what did Jesus know when he stripped his clothes and girded in a towel smirked with a servant’s smile? what did he know as water trickled through his fingers smeared with grime and sweat? did he watch the darkened liquid race over his hands and burrow in the cracks of calices worn from years of labor in his father’s shop? did he hesitate when fragrances of earthworn feet trailed past his bearded face and drown in his nostrils? did his heart race as layers of dirt and filth, built for days and days soaked, cracked, and simply wiped away? is that how he could smile at the pebble-of-the-church’s bipolar requests commanding with a question, pressing against this potent action? and did his heart race when he kneeled low before the face of one now given wholly over in his mind to the devil in disguise? did Jesus quibble?