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Melanie is a full-time teacher and a part-time globe-trotter. She can find humor in pretty much anything, attracts peculiar situations and is constantly trying to curb her thirst for adventure, all the while dwelling on the plains of North Dakota. 

A few weeks ago, I visited my friend Sybil from the Live Dead Silk Road team. She’d shed her language student hat to become my tour guide extraordinaire for the major sites. We’d spent the morning meandering through the main tourist area of the city and our next stop was a famous mosque.

After the call to prayer, we browsed through souvenir stands waiting for the mosque to be open again for visitors. Twenty minutes later, we were in the courtyard with its taps and basins for ablution, and through the tourist entrance.

Helpful signs illustrated appropriate clothing options, as well as acceptable mosque behavior. We passed booths loaning blue headscarves and/or long cotton jumpers in case you realized your outfit was the one under the red X. We fished out the scarves we’d shoved in our purses that morning and draped and wrapped until our hair was out of sight.

The last room before the interior had benches and rolls of thin plastic baggies (like the ones for tomatoes in the grocery store). Upon thorough study of the illustrations, we concluded that we needed to remove our shoes, place them in a bag, and carry them with us as we roamed the mosque barefoot.

I gamely removed my trusty black Chacos and my friend, who had wisely worn socks, unlaced her sneakers.

The Stench of Feet

Shoes in hand, we jostled into the airy blue-tiled expanse. The sunlight filtered through five levels of stained glass and overpowered the bulbs in a giant chandelier. A few men still crouched in prayer and quiet voices came from the closed section at the back of the mosque reserved for women. But the majority of people were visitors–snapping pictures, talking in hushed voices. A couple backpacking hipsters meditated against a marble pillar. A tour guide gathered his group on the carpet and whispered stories of the mosque’s history as they gazed in awe at the domes suspended mid-air. (Actually, they were mostly taking selfies, but a guide can dream.)

Though it was only June, it was hot, and the red floral carpet felt sticky under my toes.

And it smelled. Like feet. Bad.

“It is rank in here!” I whispered to Sybil.

Foot odor from a thousand feet had soaked into the carpet and was released in the humidity like the stench from a junior high gym locker.

“It’s not so bad,” she whispered back.

I grimaced. I stepped gingerly on the rugs, but the smell hounded me until I couldn’t appreciate the architecture or intricate tiles. I tried to think deep thoughts, to pray about the spiritual darkness permeating the place, but all I wanted to do was pull my shirt over my nose and leave.

“Do you want to sit down?” Sybil motioned to a column next to the hipsters.

“No, I don’t think I can. Let’s go,” I said.

I made a low-profile dash for the exit, yanked off my scarf, slipped on my sandals, shoved the baggie in the trash, and inhaled the sweet air of the courtyard.

We returned that night from hours of exploring the city center, stumbled up the short flight of stairs to Sybil’s apartment, unlocked the door, and collapsed against the walls of her foyer. I leaned down to unstrap my sandals and pulled up sharply.

That smell.

That stench from the mosque.

It was there. IN Sybil’s apartment.

It was coming from…MY OWN FEET.

At least some of the odor I’d smelled in the mosque (I’m not taking blame for all of it!) had emanated from the bag dangling on my wrist and I didn’t even notice.

The Stench of Sin

And then, by golly, I had so many deep thoughts, I didn’t know what to do with them!

How like sin. Each of us in that smelly mosque carried something more putrid than the reek of our shoes. Maybe we blamed the smell on the person next to us, or on the hordes of tourists trampling the rugs every year. Maybe some didn’t even notice the smell. But our sin was a stench in the nostrils of our holy God.

My sin stunk as bad as the backpackers, the tourists with their selfie-sticks, the men praying, and the guide huddled on the floor.

We all needed to be washed. Ritual ablution wouldn’t cut it. Covering our feet with plastic bags was not the answer. Jesus said, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”*

Because Jesus loved us, He gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.*

Instead of my rank feet, God smells the fragrance of Jesus.

When the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, He saved us, not because of the righteous things we had done (not for answering the call to prayer five times a day, not for washing fingers to elbows three times, not for using the appropriate headscarf) but because of His mercy! He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior.*

I believe the Holy Spirit was shouting the same thing to every single person in that mosque as Ananias did to Paul after his encounter with Jesus, “And now, what are you waiting for? Get up! Be baptized and wash your sins away by calling on the name of Jesus!”*

The Fragrance of Christ

This is the fragrance my friend and her Live Dead teammates have the privilege of spreading over the Silk Road. They are the aroma of the knowledge of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.*

Indeed, how beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation!*

Whoo! I think I’ve worked up the courage to give my Chacos a good scrubbing. They’ve been in an airtight bag next to my shower since I’ve come home

*Jn 13:8, Eph 5:2, Titus 3:4-6, Acts 22:16, 2 Cor 2:14-15, Is 52:7

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