The Biggest Gifts the Orthodox Church Gives Autistic People Like Me

When I was a teenager, I went to a legalistic Baptist Bible Fellowship church that generously picked me up each Sunday in their van. To me, the legalism was refreshing. My family life was chaotic, and I had a hard time knowing what was expected of me. As an autistic child and teen, I was overwhelmed by the layers of emotions and choices that I experienced that other people seemed to filter out. To my extra-complex mind, legalistic expectations were a relief. Explicit teachings on how to behave that other teens might have found stifling gave me an external filter for my decision making that I had not yet developed internally at that time. They told me to read the Bible, so I did. They told me not to do ___ and to do ___, and I thrived. I would never have overcome the shame that came with the abuse I had experienced without that legalistic framework that told me that God had bound Himself to His word. He said He would have mercy and not put me to shame, so I believed Him, even though my trauma shamed me and my autism made every part of life more intense.

While I’m grateful for the kind people in that church who welcomed me and taught me and said that Jesus loved me when I felt the most unlovable, I did not stay long in that branch of the faith once I had other options. In college, I was captivated by the mercy and grace of God that I found in the United Methodist Church, which brought me through great healing and grief and through my Methodist clergy professors into the study of patristics. It was Methodist Christians who taught me about Theosis and virtues and mercy and the imago Dei. I learned about icons first from that renowned Methodist theologian Geoffrey Wainwright. After his seminar on the Theology of Icons, I started praying with icons.

My husband and I soon felt the draw to the East, and we joined the Episcopal Church of the Holy Family, which at the time leaned heavily towards the Eastern influences on the liturgy and prayer life in the BCP. That church was the first one we had joined that had an icon in the Narthex. We lit candles before the Holy Virgin every week. (Now they have a festal icon, too. Many lovely friends are still there.) We delved into liturgical life, praying the hours, singing Compline every night in our home, doing the Stations of the Cross and silent meals with readings from the Tradition on Fridays of Lent, and even doing crochet while listening to the Screwtape Letters one year in imitation of the Desert Fathers’ habit of working while praying. I’m forever grateful for the formation in the hours and common prayer in that church, as well as many friendships. After ten years there, we kept feeling the tug to the Orthodox Church. When my husband’s study of iconography put us in touch with a local Orthodox family who invited us to church with them, we knew we had found home.

It wasn’t just that the Orthodox Church had clear expectations for behavior and an emphasis mercy and a liturgically shaped life, all of which are welcoming to autistics. It was that every good that I had experienced a little in other places was fully present, was sourced, in the Orthodox Church. But beyond those qualities, I found two gifts of the Orthodox Church most helpful as an autistic person: First, the communion of saints and the prayers teach me to ask for help. Second, the iconography and full-body patterns of prayer allow and encourage me to think outside my own head. I’ll elaborate on what this is like below.

First, asking for help does not feel natural to autistics. It’s not that we think we can do everything ourselves or that we don’t appreciate others; we’re just not used to thinking of asking for help as a matter of course. We have to learn to ask for help and practice asking for help and ask ourselves when we’re feeling really down on ourselves and ashamed or sad or frustrated, “Hey, am I doing something wrong, or do I just need help?” Because the number one thing most of us get confused about emotionally is whether we’re sorry about something (Did I do something wrong? Why do I feel like I can’t get this right? Like there’s something I need to do right but can’t?), or whether we just need help. In a relationship with God, it can get really confusing if you don’t know you have to ask for help. It can be VERY confusing if you’re in a tradition that says God’s waiting to smite you. But the Orthodox Church prayers call God “the One Who Loves Humankind,” and every prayer emphasizes God’s mercy (One of my favorites is a nighttime prayer that speaks of God’s “usual love” for us.). The threat of smiting is taken away, which gives me room to feel the contradiction in my emotions and reality. Wait. Am I scared God is going to be mad at me because I did something wrong, or do I just need help? Even if I did something wrong, guess what? The Church teaches me through the prayers to ask for help! And not only from God, but from the multitudes of saints who love me and assist me. It’s hard to fall into this pitfall of my disability when I have saints standing round the pit warning me away from it, saints reaching down to me to pull me out of it, and saints with me boosting me up out of it, and my Lord Jesus Christ alongside me, lifting me out with His ready help.

