NeuroDivine

Named in Zion: Breath, Burden, and Benediction

Psalm 87 sings of belonging—not by birthright or geography alone, but by divine declaration. “This one was born there,” says the Lord, naming outsiders as insiders, strangers as citizens of Zion. For those of us whose bodies mark us as different—whose rhythms are shaped by dialysis machines or the wheeze of asthma—this is a balm. We are not peripheral to the story. We are named, rooted, and remembered.

Isaiah 49 deepens this promise. The servant is called from the womb, hidden in the shadow of God’s hand, polished like an arrow. Yet he cries, “I have laboured in vain.” There is exhaustion here, the kind that resonates with the long hours tethered to a dialysis chair, or the breathless nights when asthma tightens its grip. But God answers not with pity, but with purpose: “It is too small a thing” for the servant to restore only Israel. He is to be a light to the nations.

This “too small a thing” stirs something in me. As an autistic Benedictine Anglican, I often feel the tension between hiddenness and vocation. The Rule teaches stability, humility, and listening—qualities that align with neurodivergent ways of being. Yet the world often sees only limitation. Isaiah reminds me that constraint is not the end of the story. It is the beginning of a calling that stretches beyond what others deem possible.

In Acts 8, we meet Philip, who proclaims Christ in Samaria—a place considered spiritually suspect. And yet, joy breaks out. Even Simon the magician, once dazzled by power, is drawn to the deeper truth. There’s something here about the unexpected places where grace erupts. Dialysis units, hospital corridors, asthma clinics—these are not wastelands. They are Samarias. And in them, the Spirit moves.

As I reflect on these readings, I hear a call to reframe dependence as dignity. To see the machine not as a tether, but as a rhythm of life. To honour breath, even when it comes hard-won. And to trust that God’s naming—“This one was born there”—includes me, includes us, includes all who live at the edge of what others understand.

We are not forgotten. We are polished arrows. We are citizens of Zion.

O God who names us in love and carries us in constraint, Breathe peace into our weariness and purpose into our waiting. When breath falters or machines hum in vigil, Let us know we are held, called, and never forgotten. Make of our limits a light, And of our silence, a song of belonging. Through Christ, who meets us in every threshold. Amen.