NeuroDivine

Chanting the Psalter in constraint and hope—an autistic Benedictine reflection on presence, rhythm, and resurrection.

Psalm 97 | 1 Maccabees 4:36-61 | Mark 16:9-20 | RB Chapter 18

Some days begin with dialysis. Or doubt. Or the quiet ache of being different, again. But the Psalter begins anyway.

Today’s readings—Psalm 97, 1 Maccabees 4:36–61, and Mark 16:9–20—offer a rhythm of rejoicing, rededication, and resurrection. And the Rule of St Benedict, ever rhythmic, reminds us: chant the Psalter. All of it. Every week. Not because we are perfect, but because we are vowed. Not because we are strong, but because we are present.

Psalm 97 proclaims, “The Lord reigns; let the earth rejoice.” It’s a psalm of radiant justice, of mountains melting like wax, of light dawning for the righteous. And yet, for those of us who live with chronic illness, neurodivergence, or the slow rhythm of dialysis, rejoicing can feel like a distant echo. We do not always feel radiant. We are not always strong. But the psalm does not ask us to be. It simply asks us to notice: the light is sown, even in the dark.

1 Maccabees tells of the rededication of the Temple after defilement. The people sweep out the ashes, rebuild the altar, and light the lamps again. They do not wait until they are fully healed or victorious—they act in the midst of grief and compromise. For those of us who live with constraints, this is a holy encouragement: we can rededicate our own lives, our own bodies, even when they are not whole. We can light the lamps again, even if our hands tremble.

Mark’s Gospel offers the risen Christ appearing to those who are grieving, doubting, and afraid. He does not chastise them for their neurodivergence, their trauma, or their disbelief. He sends them anyway. He entrusts the proclamation of resurrection to those who have wept, waited, and wondered. For those of us who feel unqualified or unseen, this is a commissioning: Go anyway. You are enough.

And then the Rule. It does not demand emotional fervour—it asks for fidelity. It honours the monastic who arranges the Psalms differently, who adapts the rhythm to her own capacity, but who still completes the cycle. There is dignity in the doing.

As an Irish autistic Anglican Benedictine, this is my rhythm. I do not always feel the joy of Psalm 97. I do not always have the strength of Judas Maccabeus. I do not always believe with the clarity of the apostles. But I can chant. I can show up. I can rededicate the temple of my own body, dialysis lines and all, and speak peace to this household.

The Psalter is not a test—it is a rhythm. It is the heartbeat of the Church, the breath of the monastic, the whisper of the Spirit. And whether I chant it in the chapel, the clinic, or the quiet of my own room, it is still the Psalter. It is still the light.