NeuroDivine

Keeping rhythm when the night is short and the offering is poured out.

Readings: Psalm 71 1 | Maccabees 1:1-19 | Mark 14:1-11 | RB Chapter 10:

There are seasons when the night shrinks, and with it, the space for silence. The Rule adjusts—less reading, fewer lessons—but never fewer Psalms. Twelve must still be sung, not counting the ones that open the heart. It’s not about quantity. It’s about keeping the shape. Even when time is tight, the pattern holds.

This insistence on rhythm—on keeping the song whole—is echoed in the scriptures appointed for this day. Psalm 71 is the voice of one who has grown old in trust. It doesn’t ask for triumph, only for presence. “You have been my hope,” it sings, “my confidence since my youth.” There’s no rush here. Just a steady unfolding. A life stitched together by praise.

But not all is gentle. The reading from Maccabees tells of desecration—altars overturned, customs outlawed, memory threatened. It’s a passage of rupture. And yet, beneath the grief, there’s a quiet resistance: the pattern is remembered. Even when the world unravels, the thread remains.

In the gospel, a woman breaks a jar of perfume over Jesus. The scent fills the room. Some call it waste. He calls it beauty. “She has done what she could.” It’s not the length of the offering, but the depth. Not the number of words, but the heart behind them. Her act becomes memory. A responsory of love.

This is the kind of rhythm that speaks to those who live by pattern and presence. Who feel the world in texture and tone. Who find comfort in repetition not because it’s easy, but because it’s true. The Rule’s summer adaptation—one lesson by heart, a short responsory, twelve Psalms—honours this. It trusts that even in brevity, the fullness of prayer can be kept.

In the Irish landscape, where mist and stone meet, this rhythm finds its echo. In the liturgical tradition, where word and sacrament intertwine, this pattern finds its home. And in the quiet joy of those who move through the world with heightened sense and sacred repetition, this offering finds its fullness.

So tonight, even if the night is short, let the song be long. Let the memory be kept. Let the jar be broken. Let the scent fill the room.