Second, like most autistics, I have too much going on in my head to think inside of it. I need the whole room in order to think my thoughts and feel my feelings. One of the hallmarks of early autistic intervention is teaching my children to communicate with me and others rather than simply moving around a room. But because I’m also autistic, I understood what the children were doing. I was able to give them the freedom of pictures and words and companionship so that they could thrive. I didn’t primarily focus on ordering their time the way that neurotypical interventionists would, but I ordered their space, giving them resources for expression. I gave them places in the house to meet God. I gave them places to retreat, to rest, to play. I put their communication aids on surfaces around the house where they were needed, incorporating their (and my) natural way of thinking with the resources they needed to learn to speak and think more easily and to communicate with the people they love and who love them. I made love something they felt in the room, something they could touch, a game with clear rules of engagement, a song with their singable parts and movements patterned so they could join in easily. The external ordering, the scaffolding of love, were vital to teaching my children and bringing the three of them who were nonverbal into fully verbal abilities. The Orthodox Church does something like this for me, both bodily and spiritually. Every time I go to church or pray with icons, I experience a scaffolded spiritual love and joy, an embracing story that tells me I’m welcome and draws me further into relationship and communication with God, beyond what I could have guessed. Icons and the patterning of prayer to draw our bodies and spirits towards God are gifts that allow me to wander like an autistic child towards the love that is waiting for me, to learn while I am living in welcome, to feel loved and valued, and to learn to love Jesus even before I know Him fully. When you pray in a church or a prayer corner filled with icons, you start to understand that they are not only windows to heaven, but mirrors reflecting the reality that surrounds you. You start to feel part of the company of saints, like someone loved by God. You start to hear your line of the music and to join in the song. You start to know that you are good, you are loved, you are welcomed like a child; you are home.

Read more in my book, Of Such Is the Kingdom: A Practical Theology of Disability

10 thoughts on “The Biggest Gifts the Orthodox Church Gives Autistic People Like Me”

  1. Catechumen here, if I make it alive, I will be chrismated in December.

    I discovered I had autism (have all the symptoms, can’t afford adult diagnosis) just before discovering the Orthodox Church. I don’t have a problem with asking for help, so much—I have come to recognize that I need a lot of it—my problem is that I don’t know if I am annoying or exasperating my parish priest (we can only communicate via email because plague, so I can’t read tone, and I’m scared of authority anyway because of previous abuse). So I feel really dumb asking him for prayers, even though he has been nothing but kind to me, and sometimes it is quite obvious when he prays for me, because it’s like a light switch turning on in my brain.

    I am greatly comforted knowing the saints (who cannot misread tone or misunderstand our needs—if they had any questions, Jesus is right there) are praying for us, and the foremost among them, I have a mother in the Virgin Mary (my own mother was abusive, and not interested in my spiritual needs, more in me conforming to her preferred Evangelical denomination).

    The Theotokos and the saints praying for me is also a comfort, because in the midst of this, I am experiencing constant attack in my mind, and a lot of times, I struggle with being afraid of God, and the mercy and grace prayers help with that, because despite all the ‘grace’ Protestants taught me, God is significantly more awesome and powerful than I imagined, the devil is real and demons do exist, and being a catechumen isn’t anywhere near as simple as swapping from one Protestant denomination to another. It’s been rough.

    That was longer than I wanted it to be, sorry.

