Praying for vocations?

It’s a safe guess that everyone reading this post will have seen, in one form or another, requests to pray for an increase in vocations to the priesthood, diaconate, religious and consecrated life. Rare is the Diocese with an abundance of priests, or the monastery overflowing with novices, anywhere in the world.

How is it, then, that a decent number of neurodivergent people feeling called to vocations are being turned away?  Worse still, how is it that many of these individuals are being welcomed and encouraged right up until the very moment they drop the “a” word (i.e., “autistic”), and then are stonewalled by a change of tone? Suddenly, the interest drops, the cordiality evaporates, and a businesslike manner takes hold: “We’re sorry, but after further consideration, we don’t think you will be a good fit.”

Excuse me?

If we can set aside the intense pain of such rejection without warning, what is it, objectively speaking, which makes an autistic person unfit for priesthood, diaconate, or religious life?

It’s an important question, considering that this is what we are hearing, again and again, especially from religious orders: autistic people need not apply.

In the absence of any obvious impediments, this rationale is tantamount to selective abortion. The same gravely flawed formula which pushes parents to end the lives of unborn children for the sake of avoiding anticipated hardships due to disability is being applied on a regular basis toward autistic people in the Church who feel genuinely called to religious life, and who respond with sincere intention.

Pray for vocations… but, only from among the fittest?

With apologies to Matthew 25, Our Lord is answering the prayer for vocations in great abundance, but He is being rejected by the very people sounding the call. He arrives in unmasked truth: vulnerable, humble, and open-handed. Rather than embracing Him at the door, we are yielding to the warnings of fearmongering experts, willingly allowing specters of pathology to eclipse the answered prayer before us. Calculating the risks, we turn Him away.

Aborting vocations. One after another.

How much longer, O Lord? How many autistic vocations are snuffed out by directors who refuse to trust that God knows what He is about when He chooses the people He chooses to work in His vineyard?

Pray for vocations? Not until we first pray for vocations directors, and for all the vocations obstructed by those who are threatened by vulnerability.

 

 

As we mourn in lonely exile here

by Aimée O’Connell

 

Autistic theologian Grant Macaskill, speaking on the difference between inclusion and belonging, says:

 

“To belong, you have to be missed;

to belong, you have to be named,

and enjoyed,

even in bodily absence;

and your absence has to be acknowledged

as an absence only from the physical space

and not an absence from the presence or from the workings of God.”

 

(Excerpted from The 2023 Scottish Episcopal Institute lecture, “Disabling Norms and Acentering Churches: Autism, Long Covid and the Return of the Old Normal” – October 26, 2023)

 

 

Advent is upon us, and we revisit the liturgical theme of waiting in hope: mournful, weary waiting; darkness, yearning for light; the forgotten, longing to be remembered; the invisible, seeking to be known. Advent is a natural fit for neurodivergent people who are already familiar with “exile” in our ordinary lives. All too often, we feel this separation most acutely from the margins of our parishes and church communities, having wandered there after learning we must check our vulnerabilities at the door in order to gain access, and finding the task insurmountable.

Armand Léon Van Ommen, a colleague of Grant Macaskill at the Centre for Autism and Theology at the University of Aberdeen, has published a book addressing this problem, Autism and Worship: A Liturgical Theology (Baylor University Press, 2023). What follows here is Fr. Mark Nolette’s review of this book, which also appears on his blog, The Anchorite.

 

Autism and Worship (A Book Review)

 

Look down from heaven and regard us

from your holy and glorious palace!

Where is your zealous care and your might,

your surge of pity?

Your mercy hold not back!

For you are our father.

Were Abraham not to know us,

nor Israel to acknowledge us,

You, Lord, are our father,

our redeemer you are named from of old.

Oh, that you would rend the heavens and come down,

with the mountains quaking before you!

