NeuroDivine

Reflection on the readings from Morning Prayer. Psalm 18:31-end | Isaiah 4:2-5:7 | Matthew 4:12-22 and RB 31.

Psalm 18 closes not with triumph, but with steadiness. “Who is God but the Lord?” asks the psalmist—not in boast, but in witness. This is the God who trains trembling hands for gentleness, who shields and steadies, who enlarges the path beneath weary feet. For those of us who live with neurodivergent rhythms, this is not metaphor—it is grace worn daily. The cloak of God’s presence is not left behind; it is carried even into dialysis, even into the quiet hours when strength feels thin.

Isaiah’s vineyard vision follows, and it stings. The beloved plants, tends, and waits—but the grapes are wild. We know this ache: the labour of love that yields confusion, the longing for fruit that matches the care. Yet Isaiah 4 offers balm before lament—a branch, beautiful and glorious, a remnant held in holiness. For those who feel like the wild grapes—misunderstood, misnamed, misread—there is still a canopy of cloud and flame. A dwelling place of dignity. A liturgy of presence.

Then Matthew brings us to Galilee, where Jesus walks into the shadows and calls fishermen with no preamble. No theological test. Just: “Follow me.” The light has dawned, not in the temple, but by the sea. Neurodivine souls know this call—not always verbal, not always linear, but unmistakable. It is the call to be seen, to be summoned, to be part of the story even when the map is not drawn. The net is not just a tool—it is the web of connection, the gathering of stories, the weaving of grace.

And into this mosaic, the Rule of St Benedict offers a quiet thread: “Above all things let him have humility; and if he has nothing else to give, let him give a good word in answer.” A good word is not ornamental—it is sacramental. It is the balm offered when resources run dry, the dignity extended when systems falter. Even the giving of food is liturgical when done without arrogance or delay. The Rule reminds us that timing matters, tone matters, tenderness matters. That no one should be vexed in the house of God.

For those entrusted with care—whether of liturgy, of community, or of story—the Rule offers a rhythm: receive what is assigned, honour what is forbidden, ask gently, give quietly, and let helpers be given when the weight grows heavy. This is not bureaucracy—it is mercy. It is the scaffolding that allows the soul to breathe.

So we walk with these texts, not as distant observers but as those who know the weight of the cloak, the ache of the vineyard, the surprise of the call, and the quiet dignity of the Rule. We remember:

The cloak is never left behind. The vineyard may ache, but the branch still blossoms. The call may come in the margins, but it is real, and it is ours. And a good word, humbly given, is above the best gift.

And in all of it, we are held.