NeuroDivine

A reflection on refuge, consequence, and discernment in sacred pattern.

In the hush before dawn, Psalm 57 opens like a breath held in the chest: “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful.” The psalmist shelters in shadow, not in fear but in fidelity. There is a clarity here that speaks to the autistic soul—the refuge of structure, the sanctuary of truth. “In the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, until the destroying storms pass by.” Not avoidance, but a holy waiting. A rhythm of trust.

Wisdom 16 and 17 unfold with elemental force. Fire and hail, light and darkness, creation itself responding to injustice. Yet even here, there is order. The plagues are not chaos—they are consequence. The passage names the arrogance of those who forget the Giver behind the gift, who wield power without reverence. For the autistic reader, often attuned to systems and integrity, this is not wrath—it is misalignment. The cosmos groans when its patterns are violated. And still, God’s mercy is not extinguished. Even in judgment, there is invitation.

Mark’s Gospel is stark. “When you see the desolating sacrilege… then those in Judea must flee.” It is not a gentle passage. But it is honest. Jesus does not romanticize suffering. He names it, prepares his followers, and insists on discernment. “Let the reader understand.” For those of us who live by pattern and signal, this is a call to spiritual vigilance. Not paranoia, but presence. The world may convulse, but the elect are not forgotten. There is a fidelity that outlasts upheaval.

Together, these readings form a liturgy of clarity. They do not soothe with platitudes. They honour the storm, the rupture, the exile. And yet they insist: God is not absent. God is in the wing-shadow, in the fire’s restraint, in the warning cry. For the Benedictine heart, this is stability amid flux. For the autistic soul, it is a recognition that truth is not always smooth—but it is always luminous.

In Ireland, where mist and memory mingle, we know the weight of history and the ache of hope. These texts do not erase suffering. They frame it. They offer a pattern—not to explain away pain, but to hold it within a sacred rhythm. Mercy. Justice. Presence.

And so we pray: not for ease, but for alignment. Not for escape, but for refuge. Not for answers, but for the grace to read the signs—and to remain faithful, even in the storm.