Isaiah 63:15-16; 19

 

In a recent survey, nearly a thousand Protestant pastors were asked if people with disabilities would feel welcome in their churches. About 98 percent responded yes, of course they would feel welcome. How could anyone dare to hint otherwise? I know of no similar survey done of Catholic pastors, but I have every reason to believe that the result would be the same. Moreover, nearly every convention or workshop that I have seen advertised on the topic of ministry to disabled people always makes it a point to thank Catholic parish leaders for the splendid work they are already doing in this area. Many parishes like to use hymns such as “All Are Welcome” to bolster this conception. We’re there, or so we are to believe. Our doors are open. Ramps are in place. What else is there to do?

When we look at statistics from the point of view of autistic people, however, a very different picture emerges. Disabled people attend Sunday Mass less frequently than the typical Catholic. Some people have physical disabilities that make going to church or being there simply too difficult. Many are shut-ins, and have the Eucharist brought to them. Statistics consistently show us that, of all the varieties of disabilities that are out there, autistic people attend Mass (or services in Protestant churches) less often than any other group of disabled people. This is true even though many autistic people are physically capable of going to church.

 

Why is this? Are autistic people simply too lazy? Are they looking for an excuse to not go to Mass? Do they need to try harder?

 

Since I became involved with Autism Consecrated, I have seen messages from other autistic people who share their experiences of dealing with parish leadership. The stories are heartbreaking. It takes a great deal of faith to continue to seek a connection with the Church when one is constantly running into cement walls of misunderstanding and being ignored. We would all love it if the Lord would rend the heavens and come down, and thus become our shepherd!

Some parishes have lighting reminiscent of interrogation rooms. Some turn up their sound systems way too loud. Many parish communities show no patience or empathy for those who have differing needs. Harsh lighting actually causes some of us pain; it disables us so we cannot stay. Loud sound systems do this for others. Still others are overwhelmed by the sheer number of people and the seeming impossibility of meeting all their expectations. Youth ministry groups meet in loud gyms and presume that all teens love noise and physical activity – the kinds of things that have caused autistic teens humiliation before.

It’s not that we haven’t tried. However, we can’t seem to find the right password to get anyone to listen to us. We propose a sensory friendly Mass and are told that there are too few of us for them to bother with that. Some parishes offer a sensory-friendly room, which is a start, but it keeps autistic folks out of sight and out of mind, and lets everyone else think that all is well. Imagine a family where one child had to eat meals in a separate room, out of sight of the others. Would that child feel like a part of the family?

How, then, can we have a situation where the overwhelming majority of Church leaders believe that their communities are welcoming, while the majority of autistic people feel most unwelcome no matter what they say or do? How can we feel like we matter to the Church when no one will listen to our genuine needs? When no one even misses us when we are not there, or blames us if we are not there on Sunday?

Seeking to address such cognitive dissonance, Armand Léon van Ommen offers us his latest book, Autism and Worship. Dr. van Ommen is co-chair of the Centre for Autism and Theology (CAT) at the University of Aberdeen, Scotland. The other co-chair of CAT, Dr. Grant Macaskill, has already given us the excellent Autism and the Church – as much a must-read as this book, Autism and Worship, is for anyone who deals with community worship on any level.

Autism and Worship is a scholarly work, with plenty of footnotes and an extensive and fine bibliography. At the same time, the book remains readable for most educated laypeople. The writing style is generally easy to follow. Dr. van Ommen is not Catholic, but he cites a number of Catholic authors. He also quotes Vatican II’s Constitution on the Liturgy, Sacrosanctum Concilium. I say this to affirm that there is very little here that is not in harmony with basic Catholic teaching on the Church and the liturgy. In fact, Dr. van Ommen argues that one major factor of the cognitive dissonance that many autistic people feel when it comes to church participation is a refusal to be consistent with the theology and the liturgy that we already claim to believe in.  The other factor is a refusal to listen to and take seriously the stories that autistic people themselves tell.

