Trains, Ash, Dust, Prayer.

For me, for seven other seminarians from Berkeley Divinity School, and for three priests (Episcopalian and Lutheran), Ash Wednesday began with a liturgy before dawn.  We were in a cold open-air parking garage, praying the liturgy for Ash Wednesday, and relying on the scant orange fluorescent lights overhead to see our prayer books.  A security officer stood a few feet away from our circle, seeming to try and make sense of us—a group of people in black cassocks. 

Two of the priests went to talk with the officer, and from the circle we heard him say, “I don’t want to kick ya out…let me go check with my supervisor.  I’ll come get you if they say ‘no.’” We were not asked to leave. 

We had come to the train station in Stamford, CT to offer ashes to commuters on the line to New York City.  For at least three weeks we had gone through much thought, prayer, and conversation about how to take the Ash Wednesday liturgy to the public.  We had discussed maintaining the theological integrity of offering ashes and an invitation to the season of Lent, public perception, our own nervousness, and mundane logistics (“Who can get some A-frames for signs?  Who is driving from New Haven to Stamford?”).  We role-played possible interactions.  We fretted over wording.  The result?  “Ashes on the Go” instead of “Ashes 2 Go.”  We would “offer” ashes instead of “impose” ashes.

Logistics.  We decided to go with teams of two; if possible, each team would have a man and a woman.  With stand-up signs, the seminarians would post themselves on three train platforms, and the clergy would be in the main terminal.  We would make eye contact with passers-by, maintain a positive presence, and greet people, but we would let people opt-in to receiving ashes instead of asking everyone who passed if they would take them.  One person on the team would impose the ashes (and we decided NOT to use the word ‘impose’ before the trip).  The other team member would offer the person the opportunity to participate in personal prayer about something in their life, and a card with a prayer written to encourage meditation on Lenten themes.

The day started slow as we took our places before sunrise, about 6:10am.  Even as the volume of trains slowly started to increase, the track I was on was not very busy.  My teammate—a Lutheran pastor—and I introduced ourselves and talked about life, as we occasionally jumped up and down to stay warm while waiting for the sun to rise.  We eventually moved off of our platform to a plaza in front of the train station, where there was more foot traffic thanks to a pick-up/drop-off lane.  Standing next to a statue, we witnessed some wonderful and moving scenes of couples and families parting ways for the day.  Fathers jumping out of their passenger seats and leaning into backseat windows to kiss their children good-bye… women giving their dogs a final pet before hopping out to make their train in the nick of time… children receiving instructions before being sent off on their travels.  Then there was also the occasional near-wreck.  Connecticut drivers.

It was in the plaza where we began to make an impression.  People pretended not to see me in my cassock, but would slow down to read the sign—stop—and then come up to us.  And we begin.

“What is your name?”

“[Name], remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

“Is there anything you would like me to pray for, with you here?”

Again and again.

Most would take the offer to prayer, and it would be jarring experience.  The anonymity of commuter culture was shattered by touch and ash, the act of being asked one’s name and being addressed by it, by being asked what concerns one had and then having them addressed aloud to God by a stranger. 

The prayers were serious:  Family and friends in the hospital or sick, children traveling, peace in the person's life and in the world.

The reactions to the whole enterprise were varied.

“Does this count?” The middle-aged man in blue jeans asked after eying us for a few minutes from fifty yards away.

“God is here with us, and you and I are the Church,” the Lutheran pastor replied. 

The middle-aged man accepted the ashes and prayer.

“Oh man!  Is this real!?  May I...?” A young woman asked as she stepped forward, visibly excited.

“I am so glad to see you here!  I wasn’t going to be able to get to a church today because of work!”  A Judicial Marshall said to me as she jogged up to us; she had leapt out of her van parked about 100 yards away.

“I heard about this; I wondered if I’d really see someone doing this,” a young man said as he stepped forward.

A man walked up to me about five minutes after receiving the ashes and joining me in prayer. “Here’s a few dollars for your work.”

I replied, “Thank you, but no.  Give it to a parish or keep it until you find a cause that does God’s work in the world and give it to them.”

[Alms-giving is an integral part of Lent.]

After moving to the plaza, we were offering ashes for about an hour and a half.  A few of us seminarians had classes today.  About 30-40 people received ashes from me.  Many people walked by.  Many people smiled as they passed.  A few explained that they would be going to Church later in the day.  A few appreciated the reminder that it was indeed Ash Wednesday.  A few declined because we were not Catholic.  On the other hand, a few Catholics said Episcopal ashes counted.  In truth, they aren’t Episcopal ashes.  The ashes are blessed by God.

I am an introvert.  I had never imagined doing something so public and open before.  I was somewhat worried whether or not I would be able to follow through.  What was I thinking putting myself out in a crowd in such a way.  Yet feeling God’s presence, having another person by my side, and knowing that others were also around to remind people to slow down, consider their spiritual lives, and remember God, gave me the courage to take the risk.  In those moments with people, while smudging them with ashes and in leading them in prayer—in the intimate moment between two or three people and God—noises from the nearby interstate and the trains fell away and time slowed.  Many walked away more calmly and slowly than they had arrived.

Amy Frykholm wrote in her blog at The Christian Century that “Bishop Jeff Lee, of the diocese of Chicago, recalls a woman, who, upon receiving ashes from him said that she never imagined that "the church would come out here to us."  But that is precisely where the church should be.  And most of the people who received ashes today from me had the same reaction as the woman speaking to the bishop, and said so with gratitude in their voices. 

Frykholm also nailed it when she wrote that, “the idea is to bring the church, with its rites and symbols, to the people--not to force anything on them, but because forgiveness, repentance, introspection, a moment of connection and quiet are needed everywhere.”  Lent is a season of penitence and self-examination.  It is also like every other time of the year:  a time to remind people that God loves them, and that other human beings—even complete strangers—care for them enough to ask their name, talk to them, and pray for/with them.  The Church can bear that out into the world.  We do not need a ceiling to do it, either.