NeuroDivine

A reflection on trust, wisdom, and the courage to be seen.

Readings: Psalm 31; Wisdom 8:21–9:18; Mark 12:13–17

These readings invite us into two intertwined rhythms: the steady pulse of trust under trial and the careful discernment that keeps us aligned with divine justice. The psalmist’s cry for rescue—“In you, my refuge; let me never be put to shame”—and Wisdom’s petition for guidance in the hidden places of the heart point us toward the sanctuary of structured prayer, where order becomes oxygen for a fragile spirit. In Mark, the simple question about paying tax to Caesar becomes a gateway to embodied truth: what we owe to human authorities and what we owe to the Maker of heaven and earth.

When the psalmist pleads, “Incline your ear to me,” there’s a vivid sense of leaning in—ear close to breath, breath close to the gentle thrum of liturgical chant. In a world that often moves too fast or veers too wildly, the steady beat of morning and evening prayer becomes a fortress. Each psalm, each response, offers a familiar shape that holds our anxieties safe until we can speak them aloud. In that containment we discover that even in the abyss—when enemies press, when hope seems gone—there is a rock solid enough to bear our weight.

The Wisdom passage reads like a silent workshop where the craft of discernment is honed. We’re invited to ask for counsel, to learn where to find light for our choices. There’s a beautiful honesty in admitting that without that light we fumble in shadows—praying for a spark to ignite clarity. In the space between heart and mind, routine acts of attention—pausing, breathing, naming our incomplete thoughts—are as sacramental as any incense or votive candle. Here wisdom grows not in a flash of insight but in the slow layering of small, intentional acts.

And yet, wisdom alone is not enough. There is a deeper invitation: to speak aloud the thoughts that trouble us, the missteps we’d rather bury. Not for punishment, but for mercy. “My offence I have made known to You,” says the psalmist, “and my iniquities I have not covered up.” This is not a performance of guilt, but a quiet act of courage—a willingness to be seen in our full complexity. When we name what weighs on the heart, we make space for forgiveness to enter. We reveal our way to the Lord and hope in Him, not because we are pure, but because we are held.

When Jesus turns the coin and asks whose image it bears, he isn’t just upholding a fiscal rule—he’s inviting us to notice where our loyalties truly lie. Do we function by the world’s assumptions or by the imprint of divine presence stamped on our very being? Our small daily decisions—how honestly we speak, how generously we serve—become a living answer. We learn to give back to each realm what it’s due, without splintering ourselves, because our deepest true self belongs wholly to the One who shaped us.

To carry these reflections further you might:

• Practice a simple lectio divina with Psalm 31, noticing your body’s response to each verse—where tension eases, where your breath catches, where hope resurfaces.
• Keep a “wisdom journal” for a week, jotting down moments when a question or choice felt illuminated—and whose whisper guided you.
• Create a small icon or collage around a coin to meditate on “rendering unto God” and explore where the divine image shines brightest in your daily life.
• Invite a friend to walk a labyrinth or a familiar path in silence, sharing afterward how the rhythm of steps echoes the rhythms of prayer.
• Set aside a quiet moment to name aloud—perhaps in prayer, perhaps in writing—whatever thoughts or actions feel heavy or hidden. Let the act of naming be a doorway to mercy.

Each of these practices weaves the pattern of trust, the seeking of wisdom, and the exercise of integrity into the fabric of our days—drawing us ever more deeply into the life we’re called to embody. Let me know in the comments how you get on if you try any of these suggestions.