Ash Wednesday

[dedalus_1947]

Even now, says the Lord,
Return to me with your whole heart,
With fasting, and weeping, and mourning;
Rend your hearts, not your garments,
And return to the Lord, your God.
For gracious and merciful is He,
Slow to anger, rich in kindness,
And relenting in punishment.
(Joel 2: 2-18)

The scene was strange from the start. In my two years of working in the jail I’ve never been delayed in getting through the main entrance guard gate. In fact, the regular Wednesday guard on duty usually just waved me through as soon as he recognized me as a volunteer chaplain. But today there were two vehicles backed up behind the retractable gate, and I couldn’t see what the problem was. The usual transaction of showing a driver’s license or badge for quick identification and clearance was not occurring. Soon more cars were stacking up behind me, and drivers were turning off their motors. I noticed that the driver in the car immediately behind me was Jaime, an assistant chaplain, and another volunteer, Diane, was in the car behind him. Diane wasn’t part of the Wednesday crew, so her appearance was doubly strange. I tried putting down a rising sense of dread that this holdup meant trouble in the jail. On one occasion a jail-wide lockdown had prevented all non-sheriff personnel from entering the premises. Finally I saw the guardhouse deputy extend his arm through the window and hand a driver’s license back to a woman in the lead car. But instead of waving her forward under the slowly rising barrier gate, the guard pointed toward the side of the road where the car was to park and wait. Car motors growled to life and the line finally began moving forward. As I pulled up to the kiosk window, preparing to hand the guard my license, I saw that the guard was engrossed in an angry conversation on the phone. He looked at me for a second, and then thankfully waved me forward under the rising gate bar. Driving along the long road heading toward the jail, I saw the cars of the other two volunteers following me in quick succession. I had to laugh over my initial forebodings. If I had been seeking omens of what was in store for us tonight in jail, the serendipitous occurrence of three volunteers arriving at the same time, and riding along the road in a seeming Catholic motorcade of cars was certainly a good sign. It had never happened to me before. Today was Ash Wednesday, and I suddenly felt it was going to be a good day.

Ash Wednesday is the day after Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday in French), and the beginning of the 40-day Lenten season. It’s the equivalent of Advent, the four-week prelude to Christmas, only during Lent the Church prepares for Easter. Normally I would go to a morning mass or a prayer service at my parish church to receive my ashes. But this year I decided to receive them in jail instead.  You see this Wednesday was different. On most Wednesdays I don’t think about, nor anticipate, what will happen in jail. I just show up and follow instruction – whatever they might be on that day. Usually it means facilitating a group session of Finding the Way in Jail with my partner Justin. But one never knows what to expect in jail. A lockdown may shut down all operations and deny us access to the men. Dayrooms may be occupied for guard training or the processing of inmates for dorm transfers. Or specific cellblocks may be placed on restriction for disciplinary reasons. But today was different. It was Ash Wednesday and I had a clear picture of what was going to happen and what I would be doing in jail on this day – and I wanted to do it right. It was also different because I wanted to describe the experience in writing.

Last year, when I reported for duty on Ash Wednesday, I was stunned to learn that volunteers actually distributed ashes to inmates at the bars of their cell dorms. Gavin assembled a large number of volunteers to distribute ashes to every prisoner who wished them. Although I recognized this as a great service to the men, the image of me reciting a prayer or invocation and making the sign of the cross on a man’s forehead with ashes was so foreign to me that I couldn’t accept it. Even though I participate in “prison ministry”, I have never considered myself a “minister” of any kind. I’m even uncomfortable praying aloud, except for memorized prayers like the Our Father or Hail Mary. As Gavin explained our tasks on that night, I could only stem the rising tide of panic that threatened to engulf me by shutting down all speculations. I just focused on the mechanical tasks I was being asked to perform, and trusting God to get me through the night without making a fool of myself. Somehow I survived that night, but I couldn’t tell you how I did it. I can’t remember what I felt, what I said, or what I did. It was literally an out-of-body experience where I stepped out of myself so I didn’t have to see me distributing ashes to hundreds of men. I know we also de-briefed at the end of that evening, but I can’t remember any of those details either. It was as if my other self, the minister who looked like me while distributing ashes, disappeared the moment the job was done, and my memories of the event evaporated along with him. Since that day a year ago, I have become very familiar with, and more and more at ease in a prison environment. That is not to say that jail has become a natural or comfortable place for me. A jail is by its nature the antithesis to those two words – it is very harsh and very artificial. But I’ve grown to tolerate it – enough so that I’ve stopped studying every new aspect, noting my feelings and reactions, or writing down my thoughts after every visit. I’d gotten used to simply showing up, doing what was asked, conducting a program, and then letting it go at the end of the evening. However, I vowed to change that on this Ash Wednesday. That was my first resolution of this Lenten season: to observe, remember, and record the events of that night in jail.

