NeuroDivine

Reflection for the Feast of St James, Brother of the Lord

Psalm 119:145–168 | Jeremiah 11:18–23 | Matthew 10:16–22 | RB 18

Today’s readings and rhythm feel stitched together like the quilt on the chapel chair—each square distinct, yet part of a whole. Psalm 119, in its final stretch, is a cry of constancy: “I call with all my heart… I rise before dawn and cry for help.” It’s not a triumphal shout, but a steady pulse—like the dialysis machine’s hum, like the rhythm of Terce, Sext, and None. It’s the kind of prayer that doesn’t demand rescue, only presence.

Jeremiah’s lament and Matthew’s warning both speak of betrayal, persecution, and the cost of truth. But they also speak of being known—of God revealing, of the Spirit speaking through us. That’s a comfort for those of us who live with constraint, who navigate systems that don’t always see us clearly. St James, called “the Brother of the Lord,” knew what it was to be close and misunderstood, to be faithful and endangered. He didn’t seek prominence, but he stood firm in the quiet authority of kinship and prayer.

For those of us who live by a Benedictine rhythm—especially those of us whose bodies require medical ritual—there’s something deeply affirming in this day. The psalms repeat. The hours repeat. The readings remind us that repetition isn’t stagnation; it’s fidelity. The Spirit doesn’t always speak in novelty, but in the courage to keep showing up, even when the world feels hostile or indifferent.

As an autistic Anglican on dialysis, I hear today’s call not as a summons to heroic endurance, but to gentle clarity. To be wise as serpents and innocent as doves is not a contradiction—it’s a kind of neurodivergent grace. It’s knowing when to speak and when to pause. It’s trusting that our presence, our prayers, our patterns matter. That even when we are handed over, even when we are misunderstood, we are not alone.

So today, I pray with St James: not for escape, but for rootedness. Not for ease, but for truth spoken gently. Not for recognition, but for the quiet joy of being stitched into the rhythm—Psalm by Psalm, hour by hour, breath by breath.