Too often, as is the case with other kinds of disabled people, the tendency in church settings (and many other settings) is to talk about autistic people and not with them. This habit is based on a medical approach, describing anything that is common to autistic people as pathological in nature, usually without bothering to hear from autistic people as to what such behaviors actually reflect. Most parish communities use the medical model as a justification in the exclusion of autistic people (passively or actively) instead of personally relating to them. In fact, churches do not need diagnoses, workshops or programs to minister to autistic people; they need vulnerability and compassion. As Dr. van Ommen shows, this goes a very long way.

This book begins by offering its readers an orientation to help them best understand the issues at hand. The first chapter deals with the need to be sensitive in the language we use to speak of autistic people. It introduces the emerging field of autism theology and introduces stories by autistic people about how they experience liturgy.

The second chapter wrestles with the nature and definition of autism, showing why the definition has shifted over time. This helps explain the confusion and lack of knowledge about autism today, as many of these explanations of autism exist side-by-side, even in the psychology community. It also shows that there is a real opening for us to speak theologically about autism.

The third chapter offers an explanation for what has become the major obstacle for Christian communities of all kinds to truly welcome autistic people (and others). The obstacle? Most people have been co-opted by the “cult of normalcy”, a phrase van Ommen gets from Lennard Davis and Thomas Reynolds. They no longer value people according to the Gospel, but according to the dictates of the god Normal and the goddess Average. The argument of this chapter is not unlike that which St. Paul makes to the Corinthians who have become divided because they have forgotten Christ and adopted the ways of the surrounding culture. The argument in this chapter is eye-opening and compelling. Once you see it, you cannot “un-see” it.

The fourth and fifth chapters are the heart of this book. Here is where Dr. van Ommen makes his argument from philosophy, theology and liturgy. We learn of the French philosopher Gabriel Marcel’s concept of availability. We are led from there to the Christian idea of kenosis (the self-emptying of Christ) and how this makes real availability possible by anyone who graciously lives this out. This kenosis cleanses us from our fear of deviating from the cult of normalcy and emboldens us to embrace a new (or better, the original) definition of who we are as Church, allowing it to shine forth in all its splendor. This, then, becomes the Church that is reflected in its liturgy, for liturgy (among other things) shows the Church who and what it is. If autistic people (among others) are not truly welcomed in liturgy, the Church is not truly itself.

The sixth chapter tells the story of how one community, the Chapel of Christ Our Hope in Singapore, has been making an effort to truly welcome the autistic people in their midst. This community has about 25-30 autistic members. It tries to live out a theology of availability by listening to autistic people and offering what accommodations it can to help them worship. (It should be noted that such accommodations are not “unusual”, but are no different than wheelchairs, hearing aids, or eyeglasses.) One of the striking things about the experience of this worshipping community is that these accommodations did not involve any change in the structure of the liturgy itself, but were all about changes in the attitudes of the community as a whole and its leaders.

Who, then, should read this book? Autistic Catholics (and Christians in general) will find this book encouraging. Someone listens; someone gets it. Parish and diocesan leadership should read this book in a spirit of kenosis. There is a group of people they have excluded (knowingly or unknowingly) not only from liturgy but from the overall life of their communities. Repentance and conversion are needed. This is no time to maintain the usual spin. In this sense, this book would be a good read for Advent or Lent. Anyone in any kind of training for ministry should read this book. Anyone who would like to begin to see all this from the angle of their autistic sisters and brothers should read this book.

In short, I cannot recommend this book highly enough. I found myself pausing at nearly every page to reflect on some statement or insight. Dr. van Ommen says that he is not autistic, but he has modeled what he advocates. He has listened extensively to autistic people. Their voices matter in this book. It shows. Read it!

– Fr. Mark Nolette

 

An update on the Virtual Café

It is nearly two months after Autism Consecrated introduced our Virtual Café, and the concept is doing exactly what we had hoped it would.

