On Ashes to Go

Pliny had the impression that Christianity was just a cult. It seemed some of our fellow citizens felt the same, as I stood by Fr. Richard with a packet of Lenten services offering a blessing for Ash Wednesday.

            Those on the ascent from Parliament Station often declined. The stream of climbers looked sad, anxious, distracted, burdened, heavy laden. Literally so, carrying backpacks, bags, and parcels up steep stairs (one man had two bicycle wheels) while running in desperation to catch a tram. Women ran in absurdly high shoes; the more disabled struggled up and up.

            Others were grateful. Two women called it a ‘miracle.’ A red-haired courier brought his bike onto the footpath and raised his helmet. Young girls lifted their faces like flowers smiling gently although they’d been ashed the day before at school.

            Refusal was usually polite, an evasion of eyes, plugged into devices, huddling against walls. All types and conditions; young men most rare to accept. ‘It’s not my thing,’ said one. Most common was a smile and wave, ‘No, I’m all right.’

            But you don’t look all right. In fact, you’re not all right. You’re dust, and will return to dust.

            ‘How wonderful,’ said some. ‘We don’t come to church, so church comes to us!’ The church in the world. I was glad to be there.