NeuroDivine

On trustworthy leadership, gentle correction, and the rhythm of shared care.

Today’s readings and Rule offer a quiet choreography of discernment, dignity, and shared responsibility. In Psalm 116, we hear the voice of one who has survived—not only physical danger, but the slow erosion of trust and belonging. The psalmist’s vow to walk in the land of the living is not triumphant, but tender: a promise to live with gratitude, to notice each mercy, and to remain in communion. For those of us who navigate the world with heightened sensitivity, this is a sacred vow indeed.

Wisdom 5 offers a glimpse of the righteous standing with confidence—not in arrogance, but in quiet vindication. These are the ones who were misunderstood, dismissed, or mocked for their restraint and gentleness. They refused to play power’s game, and now their endurance is honoured. In an Irish Anglican Benedictine frame, we might see them as the quiet keepers of tradition—the ones who know the weight of silence and the dignity of staying.

Luke’s Gospel reminds us that even Jesus, before choosing his twelve disciples, spent the night in prayer. Leadership, in this rhythm, is not about charisma or convenience—it is about communion. The twelve were not perfect, but they were chosen in love, for love. This echoes the Benedictine call to stability and discernment: to choose not the loudest, but the most faithful.

Chapter 21 of the Rule of St Benedict offers a practical and deeply relational guide to shared leadership. In large communities, the Abbot is not to hoard authority, nor to delegate based on status. Instead, he is to choose deans of good repute and holy life—those whose wisdom and integrity allow burdens to be shared without fear. These deans are not chosen for their rank, but for the fruit of their lives and the clarity of their doctrine. If pride creeps in, they are to be corrected gently, repeatedly, and if needed, replaced—not as punishment, but as protection for the community’s rhythm of grace.

For those of us who live with autistic patterning, this chapter is not a burden—it is an anchor. It affirms that leadership must be predictable, relational, and rooted in integrity. It honours the need for clear roles, gentle correction, and the safety of knowing that pride will not be allowed to distort the communal rhythm. It tells us that we are not wrong to need clarity, not weak to ask for gentleness, and not alone in our longing for trustworthy structure.

In our own circles—whether among bears, patients, readers, or friends—may we choose our deans wisely. May we honour those who carry burdens with humility. May we remember that correction, too, is a form of care. And when the time comes to stand with confidence, may we do so not in triumph, but in tenderness—the kind that has been tested, corrected, and still remains.

Let us walk in the land of the living, where silence is sacred, correction is care, and leadership is a shared breath between souls.