In offering a Virtual Café, we sought to provide something simultaneously real and imaginary, simultaneously tangible and intangible.  Whereas an actual café might be a building offering an oasis of refreshment, our concept goes one step further by requiring participation of the imagination.  What distinguishes the experience is that it is a shared activity – the formation of a community in the unseen, where empathy and acceptance exist unbounded by tangible limitations.  When we offer a space to rest and recharge without pressure, that space comes from the constructs of our attitudes, our beliefs, our desires, our intentions, and our lived experience.  It is what ultimately drives any sense of refreshment our visitors will experience and take with them.  None of those things are “make believe.”  The hospitality we extend is very real. We know what it is like to live in a world that dismisses autistic needs as irrelevant to the community, as individual hardships to be endured without inconveniencing the many… and we also know that is not the way human beings are designed to live.  Our goal is to make St. Thorlak’s Virtual Café  a place where empathy and compassion are freely and happily given, as often as our cups need refilling.

We are pleased to have a model at hand showing that neurodivergent hospitality can, in fact, be offered in a readily applicable and sustainable way.  St. Thorlak’s Virtual Café has no other operating cost than the fraction of the web domain devoted to its posting.  The resources needed can be readily found in the imagination… in the unseen… in the creativity that flows from the mere attitude of welcoming one another.  Would that brick and mortar institutions might notice that inclusion and belonging are not prohibited by either the limitations of disability or the lack of physical resources and accommodations.

The Cross of Autism

This article was first posted with the Mission of Saint Thorlak in April, 2019.

by Aimée O’Connell

When Good Friday gives us pause to consider Jesus’ Passion and Crucifixion, our attention is most naturally focused on suffering, even to the extent where the words “cross” and “suffering” have become intertwined in the Christian lexicon.  For much of my life, I have equated “the cross of autism” with enduring the suffering particular to this condition and accepting it as my lot.  Perpetual anxiety, painful sensitivities to light and sound, headache and nausea in noise and crowds, inability to express emotions, difficulty speaking… all of these have been realities for me, along with debilitating exhaustion and a heavy measure of self-loathing when I fall short in acting up to social expectations.  All of this seemed in line with how I took Jesus’ Passion and Crucifixion to be.  In my spiritual immaturity, I saw Jesus’ suffering as a demonstration of “walk it off.” Take what life deals us, even when it’s unfair, and carry on without complaining.

Perfection in suffering, to me, seemed that I should do it so that nobody knew I was suffering at all.  I reinforced this idea with Mother Teresa’s admonishment to “do everything with a smile,” and with Matthew 6:17, which exhorts us to fast and sacrifice without making a show of ourselves.  I also tried to rationalize this through St. Therese’s Little Way, proposing that “doing things with great love” meant doing them so as not to bother the people around me with my problems.

Through the grace of God, and the fruits of my time spent in prayer this Lent, I am learning to see now that this is not at all correct.  It is an overly literal distortion of what is actually meant by each of those spiritual maxims.  My view has been rooted in manipulation – that is to say, manipulating my suffering to such a degree that I denied it, and I denied myself the chance to experience it fully.  In denying the truth of what I suffered, I paid the triple price of ordinary exhaustion plus the extra work of maintaining an untruth plus enslaving myself to standards I cannot possibly reach or maintain (and in the process, unfairly raising the expectations of others).

I see now that Jesus never “walked it off.”  He knowingly faced his accusers with complete vulnerability.  He told the truth of who he was, knowing it would be rejected, mocked, ridiculed and punished.  He made no pretense that the scourging was mortally painful.  He did not suggest he had the strength to carry the cross.  He did not say he would not die if he was crucified.  He knew every one of his limitations, and he offered them to the extent he could.

The actual cross of autism is embracing what I can and cannot do, in the same plain nakedness as Jesus.  To do this, as St. Therese implores, “with love,” it is not to pretend it is fun or easy.  Rather, it is to accept and believe that I am loved as I do.  Even in my weakness and shortfall, God loves me fully… right here, right now.

