NeuroDivine

In an hour, the service will begin.

The morning mist is still clinging to the Barrow, and the church is that specific kind of cold that only ancient stone and Irish rain can produce. On the table by the door sit twenty sheets of paper. They are crisp, still smelling slightly of the printer—a physical manifestation of a “holy daring.”

I have spent a year writing these “NeuroDivine” hymns, exploring the winding ways of a faith that doesn’t always move in straight lines. But today, the digital becomes the physical. Today, for the first time, I have dared to print them for my own parish to sing.

I am beginning to realise that if they are not used, they remain unfinished. A hymn is a hollow thing until it is filled with the breath of a neighbour.

The Shepherd’s Journey

Today’s liturgy is a carefully curated pilgrimage for the small gathering who will come. We aren’t just singing songs; we are walking a path.

• The Threshold: we begin with “In Christ there is no East or West.” We are using BALLERMA, a tune that has become part of our local DNA through many a “marathon.” It is the musical handrail that lets everyone know they are safe, they are home, and they are welcome.

• The Weekday Walk: At the Gradual, we move into my own reflection, “Christ calls us to the table here.” Set to the haunting, Dorian tones of KINGSFOLD, it’s an invitation to remember that the Shepherd doesn’t stay in the sanctuary. He’s there in Monday’s mist and Wednesday’s noise.

• The Deep Sacrifice: As we approach the table, we sit with the raw vulnerability of “How deep the Father’s love for us.” It is the “still point” where the Shepherd lays down His life.

• The Easter Lift: Finally, we go out with “The Shepherd walks our winding ways.” We’ve paired this with ELLACOMBE. It is a bold, bright juxtaposition—taking the quiet imagery of the Barrow and Slemish and throwing it into the sunlight of the Resurrection.

Staff and Song

This morning carries a dual weight. It is my first Sunday as Rector’s Church Warden.

I will stand at the door, handing out these sheets alongside the hymnals. I am a gatekeeper today—one of the first faces of the Shepherd’s hospitality, holding the door, not guarding it. And then, I will move to the organ bench to lead the “ancient song.”

For the neurodivergent heart, this intersection of duty and creativity, of staff and song, is a way of belonging that requires no performance. It is simply about being present. Whether I am straightening a pew or pulling a stop, it is all part of the same prayer.

To my fifteen neighbours: I hope these words offer you a way of being held without being hurried. I hope you hear your own landscape—the reeds, the streams, the “healing air”—in the music we make together.

The bell is about to ring. The mist is lifting. The Shepherd is already here—waiting, gentle as light on water.

The body is tired, as it often is—but this, too, is part of the offering.