Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent for all Christians, beginning of sober times and reflection of all sins and misdeeds. End of holiday hilarity--even as such hilarious holidays as St. Valentine's Day and Presidents' Day fall right in that 40-day block. (They came later...who knew when the Church began?)
As a Catholic School child (8 years of unrelenting nuns and priests and aspiring saints), Ash Wednesday did NOT mean hang overs from Mardi Gras celebrations nor trading plastic beads and wanton stories of excess. Ash Wednesday meant either going with the Parental Units, before school, to Mass, at Church, and during the sacred celebration, walking up to the altar and getting a usually red-faced priest to stick his huge thumb in a plate of what looked like cold cigarette ashes (though the priest often smelled of cigar smoke, himself...) and then rubbed what was supposed to be a Sign of the Cross on one's forhead. By the time we got home, the "cross" had melted into a smudged thumb print.
If we waited for the school celebration, it meant walking a few blocks down Lincoln Street, to Sacred Heart Church,from Sacred Heart School. We filed, one by one, with nuns running in the gutters, all the way to the Church. There, inside, we confronted the same scene--big priests with bowls of cold ashes--ready to mark us as mortals destined for ruin--and possibly a Higher Plane--if we towed the line. (I had my doubts, even then. But by then, I'd learned to "go with the flow"--at least outwardly--if I could contain myself.)
Back at school, all the girls would compare whose ashes stayed on the longest--or were the darkest--signifying special status and obvious sanctity. (For the only time during the year, the girls with the oiliest forheads were deemed "lucky"...) Usually, my ashes flaked off by the time I hit the schoolyard. My straight-cut pixie "bangs" brushed them off, aided by my stocking cap and thick glasses. It was hopeless. Nobody ever saw how "holy" I truly was...or trying to be...even at these outwardly obvious moments.
For the boys, as with most things, life was more direct and easier. The priests lovingly squashed big thumbprints into little forheads, rubbing just a bit longer on those "bad boys" than was necessary. And inevitably, as soon as the boys got to the back of the Church, they swiped the ashes off with their fists, wiping all traces onto pants and snow jackets--or for some malcontents, on the woodwork.
Most boys ashes were already blowing in the wind by the time they hit the school macadam. Ah, the life of Catholic boys...I knew because two of them lived with me.
As my questions and doubts and betrayals by the Church grew, and self-realization increased (and pursuit of True Godhead continued), there were fewer and fewer rites that I partook in. Ash Wednesday became code for "Spring is coming". Unlike childhood sacrifices of giving up chocolate or t.v. on Friday nights, a sense of wonder at the subtle turning of the seasons in the West, took over. The blossoming of the California poppies in the deserts--that riot of scarlet screaming up from the sand--became a different "holy celebration". Easter services at dawn, on the edge of the Pacific, or on a quiet mountain top far from the sleeping cities, became my new celebrations. Chanting and meditation and retreats filled with mindfulness and Eastern teachers replaced the smudged-thumbed Priests of my childhood. Easter was still about the Christ and the promised resurrection--I've never lost that lesson--but it was tied in with the rebirth of the physical planet in a much ignored way from my youth. I didn't need special clothes nor have to spend forty days without meat to deserve Easter. It was a promise freely given and the entire Earth could partake.
Today, my parents decided to wait for the noon Ash Wednesday services at Holy Rosary, instead of the nine a.m. services at Sacred Heart. Both Churches are still operating in town, and the Bishop is trying to convince them to consolidate into the Catholic Churches of Gardner--as they will attempt to do, next year, with both parish schools. Huge resistance from the historical enclaves exists--cultural as well as financial and demongraphic. The Bishop seems unconcerned, as long as his job is intact. The priests move blithely on, still big and smiling and saying the same words, more or less, they have always said: some folks deserve to serve God up close, and personal, and be paid for it--in status and life-time job security--like themselves. For the rest of us, well, we receive the ashes...
One time my little sister Ann viewed the Ash Wednesday services with big eyes, seated between my parents, in the pew. When we all returned with the smudged crosses on our forheads, she asked my Mom: "You said Uncle Charlie turned to ashes inside his coffin, last year, right?"
Mom answered: "Yes, after he died and they buried him at the cemetery, his body turned back to dust and ashes..."
