Ashes on the Streets of Aberdeen

The man’s sneakers squished with water and he looked worn and tired. Seeing our collars, he waved us down and stopped to tell his story. He’d spent the storm outside last night. “What’s that on your forehead?” he queried; joking, “Only I get to have tattoos on my face.”

“Ashes,” I told him, “Its Ash Wednesday today.” He looked interested. “You want some?” I asked, taking out my little baby food jar with a scant bit of ash left.

I looked him in the eye, tracing the cross on his forehead. “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.” I shivered with the words, remembering his own words moments before. I wondered if I was going to survive last night. The wind blew over our faces, promising more storms tonight.

I added, on impulse, “And may God bless you and hold you in the palm of his hand.”

I saw tears in both our eyes.

When I turned to leave, he stopped me. “Thank you, thank you for doing that. I was feeling terrible today. I needed that.”

This is what Ash Wednesday does. It reminds us who we are. It reminds us of our common humanity—all made of dust, all returning to earth, all one in that sacred mystery of death, bound together by common life.

Over and over, as I walked the streets with the local Lutheran pastor, we heard those words. “Thank you.” “I needed that.” “Thank you for not giving up on me.” One man repeated back the words of imposition to me in his native tongue, his eyes closed in a face furrowed by sorrow and hardship, chanting in prayer. Some were drunk, some wanted to tell their stories; some shivered in cold, some were so strung out they couldn’t hold their hands steady.

In the ally, next to a graffiti sign for porn, standing together in the mud from last night’s storm, a Native elder exclaimed; “I am glad you came! A white supremist just came by showing off his swastika.”

To the Latina women, mother and daughter perhaps, who watched from the sidelines in the clothing bank, I said;

“Recuerda que eres polvo y al polvo volverás.” I might not have said the words quite right, but they bowed their head; “Gracias,” they told me, with shy smiles. “Que Dios le bendiga.” God bless you.

I knew most people I talked to. For six months now, I have been a regular presence in Aberdeen, under overpasses, on the streets, and in the back alleys, getting to know the nearly 375 people counted as homeless or at risk of homelessness in a town of barely sixteen thousand. One of the critiques of imposing ashes outside of church is that it is done outside the context of community. In this case, I was taking ashes out to my community, to my people, to those I had prayed for and prayed with and loved. To people who believe that they are unworthy to enter a church building.

And, as I imposed ashes today, I was saying; “You are worthy. For the kingdom of God is given to you.” We affirmed a common humanity in this broken town on the edge of empire, on the banks of the overflowing river, under the bridge, outside the clothing bank, in the graffiti filled alleys. For a moment, in a town that has been hit hard too many times, we glimpsed the promised land and we had church, outside the walls.

Sarah