I noticed two things right away when the three members of our motorcade walked into the Chaplain’s Office and joined the other 4 men and women in the tiny office. Maria, a fellow volunteer who was also the mother of my brother-in-law John, was wearing a green, “Unescorted” badge and Alfredo, Gavin’s assistant and a relentless practical joker, was nowhere to be found.
“My God, Maria.” I exclaimed in mock horror. “How did you get that green badge?”
“I got a promotion,” the tiny lady with lustrous black hair announced proudly, as she pretended to polish the plastic badge. “Now I can go to anywhere in the jail on my own without an Assistant Chaplain to escort me.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “I thought it took over a month to get on that special list. Good for you, but don’t you need to practice getting around the jail before you go off on your own?”
“Actually, it takes about 4 weeks for a new list to come out,” Gavin, the Jail Chaplain, pointed out, before Maria could reply to my kidding. “I submitted a batch of applications for green badges a few weeks ago and they usually take a long time to process. But we managed to make an exception for Maria today. We’re going to need as many chaplains with green badges as possible so we can get to all the dorms.”
“We’re not doing our regular program tonight?” asked Isaac, a new volunteer who had been coming to the jail for less than 6 months.
“No,” explained Gavin. “On Ash Wednesday we distribute ashes to as many men who wish to receive them. So we want to get to every cell at every level before bed check at 8:30 tonight.
“It’s a powerful experience,” added Diane, moving to stand next to Isaac in the office. “I usually come on Monday’s and team up with Connie, another Assistant Chaplain. But I switched for today so I could distribute ashes.”
“I’ve never given ashes,” Isaac said nervously. “What exactly do we say?”
“Not to worry,” said Gavin reassuringly. “I’ll give you a briefing on what we’re doing tonight, and how it works.”
“Is Alfredo here today?” I interrupted suspiciously, peeking into the rear storage room to see if he was there.
“Yes he is,” Gavin replied. “He and three other volunteers are finishing up at the East Facility and will join us soon. They took care of the 800 dorm cells this afternoon, so they won’t be working with us tonight.”
“Okay,” I said warily. “Then can I ask you to give me ashes tonight. Last year Alfredo laid a cross on my forehead that seemed to cover my entire face, and I already had a cross there from my parish priest.”
“Se le paso la mano,” my partner Justin, said in Spanish with a laugh. “Alfredo can get a little carried away when he’s giving ashes.”
“Don’t worry, Tony,” Gavin said soothingly, as he busied himself writing the names of the teams on the white board, along with corresponding cellblock numbers. “I’ll be giving ashes to all the volunteers tonight”. Once he finished writing, he turned around to face us. “Okay, gather round please. We have more than enough volunteers to cover all the cellblocks in teams of two. Maria and Isaac go to the 600’s. Jaime and Tony go to the 700’s, and Justin and Diane go to the 900’s. Sam and I will man the office. Some of you have done this before, but others haven’t, so let me review the procedures. The teams are to follow the usual cellblock protocol of checking in with the Watch Sergeant of the section and getting permission to distribute ashes. Then get the approval from each guard station to announce the service to the inmates and distribute ashes and prayer cards through the bars. Invite all the men who wish to receive ashes to line up and then mark their foreheads with the sign of the cross. Don’t worry if they’re Catholics or not. If non-Catholics have questions or concerns about where the ashes come from, tell them the ashes come from the palm leaves of last year’s Palm Sunday celebration. If they have more questions about the rite, tell them to wait until after the distribution and you can explain the practice in more detail. As each man steps forward to the cell bars, dip your thumb into the cup of ashes and mark the sign of the cross on his forehead saying, ‘Repent and accept the Gospel’. Your partner can give him the prayer card. There’s also a handout explaining the meaning and significance of Ash Wednesday and Lent with your material. Give three sheets to one of the inmates and ask him to place them on a dorm table in case men want to read them for more information”.
“Don’t we say something about ‘dust, and to dust thou shalt return?’ Isaac asked.
“Either statement is acceptable,” Gavin explained. “But in a jail, I prefer to emphasize repentance and forgiveness. Now if you’ll line up,” he added, “I’ll give you your ashes now.”
“Can you make the cross a small one,” I whispered as I stepped in front of Gavin.
“Just trust in the Lord, Tony”, Gavin chided me. “Everything will be fine.”

