NeuroDivine

A reflection in the Benedictine rhythm

October 24 arrives not with fanfare, but with a quiet weight. The readings for this day—Psalm 88, 1 Maccabees 4:26–35, and Mark 16:1–8—do not resolve easily. They ask us to stay with the silence, to tend what has been desecrated, and to stand at the edge of mystery.

Psalm 88 is the psalm we rarely quote in full. It ends without light. “Darkness is my only companion,” the psalmist says, and we are not asked to fix it. We are asked to remain. In the Benedictine ordering of Vespers, this psalm is not among the daily four—but its presence on this day is deliberate. It reminds us that lament is part of the liturgy, and that some prayers are not meant to be tied up with a bow.

In 1 Maccabees, we see the aftermath of battle. The enemies retreat, but the focus is not on conquest—it is on restoration. The Temple is reclaimed, the altar rebuilt, and the rhythm of worship begins again. There is no triumphalism here. Only the quiet work of tending what matters.

Mark’s Gospel brings us to the tomb. The women come with spices and questions. They find the stone rolled away, the body gone, and a messenger who speaks of resurrection. But they flee in trembling silence. The story ends not with proclamation, but with awe. And that, too, is holy.

October 24 is a day for those who wait in the dark, who rebuild altars, who tremble at the threshold of mystery. It is a day for those who keep showing up.

At Compline, we repeat the same Psalms every night: 4, 90, and 133. Not because we lack imagination, but because repetition is refuge. Psalm 4 reminds us that we can sleep in peace. Psalm 90 shelters us in the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 133 blesses the unity we dare to believe in.

So we sing the Psalms. We tend the altar. We stand at the tomb. And we wait—not for certainty, but for the grace of presence.