Upon the heath of Horeb’s hill

1.
Upon the heath of Horeb’s hill,
A burning gorse shone bright;
You called us from the bog‑soft earth
To walk within Your light.

2.
Not carved in stone nor wrought in gold
Are pow’rs that guide our way;
But wind across our Irish fields
Speaks mercy day by day.

3.
Teach us to bless, not curse, O Christ,
Like curlew’s cry at dawn;
To weave Your peace through bracken paths,
Where wounded hearts are drawn.

4.
For You have set Your face t’ward hope
Beyond the storm‑tossed sea;
So shape our lives like hawthorn boughs,
Bent strong through Calvary.

5.
Christ in the rushlight of the eve,
Christ in the oak and rain;
Christ in the red deer’s quiet tread,
Christ in our loss and gain.

6.
So call us from the burning bush
To serve in love’s embrace;
And bear Your cross through emerald fields,
Held fast by heaven’s grace.

Called, Transformed, and Sent: a Reflection

Some weeks, the lectionary feels like it’s whispering a single thread through four very different readings. This week, that thread is unmistakable: God calls us, reshapes us, and sends us out in love that costs something—but also heals something.

And maybe that’s a rhythm many of us in neurodivergent bodies and minds already know: the movement from overwhelm into clarity, from solitude into connection, from self‑protection into the brave, small acts of love that change the world more than anyone realises.

Holy Ground in Unexpected Places

Exodus gives us Moses, standing on ordinary earth that suddenly becomes holy. A bush burns without burning up. A name is spoken. A life changes direction.

In Ireland, holy ground rarely announces itself. It’s more likely to be a bog road at dusk, a hawthorn tree guarding a field boundary, or the sudden hush that falls on you walking through a ringfort. Neurodivergent souls often recognise this kind of holiness instinctively—the moment when the world feels thin and alive and calling.

God’s call is not abstract. It is always a call into liberation, into helping someone else breathe easier.

Trusting the Living God, Not Lifeless Things

Psalm 115 reminds us that God is not an idol made of metal or stone. God is found in movement, breath, relationship.

In the Irish midlands, that looks like the Atlantic wind reshaping clouds over Laois, the curlew’s cry threading through evening fields, or the oak that has stood longer than any of us will. These are not idols; they are reminders that God is alive, present, and still speaking.

Trust, for many neurodivergent people, is hard-won. But it is also deeply embodied. We learn to trust the God who meets us in sensory truth—in wind, in birdsong, in the quiet persistence of creation.

Love That Is Real, Not Performed

Romans 12 is startlingly practical. Love must be genuine. Bless those who curse you. Choose peace. Persevere in hope.

This is not performative niceness. It is the kind of love that grows like bracken on a hillside—tough, persistent, quietly transforming the ground beneath it. It is the kind of love neurodivergent communities often excel at: honest, unfiltered, fiercely loyal, and rooted in lived experience rather than social expectation.

This is love that costs something. And yet it is love that heals.

The Cross as a Path, Not a Punishment

In Matthew, Jesus speaks plainly: following Him means letting go of something—maybe comfort, maybe certainty, maybe the illusion that faith is easy.

But He also promises that in losing our life for His sake, we find it.

Irish landscape gives us metaphors for this truth: the hawthorn shaped by relentless wind yet still blooming; the salmon swimming upstream toward new life; the pilgrim paths worn by centuries of feet seeking God.

Discipleship is not passive. It is a journey that reshapes us from the inside out.

A Single Thread: Love That Sends Us Out

Together, these readings remind us that God’s call is always outward— from holy ground into service, from trust into courage, from love into action, from self‑protection into self‑giving hope.

For neurodivergent Christians, this outward movement often begins inward: grounding ourselves, honouring our limits, listening for the quiet voice that calls us by name. But it never ends there. It becomes hospitality, advocacy, tenderness, truth-telling, and the small daily acts that make the world kinder.

To stand on Irish soil and pray these readings is to hear a whisper:

Let your life be a burning bush. Let your love be genuine. Let your trust be rooted in the living God. Let your steps follow Christ’s path of self-giving hope.

This is the call. This is the transformation. This is the sending.

NeuroDivine

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