NeuroDivine

A reflection on praise in constraint, courage in quiet, and the strength of showing up.

Psalm 80 | 1 Maccabees 3:1-26 | Mark 15:1-15 | RB Chapter 16:

There’s a thread running through today’s readings that feels stitched into the fabric of my days: the ache of longing, the courage to resist, and the quiet strength of surrender. Psalm 80 opens with a plea—“Give ear, O Shepherd of Israel”—a cry that feels familiar to anyone who has waited in the stillness of a dialysis chair, or prayed through the fog of fatigue. It’s not a polished lament, but a raw one. And yet, it’s offered in rhythm. Seven times a day, says the Rule, and once in the night.

That rhythm is not decorative. It’s a lifeline. St Benedict doesn’t ask for heroic gestures, but for presence—at Morning Office, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline, and the Night Office. These are not interruptions to the day; they are its scaffolding. They hold us when our bodies falter, when our minds scatter, when our prayers feel thin.

1 Maccabees 3 brings a different kind of rhythm—the beat of resistance. Judas Maccabeus rises not with brute force, but with memory and covenant. His defiance is rooted in fidelity. For those of us whose battles are quieter—medical, neurodivergent, unseen—this passage reminds us that showing up is itself a form of courage. To keep vigil. To honour the body’s limits. To choose gentleness in a world that prizes speed.

And then Mark 15: Jesus before Pilate. Silent. Offered up. Not because he is powerless, but because he chooses a different kind of power. This is not weakness—it is the strength of surrender. For those of us who live with constraint, this silence is not foreign. It is the silence of being misunderstood. The silence of choosing dignity over defence. The silence that says: I am still here.

Together, these readings and the Rule do not promise ease. But they promise rhythm. They promise that holiness is not found in grand gestures, but in the quiet fidelity of showing up. In the offering of praise at appointed hours. In the surrender that is not defeat, but trust.

So I rise—not with strength, but with rhythm. I render praise, not because I feel whole, but because I am held. Seven times a day, and once in the night. Still here. Still us.