NeuroDivine

Psalm 52 | Isaiah 10:5–19 | Matthew 7:13–29 | RB Chapter 18

There are nights when the body will not rest, when weakness insists on its own measure. Last night was such a night: I sat upright, wrapped in a blanket, with two bears keeping vigil. Their quiet presence reminded me that sustenance is not only bread or wine, but companionship, warmth, and the mercy of being held in small ways.

The Rule speaks with misgiving about regulating another’s portion. A hemina of wine, no more, no less. Yet even here, the wisdom is not about the wine itself but about the posture of the heart: to drink sparingly, to abstain without pride, to accept scarcity without murmuring. The measure is never absolute—it bends to circumstance, to heat, to labour, to weakness.

Psalm 52 warns against the boastful who trust in abundance, while Isaiah 10 shows how even mighty empires are but tools in God’s hand, cut down when they exalt themselves. And in Matthew 7, Christ calls us to discernment: the narrow way, the tree judged by its fruit, the house built on rock. Each text insists that true strength is not in surplus but in trust.

So I think of the night’s vigil: the bears steadying me, the blanket holding me, the silence teaching me not to murmur. My portion was not ease, nor sleep, nor health. Yet it was enough. The gift was presence, the measure was mercy.

Wine makes even the wise fall away, says Ecclesiasticus. But murmuring makes even the faithful forget gratitude. To abstain from murmuring is perhaps the hardest fast of all. And yet, in the stillness of weakness, wrapped in warmth, I found that blessing is possible even when the measure feels small.