As the three teams entered the central intersection of corridors, the six of us turned right and proceeded together until we started peeling off to our different locations. Jaime and I received quick permission from the senior deputy of our section and from the deputy at the first guard station.
“Radio,” Jaime called out into the first dorm we approached to get everyone’s attention. “Good evening, guys. Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of a 40-day period called Lent. Lent is a time for Christians to reflect on their own actions and choices in preparation for the Passion, suffering, and crucifixion of Jesus Christ on Good Friday. So to begin this time of prayer and repentance, we invite you to come forward and receive ashes and a blessing”.
We followed that process at the bars of the four dorms of one wing of the jail and then Jaime and I switched roles when we moved to the other side. From my vantage point standing next to him, handing out prayer cards to the men who received their ashes, I noticed how the men of each dorm reacted differently to our invitation. Last year, I was overwhelmed by sensory and emotional overload. Too much was going on around me, and everyone seemed to move at an accelerated speed. I never had a chance to pause and reflect on what I was seeing and doing. This time it was going to be different. With Jaime as the primary minister distributing ashes to the first four dorms in one wing of the 700 dorm cells, I stood by his side and watched. My job of handing out prayer cards gave me plenty of time to observe. Each dorm reacted differently. I noticed how the eyes of the men who were probably Catholics lit up with recognition when they saw the sooty crosses on our foreheads as we approached the bars. In one cell, an inmate standing by the bars immediately alerted the dorm to our presence by calling out, “radio call”, in a loud voice. When Jaime finished making his announcement, this man repeated the message saying:
“Ashes! Any man wishing to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, line up at the bars.” His words acted as a starter pistol’s shot, and a pack of men raced to form a long line in front of Jaime. In that dorm it seemed as if every man, white, black, Hispanic, Protestant, or Catholic was in line to have ashes rubbed onto their foreheads.
In another dorm, a group of African-American men, who were huddling by the telephone bank against the wall, eyed us suspiciously as we approached the bars. They pointed at our foreheads and seemed to snicker. After our announcement no one moved until I heard an accented Spanish voice yell out from the second floor of the dorm.
“He’s coming from the showers,” an African-American brother standing by the bars explained. “He wants you to wait for him.”
As we waited for the inmate to come down, I watched other men nudging each other on the arm, as if urging each other to step forward. Hesitantly, one shave-headed Hispanic stepped in front of Jaime to receive the mark of ashes. Then one by one the line slowly grew. It was never a noticeably long line, but it was always being replenished with new men stepping in. Then I noticed that the pack of black men by the phones had dispersed and joined the constant line to receive ashes.
“Is this a sacrament like communion?” a tall, skinny young man asked. He had been standing apart, waiting for everyone to pass before stepping forward with his question.
“No,” I replied. “It’s a sacramental. A sacramental is a holy object, a sign, or a devotion that helps us obtain the grace of God. Rubbing ashes on the forehead is a sign of repentance and it reminds us that today is the beginning of Lent, the 40-days of repentance and prayer before Easter.”
“Do you have to be Catholic to get them?” he asked, nodding at our marked foreheads.
“No, you don’t have to be Catholic,” I replied. “You just need to be open to repentance and asking God’s forgiveness for your poor choices and actions.”
“Okay, then,” he decided, stepping in front of Jaime. “Put one on me.”

All the other dorms were variations of these responses. Men were more eager in some than in others, and the lines were long or constant. In one dorm I was taken by surprise when one man gestured at me to approach him by the bars.
“Can I make a prayer request?” the young man whispered, looking quickly from side to side, as if afraid of being overheard.
“Sure,” I replied, waiting for him to give me a name or intention.
“I’d like you to pray for my baby brother,” he continued in a hushed voice. “He’s never been in jail before and he’s got a court date tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that I would pass this information on to Gavin for the proper action. “What’s his name?” I asked, taking out my notebook to write it down.
“His name is Hector,” the man said, closing his eyes and bowing his head in front of me.
He wants me to pray with him right now! I realized. I wasn’t trained for this, I thought in a panic. Suddenly I recalled that a similar situation had occurred last year when we distributed ashes, only I had blocked out the memory. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I had to do something. To mask the hesitation of my confusion and indecision, I instinctively extended my right hand through the bars and placed it on his bowed head.
“Dear Lord,” I began, closing my eyes as well. “Bless this man who loves his brother, Hector, and worries about him. Fill his mind and spirit with your love and bring him peace tonight and tomorrow. Watch over his family and loved ones, especially his brother Hector who goes to court tomorrow. Be with Hector during his hearing and give him faith and courage to ask for your help and compassion. Give him peace and the faith to accept your will. We ask this through Jesus Christ your son, Amen.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw that three more men had gathered around us.
“Can I have a prayer, too? One man asked.
“Me too,” said another.
With a sigh of resignation, I said, “of course,” and reached out my hand.

