NeuroDivine

Reflection in the Rhythm of the Rule and the Lectionary

Jeremiah 31: 27-34 | Psalm 119: 97-104 | 2 Timothy 3: 14 – 4: 5 | Luke 18: 1-8 | RB Chapter 15:

There’s a quiet kind of joy that doesn’t shout. It waits. It learns the shape of the week, the weight of the readings, the pulse of the Psalms. It doesn’t need to be loud to be true. This week, I find myself listening for that joy—not the kind that bursts forth in festival, but the kind that lingers in the folds of habit and the hush of perseverance.

Jeremiah speaks of planting and rebuilding, of a covenant not carved in stone but written into the marrow. That speaks to me—not just as one who reads slowly and remembers in layers, but as one whose body is stitched into a rhythm not of my choosing. Three times a week, the machine hums and the blood learns patience. And still, the promise is written deeper than any diagnosis. “I will be their God,” says the Holy One, “and they shall be my people.” Not despite the tubes and timings, but with them.

Psalm 119 is a long walk, and this portion is a gentle stretch of it. “How sweet are your words to my taste,” says the psalmist. I think of the sweetness not as sugar—dialysis has taught me caution there—but as clarity. The sweetness of knowing where I am in the liturgical map, of knowing when the “Alleluia” rests and when it rises. The sweetness of a well-placed antiphon, of a canticle that doesn’t rush.

Paul’s letter to Timothy reminds me that endurance is not a solo act. There’s a lineage of learning, a community of witnesses, a tradition that holds even when the body falters. I read slowly, yes, and sometimes I need the text to be read aloud, or repeated, or sung. But the breath of Scripture is not measured in speed. It is measured in faithfulness. “Be sober,” says Paul. “Do the work.” Even when the work is waiting. Even when the work is showing up with a blanket and a bear and a prayer.

And then Luke gives us the widow. She doesn’t shout “Alleluia.” She doesn’t even ask nicely. She persists. She shows up. She trusts that justice is not a luxury but a promise. I think of her when I sit in the dialysis chair, when I write liturgy that includes those who are often left out, when I ask again for gentleness in a world that prizes efficiency. She is not loud, but she is heard.

As for the Rule, it reminds me that “Alleluia” is not always spoken. Sometimes it is withheld, not as punishment, but as preparation. There is a dignity in restraint, a holiness in knowing when to sing and when to wait. In this season, the “Alleluia” is tucked into the Night Office, folded into the Sunday canticles. It is not absent. It is resting.

And so am I. Resting, not retreating. Listening, not withdrawing. Waiting, not wasting. The covenant is written in my flesh, in my rhythm, in my quiet joy. And when the time comes, I will sing. Not because I must, but because I may.