And, guess what?  This new way is harder.  Walking it off is nothing compared to checking my pride and admitting that I can’t do something, especially when it’s someone I don’t want to disappoint, like a friend or a superior or a family member.  Admitting the truth would actually spare me the pain of sensory overload and trying to do what I don’t have the energy or adequate capability to do, but it requires stripping myself of the clothing of my pride.  In that moment of truth, it is so tempting to heed the voice of the thief tempting me to avoid the cross and save myself from revealing my vulnerability. But, as we saw with the two thieves beside Jesus, one embraced his need and brought God present; the other sneered, preventing God’s grace from saving him.  Even on Calvary, where two or more acknowledge their need before God, there He is with them (Matthew 18:20).

The ordinary suffering of autism remains the same.  The anxiety, the exhaustion and the sensory overload are part and parcel of our condition. But in the absence of acknowledging this truth about ourselves, the suffering becomes dead weight… a thankless burden we adopt in exchange for the chance to look strong, to avoid being naked in our need, to not be mocked, criticized, or accused of being lazy. Yet, we know what’s true.  Are we willing to stand up for that truth, as Jesus did?  We begin by accepting God’s immediate, unconditional love in these weakest, most naked moments of truth… and discovering, to our surprise, that God’s love alone is real and plentiful enough to withstand the insults of those who refuse to believe, and to sustain us through all of our needs – good measure, and flowing over.

May each of us experience the reality of this love, abundantly, as we meditate upon the mystery of the Cross.

 

Prayer: Let Me Be Leaven

A new addition has been made available on our Prayer page, entitled “Let Me Be Leaven,” based on the very brief parable in Matthew 13:33 –

“The kingdom of heaven is like leaven which a woman took and hid in three measures of flour,

till it was all leavened.”

There are many, many times when we find ourselves in situations where we ask whether or not we should stay, or whether we would be missed if we leave.  Oftentimes this has something to do with our neurodivergence – our being misunderstood, or not noticed, or not able to participate because our needs exceed the accommodations available.  It is an awful feeling, to say the least.  There are times when it is obvious that it is appropriate (maybe even necessary) to leave.  Other times are more ambiguous.  We may want to stay for many valid reasons, but question whether it’s worth the cost.  We may feel a sense of loyalty and belonging, even if that is not always reciprocated.  It may be important to follow through on principle.  Or, we may very simply want to be there because we are there – which is valid reason enough!

For those times, the parable of the leaven in the Kingdom of God seems an apt comparison.  Aside from any physical parallels between how we feel and what dough endures (need we mention kneading, punching or pulling?), the idea of leaven makes an interesting meditation.  Our Lord spoke of leaven to describe how something small and humble grows into something grand and nourishing to great numbers, referring to how the Kingdom of God grows with each simple “yes.”  And yet, the process of leavening is also worth pondering, if we consider how yeast works alongside and within the popular and easily recognizable pantry staples.  Indeed, the sometimes silent, sometimes turbulent action of yeast is absolutely essential to the growth, expansion and full expression of the finished product.

Here is the text of the prayer.

 

Lord, let me be leaven.

When I am unseen, unheard, unknown in my community: Let me be leaven.

Let the full spectrum of me be present, if undetected, exactly as I am: stimming or still, restless or recollected, vocal or silent, vibrant or subdued, needy or fulfilled.

Hide me deep within surrounding measures of activities and committees and busyness and social gatherings.  May my presence permeate and thrive within the community, even when it is not perceptible.

Take into Your Loving Hands my yearning to belong, my desire to serve, the gifts I would share if given the opportunity – and rest them safely beneath the warmth of Your gaze, to rise and expand and thrive in the time You appoint.

Lord, hide me in the places You need me to be, and let me be leaven, wherever You lead me.

 

Amen.

 

 

 

We Interrupt This Lent…

by Aimée O’Connell

 

Nearly three weeks into the Lenten season, I come to our readers with the following string of thoughts, under the category heading: NOTHING WE HAVE EVER HEARD ABOUT LENT WAS IMAGINED WITH NEURODIVERSE INDIVIDUALS IN MIND.

(Okay… since I am a stickler for avoiding absolutes, let’s say “Almost Nothing.”)