As Jaime and I walked to the next first floor wing, he handed me the small plastic container holding the ashes, and began cleaned his hand and thumb of soot.
“Why don’t you do these cellblocks and the next group upstairs, then you can clean your hand while I finish the last group of dorms?”
“That sounds like a great, practical idea,” I said, relieved that I would be distributing ashes only once in the process.
With this new task, my attention shifted from observing the dorm as a whole, and the group behaviors of the men, to the individual faces that came before me. I would look into their eyes saying, “Repent and believe in the Gospel,” as I rubbed the mark of a cross on their foreheads with my thumb. With each successive man, the words I repeated and the cross I shaped became clearer and stronger. I imagined that my words and actions were actually teaching them and encouraging them at the same time. I didn’t know what their motives were in coming forward – what churches or religions they belonged to, or what understanding they had of Ash Wednesday or Lent. All I knew was that they had decided to act, receive the ashes, and hear my words. Did they understand the words and the sign in the same way as I? We usually interacted with these men in small group settings. Those sessions allowed the men to express themselves and share what was on their minds. But here I was looking into face after face of silent men, never knowing what was in their thoughts or in their hearts.
“Repent and believe in the Gospel,” was all I said, repeating those words while making the sign of the cross on countless foreheads, until it became a single act without thought. Strangely, every now and then, my call varied just a little with some people I blessed. Although I started each invocation with the word “Repent,” the next words occasionally changed. Sometimes I’d say, “receive the Gospel”, or “follow the Gospel”, or “accept the Gospel”, or “believe the Gospel”. I never knew which synonym would pop out of my mouth, or why it happened. By the time I finished my eight dorms, and passed the container of ashes to Jaime, I was spent. We had run out of prayer cards by then, so all I did was stand next to Jaime after he rubbed the sign of the cross with ashes, and said, “God bless you”, to each man who received them. When the last dorm was done, we headed back to the Chaplain’s Office for our debriefing.

Last year, the day after this service, I couldn’t remember anything we said during the debriefing. This year I intended to heed every word spoken by the men and women in our circle. Gavin started us out by setting the tone of the session. He said that this Ash Wednesday presented him with two challenges: forgiveness and change. He told of how the priest at this morning’s homily had stressed that Ash Wednesday was not only a call to repent our sins, but also a reminder for us to forgive those who have wronged us.
“The Our Father states it so clearly,” Gavin said. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”.
This year, he explained, he wasn’t going to concentrate on giving things up for Lent, but rather on working at forgiving and praying for the people who thwarted him and made his life difficult at home and in jail. This resolution was also a push for letting go and letting God do his part in the management of this ministry. While working with a brand new chaplain at the women’s jail, he had come to realize how blessed he was to have a stable and structured program with so many experienced and committed volunteers working with him.
“Today and tonight,” he said, “we had more than enough chaplains to give ashes to every man who wanted them in this jail. You men and women do a great job every time you come here. I have to remember that all I need to do is get out of your way and let you do your work. So today I purposely chose not to give ashes to the inmates. Instead I gave them to you, and you gave ashes to them. This is an attitude and a practice I need to continue.”

Justin had a very different experience. He and Diane had gone to the solitary confinement section of the jail, where inmates were kept isolated from the general population and in separate cells.
“Today was very strange,” he began. “I don’t know what caused it, but I’ve never run into such open hostility from a guard. We checked in with the deputy at the front desk to ask permission to give ashes to the men, but he just sat there for a long time without moving. Finally he motioned us to go ahead, and then called out to the other deputy down the hall:
“The guys’ are here with that Catholic shit”.
“What did he say?” Gavin asked unbelievingly.
“He said, ‘the guys’ are here with that Catholic shit,’ Justin repeated. “He made me so mad, I didn’t know what to do.”
“I could tell Justin was really upset,” Diane added in hushed tones. “He stopped walking when the guard said that, and he just stood in the middle of the hallway without moving.”
“I was shaking, I was so angry,” Justin continued. “I wanted to turn around and confront that guard, but I was afraid of what would come out of my mouth. If I said some of the things I was thinking, I was afraid he would throw us out of that section and stop us from distributing ashes. I had to close my eyes and pray, asking God to help me. Once I did that I started breathing again. I hadn’t realized that I was holding in my anger by not breathing. Gavin, I see now what you meant by forgiving others. I couldn’t let go of my anger until I forgave the guard for what he said. Once I did that I was at peace with myself and able to get past what the guard said. God must have heard my prayer,” Justin continued. “I don’t know if the other guard heard the insult or not, but his attitude was completely different. He gave us access to all the men, and even let some of them come out of their cells in pairs to receive the ashes.”
“Yeah,” Diane added. “That guard was really helpful.”

