NeuroDivine

Reflection on the Readings for today. Isaiah 1: 10-18 | Psalm 32: 1-8 2 | Thessalonians 1: 1-4, 11-12 | Luke 19: 1-10

There’s a peculiar ache in being misunderstood by systems that prefer neatness. The kind that files people by performance or polish, and leaves the quietly faithful uncounted. But the readings this week whisper a different logic—one that sees the folded note in the pocket, the coat always worn, the presence that lingers even when the body falters.

We begin with a summons not to ceremony, but to sincerity. Not the kind that performs, but the kind that limps into the chapel anyway. The kind that knows the liturgy by heart because it’s been whispered through pain, through dialysis mornings, through the long silence of waiting rooms. It’s not about being impressive. It’s about being present.

There’s a thread of mercy running through these texts—not loud, not flashy, but persistent. It’s the mercy that meets us in the pew when we feel like a fraud. The mercy that doesn’t flinch at our neurodivergent wiring, our sensory overwhelm, our need to sit at the edge of the crowd. It’s the mercy that says: “I see you. I know your name. I’m coming to your house.”

And when we hear that—when we truly hear it—it’s not shame that rises, but relief. Relief that we don’t have to pretend. That our story, with all its tangled syntax and missed appointments, is still part of the great unfolding. That our offerings—be they half-written prayers, organ preludes played with trembling hands, or stories shaped in the margins—are received with joy.

The invitation this week is not to fix ourselves, but to be found. To let ourselves be seen not as a problem to solve, but as a person to love. To trust that the One who calls us by name also understands the rhythm of our dialysis days, the weight of our coat, the courage it takes to show up.

So we respond—not with grand gestures, but with quiet yeses. With the courage to keep writing, keep praying, keep showing up. Because in this strange and holy economy, presence is enough. And grace, as always, is the last word.