 

While the better time to post this might have been before Lent began, there’s something to be said about solidarity in the trenches.  By “trenches,” I mean the places where we find the people who…

  • Are still trying to think of what to do for Lent
  • Have tried adding things but have not yet made it happen consistently
  • Have tried giving things up but realize we don’t function well without them
  • Have sat staring at examinations of conscience and wondered when we will ever find one that applies to our lives
  • Have abandoned stacks of planners, devotionals, penitential calendars and mini-retreats which seemed like a great idea when we picked them up
  • Find Lent JUST TOO MUCH

 

Maybe this doesn’t apply to you (… congrats!).  Or, maybe you’re reading this and thinking this is not exclusively an autism or ADHD thing (… but I will say, even if that’s the case, I guarantee, we feel it much more intensely!)  Bottom line is, I don’t see much written about the particular challenges of Lent for the neurodiverse, and so, for those who find Lent penitential for the sake of its being unattainable: you are not alone!

 

My intention here is not to say that Lent should be jettisoned altogether, or that neurodiverse people should be dispensed from Lent.  What I do wish is that we could have some real resources available for the neurodiverse, a list of Lent Hacks for us to familiarize ourselves with and practice here and there so that when the actual season rolls around, we have something proven to work with.  I don’t claim to have the answers, but I do have a growing list of thoughts.

 

For starters: We need to define Lent consistently and concisely.  What IS Lent?  We know it is a time of prayer, fasting and almsgiving, intended to remind us that our purpose in life is to love God with all our hearts, minds, souls and strength, and to pattern our lives around loving God, particularly in how we treat others.  Some will say it is a time to steer our focus back to God and away from the distractions of worldly entertainments and luxuries.  Some will say it is a time to make room for God amidst the clutter of our lives.  Some will say it is a time to discard the things that tempt us away from God, or a time to develop habits of prayer, meditation and contemplation.  All of this sounds good, in a very general sense; but, for the neurodiverse, it can also sound too broad… not specific enough… not tangible, not measurable – and, therefore, not anything we can grasp, physically or conceptually.

 

What about when the things other people consider “luxuries” are, for us, necessities?  Who decides what constitutes luxury? If we go by what the devotional guides say, we end up going without things that we absolutely rely on, such as grocery delivery and prepared meals.  Even more difficult is teasing out what others consider “entertainments” which, again, for us, are necessities.  Many, many neurodiverse people can regulate, cope and function better with help from electronic devices with screens.  Many of us communicate and connect with others over electronic devices in ways we simply cannot do in person.  Who gets to decide what is adaptive and assistive, and what is “luxury” or “entertainment”?  I never see that distinction made in suggested acts of penance or fasting… just the same urging to switch off our screens so that we can be more present to the people around us.  (If that were possible, we’d have already done it).  Where is the line drawn between acts of penance and denying ourselves basic needs?  And why is it okay to lump the things that neurodiverse people successfully rely on to function, in with the things deemed superfluous by neurotypical people, without some kind of qualification?  Does anyone ever suggest giving up other assistive and adaptive accommodations that are acceptable standards for other disabilities?  Is it ever printed in a Lenten devotional, “Just for today, leave your walker or cane home” – or, “For these forty days, stop relying on closed captioning, and rely on God instead” – ?

 

What about when our executive functioning does not know the difference between “distractions” and “important items”?  Do the authors of Lenten devotionals realize that, for some people, what you call “distractions” are an integral part of our panoramic, multisensory processing, and can’t just be given up?  Moreover, if what others call distractions are a way of life for us, is any spiritual growth even possible?  All I’ve seen are essays and dissertations saying that distractions are our downfall.  There goes another category of things that sound good for typical people, but don’t apply to us, unless difficulties with executive functioning really do disqualify us as saints.

