For the last several months, I have barely been able to get a Focused Moment written in time for the service at West Hill on Sunday. Sometimes, it’s been written late on Friday or early Saturday. But some days, I’ve penned it Sunday morning; once even on my phone on my way to the church (Scott driving!)! Seriously have to get my mojo back here!
This week, though, I triumphed and sent the Focused Moment to annie, our admin person, on Friday with enough time for her to get it printed and ready to hand out. But guess what? On Sunday, I skipped right over it, completely forgoting to read it during the service!
Which may be a good thing. I’d read the lectionary passages for the fourth Sunday of Lent, 2018, as part of my weekly preparation. Each week, I read the passages for the same week of the year in the next year’s lections so that I can create resources in advance for clergy and leaders hoping to include non-theistic elements in their services. Reading the passages, I decided to focus on the concept of blame, a pretty straightforward Lenten message.
As I did my preparation, though, I realized I had bitten off way more than I could chew in a single Sunday. So I’m extending the “Blame” program over the next week or two, focusing this week solely on the distinction between dispute and conflict. So I can use the blame Focused Moment for next week.
Which means, for the first time E.V.E.R., you’ve got the Focused Moment a week in advance!!
So who is it?
Am I to blame?
Some oversight, neglect, turning away of my head?
Or perhaps the turning away
was of my heart?
Was it some slight I do not remember perpetrating,
its details lost in the long-forgotten debris
of distasteful memory,
sealed far away from daily discourse or rumination?
Is it them?
The expectations and demands laid upon me as a child,
sewn into the garment of “Who I would become”
even as I was first becoming?
Did they slough off their own personal demons,
transferring the weight to my fragile frame,
watching the shadows work their way
into my being,
Is it us?
Are we complicit in the weaving of today
as we were yesterday?
Can our hands move away from the shuttles
that will weave all the tomorrows yet to come?
Is there any way to step aside,
refuse to play,
leave our sorrows and, yes, too, our joys
out of what will be
so it might emerge
unencumbered by who we are?
Or are we only and ever inextricably bound
to the blame
tomorrow will lay upon us
never freed from what will be?