Ann then asked: "So, is that Uncle Charlie they're spreading on everyone's face?"
God bless us, everyone. Happy Lent.
As a Catholic School child (8 years of unrelenting nuns and priests and aspiring saints), Ash Wednesday did NOT mean hang overs from Mardi Gras celebrations nor trading plastic beads and wanton stories of excess. Ash Wednesday meant either going with the Parental Units, before school, to Mass, at Church, and during the sacred celebration, walking up to the altar and getting a usually red-faced priest to stick his huge thumb in a plate of what looked like cold cigarette ashes (though the priest often smelled of cigar smoke, himself...) and then rubbed what was supposed to be a Sign of the Cross on one's forhead. By the time we got home, the "cross" had melted into a smudged thumb print.
If we waited for the school celebration, it meant walking a few blocks down Lincoln Street, to Sacred Heart Church,from Sacred Heart School. We filed, one by one, with nuns running in the gutters, all the way to the Church. There, inside, we confronted the same scene--big priests with bowls of cold ashes--ready to mark us as mortals destined for ruin--and possibly a Higher Plane--if we towed the line. (I had my doubts, even then. But by then, I'd learned to "go with the flow"--at least outwardly--if I could contain myself.)
Back at school, all the girls would compare whose ashes stayed on the longest--or were the darkest--signifying special status and obvious sanctity. (For the only time during the year, the girls with the oiliest forheads were deemed "lucky"...) Usually, my ashes flaked off by the time I hit the schoolyard. My straight-cut pixie "bangs" brushed them off, aided by my stocking cap and thick glasses. It was hopeless. Nobody ever saw how "holy" I truly was...or trying to be...even at these outwardly obvious moments.
For the boys, as with most things, life was more direct and easier. The priests lovingly squashed big thumbprints into little forheads, rubbing just a bit longer on those "bad boys" than was necessary. And inevitably, as soon as the boys got to the back of the Church, they swiped the ashes off with their fists, wiping all traces onto pants and snow jackets--or for some malcontents, on the woodwork.
Most boys ashes were already blowing in the wind by the time they hit the school macadam. Ah, the life of Catholic boys...I knew because two of them lived with me.
As my questions and doubts and betrayals by the Church grew, and self-realization increased (and pursuit of True Godhead continued), there were fewer and fewer rites that I partook in. Ash Wednesday became code for "Spring is coming". Unlike childhood sacrifices of giving up chocolate or t.v. on Friday nights, a sense of wonder at the subtle turning of the seasons in the West, took over. The blossoming of the California poppies in the deserts--that riot of scarlet screaming up from the sand--became a different "holy celebration". Easter services at dawn, on the edge of the Pacific, or on a quiet mountain top far from the sleeping cities, became my new celebrations. Chanting and meditation and retreats filled with mindfulness and Eastern teachers replaced the smudged-thumbed Priests of my childhood. Easter was still about the Christ and the promised resurrection--I've never lost that lesson--but it was tied in with the rebirth of the physical planet in a much ignored way from my youth. I didn't need special clothes nor have to spend forty days without meat to deserve Easter. It was a promise freely given and the entire Earth could partake.
Today, my parents decided to wait for the noon Ash Wednesday services at Holy Rosary, instead of the nine a.m. services at Sacred Heart. Both Churches are still operating in town, and the Bishop is trying to convince them to consolidate into the Catholic Churches of Gardner--as they will attempt to do, next year, with both parish schools. Huge resistance from the historical enclaves exists--cultural as well as financial and demongraphic. The Bishop seems unconcerned, as long as his job is intact. The priests move blithely on, still big and smiling and saying the same words, more or less, they have always said: some folks deserve to serve God up close, and personal, and be paid for it--in status and life-time job security--like themselves. For the rest of us, well, we receive the ashes...
One time my little sister Ann viewed the Ash Wednesday services with big eyes, seated between my parents, in the pew. When we all returned with the smudged crosses on our forheads, she asked my Mom: "You said Uncle Charlie turned to ashes inside his coffin, last year, right?"
Mom answered: "Yes, after he died and they buried him at the cemetery, his body turned back to dust and ashes..."
Ann then asked: "So, is that Uncle Charlie they're spreading on everyone's face?"
God bless us, everyone. Happy Lent.