 

Another question: How can we know which way to pray best, when the suggestion is to “pray more”?  What if we have difficulty keeping all our tasks in mind for any given day, and are doing well, but do not have the cognitive flexibility to stop midstream and pray?  What if our functioning is stretched to its limit already? What can we give up, to make time for prayer, when we struggle with time-blindness?  What if praying feels too verbal for us on any given day?  We are taught that mental prayer takes focus and years of discipline, and requires things like stillness and interior silence which does not often come easily to the neurodivergent.  We may be outwardly silent, but inwardly, the trains of thought are running on multiple tracks at full capacity.  We don’t have the cognitive ability to just stop.  Where is that accounted for, in Lenten guides and spiritual direction?

 

As an autistic adult, I find the Lenten guides for children easier to use and follow than those intended for grown-ups.  It is easier for me to concretely count out some of my possessions with the idea of donating them, or to budget out a certain percentage of my income or savings for charity.  It is easier to count prayers or minutes or check-boxes than to try and do an assessment of my life and my habits – because my environment and my routines are all wrapped up in the wild and crazy way I make sense of the world and function in it.  And yet – when I pray by rote, and write checks because it’s the time of year to do so… it doesn’t feel any different afterward.  I’ve done my duty.  How does that bring me closer to God?

 

Making a list of Lenten Resolutions has likewise proven ineffective for many of us, mainly because it is the equivalent of taking our familiar flight plan and adding in several detours and extra stops – without the allowance of more time in the itinerary.  Calling our routines “autopilot” is not a bad thing at all.  Autopilot is a reliable means of getting from Point A to Point B in the face of all kinds of variables, interference and conditions.  Taking a plane off autopilot is not a guaranteed disaster, but it requires an enormous and constant expenditure of attention, energy and action.  While we can fairly say it will develop discipline among the flight crew, it will also put everyone on high alert and raise the potential for going off course and encountering difficulties, and demands our full, constant and immediate attention.  We all know that voluntarily adding stress to our already-stretched-too-thin processing systems is a straight line to crash and burn.  Changing our routines for Lent – at least, among the neurodiverse – is not a very useful idea; and yet, that seems to be the overarching theme to most Lent devotionals and calendars.

 

More and more, I see the need – a desperate need – for new wineskins for neurodiverse people.  We need guidance on how to approach Lent in the ways we are wired to approach anything.  We need permission to pass up the devotionals, calendars and suggested penances which are written for neurotypical lifestyles.  We need better examinations of conscience, written by neurodiverse individuals for neurodiverse individuals, so that we do not keep treating our failure to align with neurotypical standards as sinful.  Of course we sin, of course we are in need of forgiveness – but how many sinful habits have evolved from trying to do things in ways not suited to our wiring?  How much confusion comes from compromising our needs because we have been conditioned from the youngest age that it is of utmost importance to satisfy others?  How many times has our character been called into question over things we genuinely cannot change about ourselves?

 

We need to hear more from neurodiverse clergy, supported by more and better understanding of neurodiversity by the Church.  This is something I pray for every day.  I would like to see a prayer calendar with forty days’ reflections on how our Church can grow in this understanding and need for support.  I would imagine this would benefit the entire Body of Christ, not just the neurodiverse.

 

For now, my working plan is to see Lent as a season during which we invite Our Lord to show Himself to us in our lives, and to show us the ways our lives can be offered (i.e., made meaningful) to Him.  How does He use our neurodiversity to build the Kingdom of God?  How does the witness of our lives reflect Him to those in our orbit?  Do we spend more of our energy trying to know, love and serve Him in neurotypical ways than in ways that we are naturally wired to be?  Do we trust that He does not ask us to extend ourselves past our neurodivergent limits?  Do we trust that it is better to say “no” to resolutions that are not compatible with (and even harmful to) our physical, sensory or social processing?

 

It takes real courage to step out of the boxes other people would have us in, and be authentically and vulnerably who we are.  To me, that is the most radical offering we can make.

 

Neurodivergent hospitality is not a contradiction

by Aimée O’Connell

One of the things we strive to do at Autism Consecrated is look at the many contradictory aspects of neurodivergent life in the hopes of finding solutions.  Universal design is a core value of ours, at times as much for the sport of the challenge as for the gratifying payoff each time the entire community can benefit from something which might instead have gone the way of an easily forgotten one-and-done accommodation.