    1. Thank you for sharing your experience. You know, I can feel it when people pray for me, too. Just like you said, it’s like a light goes on. I’ve tried to think about it in terms of not having the same filters as others seem to have. There are some things easier to perceive. Some other autistic Orthodox and I have discovered that we have a tendency to be confused or terrified by prayers that act like God is far away, because He’s obviously right here (wherever here is). I’m finding more and more that God’s perfect love casts out that fear, too. I’m sorry you have gone through so much suffering. I pray that the Theotokos and the saints will help you to experience the healing in Christ. Priests are happy to pray for you, so please ask. I’ve met priests with all sorts of other gifts, strengths, and weaknesses, but all of them are glad to pray. Intercession is a big part of how they’re priests. Good strength to you, and may our Holy Theotokos keep you under her protection.

    2. Before I found this blog, I never knew that there were other autistic Orthodox Christians out there. Many Years to you, Stephen, and the other autistic Orthodox Christians out there.

      I am an Orthodox Christian Aspie who was born in Russia, yet lived most of my life in the US. I can very much relate to what you feel about the Church being a place where you feel welcome, appreciating the clear expectations and support that the Church provides (both in the Church Militant and Church Triumphant), and understanding how you can feel too much in your head. The multisensory experience that is Orthodox worship also is helpful for autistic people, because it engages multiple sensory modalities and learning styles (taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing). Auditory learners can appreciate the singing, kinesthetic learners can serve in the altar or decorate the church, visual learners can look at the icons and clergy and read along with the service texts.

      Because of my good experience with the Church, I have felt the desire to give back to the Church by serving Her. God willing, I might become the first autistic deacon in the US.

      1. It is very encouraging to hear from others who understand! Thank you, and many years to you as well!

        Things are much better this week, and I am off to the Divine Liturgy of St. James in a moment (my first). God is good!

      2. Wow, it’s been four months already? The time has flown by.

        I thought I would provide a little update, especially for Ilya here: if you’re hoping to be the first Orthodox deacon with autism, I am hoping to become the first Orthodox priest with (diagnosed) autism.

        (I suspect that there are more of us in the clergy, they have just been successful in masking. I don’t know about you, but I can fake ‘normal’ pretty well on a good day.)

        In any case, I found a new doctor who would listen to me, and they put me on a new anxiety medicine that significantly helped me function on a day-to-day basis. And once they get the anxiety balanced out, they are going to work on diagnosing me. Plus, they take my insurance. Wonder of wonders!

        Even better, I found a church home, and my spiritual father, and several new best friends. I tried a new church on December 25th, a ROCOR church that doesn’t have lockdowns, so you’re allowed to do Orthodox things like, well, everything: kiss the icons, hug each other, drink coffee, etc.. They immediately welcomed me in with open arms.

        Plus, the priest here (whom I dearly love) agreed to be my spiritual father immediately when I asked, and the catechist has given me some excellent book recommendations, and we have had some very good conversations.

        I was also recruited into the choir. Matushka asked if I could sing, I said yes, and showed her, and she said I was in the choir. Yes ma’am!

        And…my spiritual father, seeing that I had been already catechized for the most part at the last church, gave me a tentative date: May 1. For my first Pascha, I will be officially an Orthodox Christian.

        And he didn’t laugh at me when I told him that I wanted to be a priest. So, that’s a good sign.

        I am home, and I am happy.

  2. Summer, would you mind sharing the source of the evening prayer from which you quoted about God’s “Usual love”? Or a link or something to help me find it in its entirety?
    Thank you so much!

    1. Valerie, I forget that I go to sleep very late, so my last “evening” prayer is usually actually the Midnight Prayer. If you have the Daily Readings app, it’s there as the Midnight Prayer, translated by Fr. N. Michael Vaporis, from Holy Cross Orthodox Press: “As I rise from sleep, I thank you, Holy Trinity, for because of your great goodness and patience, you were not angry with me, an idler and sinner, nor have you destroyed me in my sins, but have shown your usual love for me. And when I was prostrate in despair, you raised me to glorify with your power. Enlighten now my mind’s eye, open my mouth to study your words and understand your commandments, to do your will and sing to you in heartfelt adoration, and praise your most holy name, of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, now and forever and to the ages of ages. Amen.”

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