Ash Wednesday

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

-T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

I walked into the sanctuary after 10 minutes of fruitless wandering around the church campus, the buildings and walkways and arrowed signposts all in shadow at this hour.  I hadn’t thought about how dark it would be.  I hadn’t, in fact, seen any sign out front before blindly turning into the lot, trusting a vague recollection that this was the place.  My small Anglican community was merging with a few other church bodies for a joint Ash Wednesday service.  I had been planning on arriving early, to have the time and space to sit in the quiet, alone-but-not-alone as it always is before a service, and pray.

It took only a few seconds, walking into the sanctuary, for my heart to sink, and I realized that I am in the wrong church.  Perhaps my first clue was the giant video camera swinging around the room on a robotic arm, capturing the praise team from all angles for the jumbo-trons above their heads.  I registered next the swirling, neon moving lights, the fog machine, the up-tempo song.  Nothing was right.

Whatever was happening in that room, it jolted my spirit out of that place it had so long been preparing for — the beginning of a holy fast, a time of reflection and prayer and giving and meditation.  What I walked into last night was so not that, so shallow-seeming and antithetical to this beautiful practice of Lent that I have come to observe.  Frustrated and disappointed and angry with myself, I couldn’t help but crying as I ventured back out into the dark parking lot.  I needed this time, this spiritual “space,” and it evaded me.

When I finally got to the right church and the right service … late and miserable and frustrated … it was neither the space nor the experience I had wanted — had, in a way, “intended” it to be.  I couldn’t let go of the other church, of that fruitless time.  I felt the alone-but-not-in-a-good-way-alone.  I thought too long about an Ash Wednesday of a few years past, and a Lenten fast surrounded by friends and fellow pilgrims on this Christian journey, full of shared meaning and experience and sorrow and then, much later, shared joy.

Last night was none of those things.  And this Lenten season will not be, either, and possibly not for many years to come.

There is something in this, in these lamentable human experiences, banal though they are — walking into the wrong church, wishing for the past — that signal to our deep wretchedness and our deep, never-ending need for God.  There have been times when, in class, a student will push too far or do something so maddening that I can literally feel my spirit snap in half with anger.  A reminder that, inside, I am terrible and broken and fallen and rotten to the core.  I need God, friends.  I need God.

I cannot walk this road I am on without him.  I cannot make it through the night or drive to work tomorrow or speak or think or write a word without him.  I cannot be a friend or daughter or sister or cousin or niece or teacher or even “church acquaintance.”  I can do nothing.

Oh, teach me to care and not to care.  Teach me to sit still, even among these rocks.

And let my cry come to Thee.

**Much thanks is due to a particularly well-read friend for posting an excerpt from this poem on Twitter.

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