Ash Wednesday

One of the ways I put Christ at the center of my spirituality is by observing the feasts and fasts of the Christian liturgical calendar: Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost. (A few years ago, Pentecost fell on June 8, the anniversary of the lifting of the black priesthood ban, which I found a meaningful coincidence in my spiritual reflections that year.) Today, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent, the season of reflection and repentance that leads up to Easter. Hugo and I just got back from an Ash Wednesday service held by a small Episcopal congregation that meets in a Reconstructionist synagogue close to campus.

The service wasn't a particularly moving experience for me this time around; it was one of those occasions where I think, "I'm doing it for the sake of the spiritual discipline." I was wearing a sweater, which turned out to be too hot. And then there weren't enough kneelers to go around, so I magnanimously declined one—doing my alms to be seen of others, we might say. But that meant I had to kneel on a linoleum floor, with no pew in front of me to lean on, for five pages of silent reflection and imposition of ashes and psalm and litany and prayer. I quickly discovered that my dress shoes were too uncomfortable to lean back on to give my knees a break. So by the time we got to the end of the kneeling part, I was literally biting the inside of my cheek, not from physical pain really, though I was pretty damn uncomfortable, but from the psychological longing for this to end already. I was particularly annoyed that the priest who was leading the litany was doing it sitting down. I could have sat down, too, of course—that's what Hugo did—but I was determined to stick it out even if I wasn't going to be gracious about it.

Anyway, the point I'm getting to with this story is that after we finally got up onto our feet again and started exchanging the peace, Lisa, the priest, came by to give me a hug. We've gotten to know each other during my time in Chapel Hill, and she was a listening ear after my excommunication, not to mention generously arranging for me to join a church group who went to Haiti during this past Christmas break, my first return trip to Hispaniola, where I served my mission, in several years. So she hugs me and says, apologetically, "Your knees got a workout." And I say, half joking but only half joking because I'm so annoyed, "Well, you seemed to be fine"—referring to the fact that she had been sitting through the litany. And she says, "Oh, I'm going in for surgery again in a couple of weeks." At which point, of course, I feel like a total heel. What were we just saying about sin and penitence and praying for forgiveness?

As we were leaving the service, the rain had ended and there was this wonderful cooling wind roaring through the treetops. Hugo had asked Lisa for ashes to take to Luis, our gay Mexican barber, back in our apartment complex; we'd invited him to come with us to the service, but he'd had clients and couldn't get away. We stopped by his apartment on the way home, and Hugo imposed ashes on Luis and two chavos who were hanging out there. Recuerda que polvo eres y al polvo has de volver. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.