“Maria and Isaac,” Gavin began, “you worked as a team tonight. How did it go?”
“It was incredible,” Maria said. “I don’t know how else to describe it. So many men came forward, that I lost track of time.”
“Didn’t you distribute ashes last year?” I asked, thinking that Maria sounded as if this was her first exposure to this Ash Wednesday service. I was sure we had both done it last year.
“Why, I’m not sure,” Maria replied in a puzzled tone. “But I’d certainly remember if I had, wouldn’t I?”
“Maria,” Sam interjected from across the room, “you were with me last year when we distributed ashes.”
“How odd that I can’t remember,” Maria mused aloud to herself.
“I never gave ashes before,” Isaac said, standing next to Maria, “so I have no means of comparison. But tonight was a special night and a powerful experience.”
“You know,” Rick, a long time Assistant Chaplain who arrived later in the evening to help out, said. “I’ve given ashes to the men in jail for many years now, and each time is different. Sometimes the words I’m repeating become a mantra of sorts that transports the man I’m marking and me to another place. Everything around us, the steel bars, the cement walls and floors, and the guard stations all seem to melt away, and it’s just the inmate and me in the presence of God.”
“Sam,” Gavin said, ending the silence that had engulfed the room after Rick’s observations. “You stayed in the office tonight, but what would you like say about this evening?’
“Well,” Sam began, “I was struck by what you said tonight about Lent and forgiveness. It got me thinking that it’s easier for me to forgive strangers and friends than close family members. I can forget the stupid actions of strangers, like Justin’s guard, but I find it hard to forgive my own relatives. I suppose that’s something I should work on for Lent.”
“Yeah,” agreed Diane. “I think we confuse forgetting and forgiving. When we’re hurt or disappointed by someone, we like to believe that we can just drop the anger and move on. But we don’t really forget, nor do we stop nursing our hurt feelings and resentments, unless we forgive them. I know that was the case with my sister and I when our mother died after a long illness. It wasn’t until I forgave her and prayed for her that all the built up anger and resentments over what she didn’t do while our mother was sick finally fell away. I couldn’t find real peace until I forgave her.”
“Jaime, my Argentine friend,” Gavin said, after Diane finished speaking.  “What are your thoughts tonight?”
“Giving ashes always affects me differently,” the slender man standing in the doorway said. “Tonight, for some reason, I was flooded with memories of my grandmother Josefa. She was always strict about the observance of Cuaresma, Lent. She would take us to church to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, insist that we give up candy and sodas, and abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent. She went to all the Holy Week services, and then she would host a massive Easter Sunday dinner for the whole family. It was wonderful. I miss her and the way she observed Lent and Easter.”

I was the last to speak, and I was unprepared. Usually at these debriefings, I start mentally composing something to say as soon as Gavin begins the session. But tonight I actually listened to what the other volunteers said about the ritual we had performed. When he called my name, I hesitated for a second and considered passing. Instead I stumbled out some impromptu reflections that sounded something like this:
“I suppose my experience was similar to everyone else. Giving ashes was an incredible experience – one I’ll never forget. But strangely, just like Maria, I couldn’t remember many of the details from last year, so my intention tonight was to pay more attention and remember. The words I spoke seemed to take on a life of there own, and they lifted me and the man I was marking out of the jail cell and into a holy place. I saw hundreds of faces, said the words to hundreds of men, and marked hundreds of foreheads, but I can’t recall any one person in particular. At one point it occurred to me that I would never know what was on their minds, or what they expected or needed from this ritual. I had to trust the words I recited and the sign I made on their foreheads, and let God’s grace do its work. But what Gavin said tonight about repentance and forgiveness got me thinking about what we do every time we come here. The program we present every weeks assures the inmates that God already loves and forgives them, but they are the ones who need to change the way they think and make better choices. The pamphlets explain that this difficult road requires us to assume responsibility for our bad choices and ask forgiveness of the people we hurt. Then in our group discussions we try pointing out that they also have to forgive themselves for these actions and their consequences. I think we were enacting those same principles tonight, when we told the men to ‘Repent and believe the Gospel’. I think those five words reflect our mission here perfectly.”