that by this point in the summer (at some point, at least) you have been outdoors without shoes on your feet. Maybe it was a trip to the lake. Maybe it was in your backyard. Maybe it was during some water-play with children. But it likely happened.
Moreover, were I betting person, I would bet that you noticed things without your shoes that you would not have noticed had with your shoes on: the pokey grass, the warm pavement, the coolness of the water, etc.
Our feet are rather sensitive instruments of awareness, albeit ones that are usually confined to sensations of hot/cold, tight/loose, and perhaps fatigue and pain. We generally do not pay much attention to our feet until they tell us something is wrong, despite the fact that they are literally the foundation on which we stand.
People often wonder about my sandals and bare feet. Sometimes they ask. It never ceases to amaze me the ways some seem to not care a lick, while others take personal offense to this spiritual practice. And it is a spiritual practice for me — something purposefully practiced so our awareness of God can expand and God can grace us into transformation. (And yes, spiritual disciplines exist beyond the twelve we are exploring!)
There’s a lot of precedent for this kind of thing in our history. A lot of folks automatically make the connection to Moses and the burning bush (Exodus 3) and the general biblical conception of “holy ground.” Far fewer make the connection to the discalced (“unshod”) traditions within Christian monasticism, particularly through the Franciscans and the Carmelites. Even outside of Christianity, there seems to be an almost omnipresent conception of taking off shoes as a sign of respect.
For me, it is all of these and none of these. Over 25 years ago now, I was in a place where I was seeking a greater connection to God. I was simultaneously feeling distant from God and desperate for God. And one day, as I walked, I gained an awareness of just how insulated I was from creation: climate-controlled dorm room, climate-insulating clothes, climate-controlled vehicles, climate-controlled classrooms, and so on. Feeling the heat radiating off the pavement that day and thinking about God entering the world as the fully human being Jesus, I was shaken to realize that God allowed Godself to be more vulnerable to the world than I did. And just like that: I was on “holy ground” too.
Over the seasons of life, God has met me in different ways through this practice. But there have been three consistent ways that this spiritual practice helps me circle back to God. It reminds me to slow down (you can’t move as quickly without shoes), it reminds me of God’s presence (in which I always exist), and it reminds me that I am to be vulnerable to this world (just as was Jesus). Ephesians 5:15 says (in my paraphrase), “pay attention to where you place your feet in life,” and there is something about being sandaled or shoeless that seems to help me do just that.
But please know that this is not a sales pitch for my particular spiritual practice. I only hope that knowing a bit more about my journey inspires you to discover the practices and means that are appropriate for your own journey and relationship with God.
Remember, we’re all in this together,
Pastor Michael