NeuroDivine

A Thursday reflection on the readings today Psalm 15 | Urbs Fortitidunis | Isaiah 2:12-22 | Matthew 3:1-17: a stillness between the thresholds, where clarity and calling meet.

Today, in the hush of a Thursday without machines, the soul finds its own rhythm. The canticle—Urbs Fortitudinis—offers not a blueprint of stone but a vision of belonging. The strong city it names is not a place on a map, but a sanctuary of trust and truth, where the gates open not to the powerful but to those who hold fast to what is real.

This is not the psalm’s voice, but the canticle’s—a liturgical echo drawn from Isaiah, not David. And yet, the psalm it follows speaks in harmony. It sings of the one whose mind is anchored, whose thoughts do not scatter like leaves in the wind. For those of us whose minds are wired to notice every detail, every flicker, every nuance, this anchoring is not always easy. But it is possible. Not by force, but by resting in the One who does not change.

Isaiah’s vision, in contrast, is seismic. It shakes the high places, topples the proud, and clears the air of illusions. For those of us who have never quite fit the mould, this is not a threat—it’s a homecoming. When the world’s noise is silenced, the quiet ones are heard. When the towers fall, the ground becomes level enough for everyone to walk.

And then comes the voice in the wilderness. Not a polished preacher, but a wild one. Not a temple priest, but a desert dweller. His cry is not calibrated for comfort. It is raw, urgent, and true. And it is this voice that prepares the way. For those of us who have been told we are too much, too intense, too literal, too quiet, too loud—here is kinship. Here is calling.

The descent into the water is not a spectacle. It is a surrender. And in that surrender, the heavens open. The voice that speaks is not one of critique, but of delight. “This is my beloved.” Not despite the difference, but within it.

So on this Thursday, when the body rests from its usual regimen, let the mind rest in this: that the city is not defended by walls but by wonder. That the voice in the wilderness is not an interruption but an invitation. And that the One who sees us does not ask us to be other than we are, but to be wholly, deeply, truly what we are becoming.