NeuroDivine

There’s a kind of humility that doesn’t shrink us—it steadies us. Not the perfomance of meekness, but the deep, rooted surrender that lets us grow in the direction we were meant to. This morning’s readings speal of that surrender not as defeat, but as fruitfulness.

Psalm 36 opens with a contrast: the scheming of the self-willed heart versus the steadfast love that reaches to the heavens. The psalmist sees clearly—evil begins when we lose reverence, when we stop trembling before mystery. But those who dwell in the shelter of divine mercy find a feast, a fountain, a light. Not because they have earned it, but because they have stayed near.

Wisdom 7 reminds us that true understanding is not grasped—it’s gifted. The speaker, born like any other, receives wisdom not through striving but through prayer and openness. Wisdom is described as gentle, clear, uncorrupted, loving the good. She is not flashy. She is not loud. She is the kind of companion who walks beside you in silence until you are ready to hear.

And then there is the fig tree in Mark. It’s a strange story. Jesus hungry, the tree barren, a curse spoken. But perhaps it is not about punishment. Perhaps it is about readiness. The tree had leaves but no fruit. It looked the part, but bore nothing nourishing. In contrast, the mountain-moving faith Jesus speaks of is not decorative—it’s active, it’s forgiving, it’s aligned with the will of the One who sends.

The Rule’s second degree of humility echoes this: to love not our own will. For someone whose mind moves differently—whose rhythms don’t always match the world’s expectations—this can feel both familiar and radical. There’s a daily negotiation between desire and discipline, between sensory need and spiritual call. It’s not about suppression—it’s about shaping.

To live this way is to trust that the will we surrender to is not arbitrary. It’s the will that made the stars and the bog cotton, the will that knows the weight of our breath and the shape of our longing. It’s the will that sees our neurodivergence not as error, unt as texture. To follow that will is to bear fruit in due season—even if the season is slow, even if the fruit is strange.

So today, we pray not to be impressive fig trees, but faithful ones. Not to be wise in our own eyes, but open to Wisdom’s quiet voice. Not to be ruled by impuse, but crowned by contraint. And in that surrender, we find not diminishment—but delight.

Prayer for Surrendered Will

O God,
teach us the strength of stillness,
the grace of constraint,
and the joy of bearing fruit in season.

Shape our will to match Yours—
not by force, but by love.
Let Wisdom walk beside us,
gentle and clear.

May our difference be a gift,
our surrender a crown,
and our silence a prayer.

Amen.