For many years, I felt there was something about me that didn't quite fit. I grew up in a faith community where everything seemed to have a clear mold: the way to worship, to pray, to share. For most, that came naturally. For me, it was like trying to breathe underwater. I loved God, but the spaces where I was supposed to find Him felt overwhelming.
The bright lights, the jumble of sounds, the overlapping conversations, the constant physical contact. Everything came at once, like an avalanche I couldn't stop. While others connected, I struggled not to collapse. And even though I participated, smiled, and responded, inside I was holding up an invisible effort that only I knew about.
It wasn't until I was 41 that I received an autism diagnosis. That moment didn't change who I was, but it gave me a map to understand my story. I realized it wasn't about inability, but about a different way of perceiving the world. And I also understood that the church, many times, is not prepared to receive that difference.
The Challenge of Being Autistic in Church
Church is a place of gathering, but it can also be a sensorially complex environment. For an autistic person, stimuli that go unnoticed by others can be a constant source of stress. The noise of children, the echo of the microphone, the flickering lights, the smell of incense or coffee, the brush of people sitting down. It all accumulates.
Then there are the social expectations: greeting with a hug, maintaining eye contact, joining in group conversations, raising hands during worship. These are gestures that come naturally to many, but for an autistic person, they can require enormous effort. And when they can't keep up, it's often misinterpreted as coldness, disinterest, or lack of faith.
The Bible reminds us that God looks at the heart, not the outward appearance. In 1 Samuel 16:7 we read: "The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart" (NIV). Yet in practice, the church sometimes judges by externals. That gap between theology and real experience is a wound that many autistic believers carry in silence.
Sensory Overload in Worship
One of the biggest challenges is sensory overload. During a service, information comes through every channel: visual, auditory, tactile, even olfactory. For an autistic person, processing all that simultaneously can be exhausting. Sometimes the only way out is to withdraw, but that can be seen as a lack of commitment.
It's not about not wanting to be there, but about not being able to bear the intensity of the environment. Jesus himself withdrew to quiet places to pray (Luke 5:16). If the Lord needed silence, why does the church insist on filling every space with noise and activity?
Lessons Autism Teaches the Church
Autism is not just a challenge; it's also an opportunity for the church to learn to be more inclusive, more patient, and more creative. Autistic people have unique gifts: radical honesty, attention to detail, deep concentration, unwavering loyalty. These gifts can greatly enrich community life.
Paul teaches us that the body of Christ is made up of diverse members, and each one is necessary (1 Corinthians 12:12-27). Difference is not a mistake but an intentional design. When the church excludes or ignores those who are different, it impoverishes itself.
Small Changes, Big Impact
There are simple adjustments that can make a big difference: offering moments of silence during worship, allowing people to sit where they feel most comfortable, not forcing physical contact, using softer lighting, reducing sound volume, and having a quiet space available.
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