Wednesday, February 21, 2007

ASH WEDNESDAY

I sit with my son near the back of the congregation, and in a room that seats 400 there are 14 of us. We are mostly elderly, but that does not matter. They are familiar with my son and he with them. They are for him an extended family of aunts and uncles.

We return to our seats with ashes on our foreheads and my son moves my hair back so he can get a good look. He tells me that as soon as we get home we are going to take baths. "I don't like being black" he tells me with all the authority and seriousness his five year old body can muster.

I hug him close and redirect his attention to the Eucharist being celebrated at the altar yards away from us. I remind him of the names of the altar, the lectern, the pulpit, and the credence table. He reminds me that I forgot the sanctuary lamp.

I wonder about the people who cannot simply wash the black away -- those who remain marked for their whole lives. I know that later I will be self-conscious as we make our way around the grocery store. I wonder what that barely noticeable mark means for people of color who attend Ash Wednesday services elsewhere. Does our society make them so acutely aware of the reality of their "dustiness" that they do not need this day of remembrance?

I remember the sermon that shared a fable of a storyteller who gradually disappeared as he continued to tell his stories. Soon he was invisible, much like the people of color in our community.

I wonder if I too will disappear if I chose to tell the story of racism.