The topic of hospitality is an ongoing conversation here.  What does hospitality look like for autistic and neurodivergent people?  Well, that’s not too difficult to answer, in theory.  Hospitality means “the friendly and generous reception of guests, visitors or strangers” (Oxford Dictionary).  Implied in that is a sense of genuine interest in providing a comfortable, safe, inviting setting for those who stop by.  Hospitality for the neurodivergent, then, is no more mystifying than finding out what our needs are, and then striving to provide for them.

Still, that can seem daunting to communities who are used to doing things as they have always been done, and who approach accommodations with a certain trepidation, consciously or not.  Besides that are the apparent contradictions between social ministries and autistic needs.  For instance: What does “fellowship” look like for those with low social energy, or in group settings that cannot provide the level of quiet and space some people need to communicate (that is, to process and participate in conversation)?  Any attempt to answer will be very setting-specific.  But here is a constant across all situations: connection is possible with as few as just two people.  Saint Thorlak often drew the attention of his mentees to what Jesus said in Matthew 18:20 (“Where two or more are gathered in my name, I AM present”).  Jesus is both present in the Sacrament of the Eucharist and in the community of His followers, whom he explicitly says comprise His Body.  In Matthew 18:20, He clarifies that community exists in groups as small as two – thus offering a way toward solving the question of hospitality for autistic and neurodivergent people.  Warmth, invitation, welcome and support can be offered individually to individuals at any place, any time, and community is achieved – that is to say, the Body of Christ is realized.

Saint Thorlak himself was mentored by the Victorine brothers in Paris, renowned for their credo Docere Verbo Et Exemplo – To Teach By Word And Example.  He had the reputation of being a stickler for the priests in his diocese to live what they preached, demonstrating discipline by themselves being well-disciplined, and demonstrating mercy by themselves being merciful.  He was also known to have great difficulty speaking, particularly in large groups (… sound familiar?) Much of his “teaching by word” was accomplished through writing, which was then read by and to clergy as pastoral instruction.  Saint Thorlak used writing to both accommodate his needs and conserve his social and physical energy for the Sacraments and important administrative matters.

Our pondering has led us to see Saint Thorlak’s method of teaching by word – both his frequent reference to Matthew 18:20, and his embracing his communication needs so fully – as his way of “teaching us by example.”  We constantly look for ways to model what we might like to see take shape in terms of universal design and outreach, all the while considering our needs as autistic people, and the needs of any autistic people in ministry and socially-active roles in church life.  It only makes sense to start with the same kinds of accommodations and supports as befit our own sensory and processing needs.  And so, we are going to try rolling out a beta version of one of our ideas.

Saint Thorlak’s Virtual Café is a simple page front offering images suggesting (we hope!) an inviting spot for website visitors to pause and connect, virtually.  If this were in three dimensions, we might picture a small café with comfortable seating, low lighting, a selection of refreshments which both please the palate and consider a variety of dietary needs… and, cats.  We happen to find cats most delightful and spirit-lifting.  If this were in three dimensions, we’d have to have cats, along with a cat-free room for those who find cats distressing or are allergic to cat dander.  (Anything is possible when we build cafés in our imaginations… the virtual model at least offers allergy-free images).  Over time, the cat theme may evolve into something more artfully nuanced; for now, the beta version has plain old snapshots of two feline denizens.

The café of our imagining would offer space to connect with one another, one or two at a time.  We’re not just proprietors here – we want to greet you, share time together and connect with you ourselves.  Your visit brings Christ present, and we are eager to welcome Him!  We genuinely seek the gift of your friendship.

Since this is a virtual café, we thought we might welcome visitors with a contact form.  We realize that has its limitations, particularly for those with low vision or difficulty typing.  It’s a beta version, after all, and our resources are extremely simple.  However, we hope that the technology on our visitors’ end can be of help to them.  Speech-to-text might work for those who need it, and perhaps down the road we can rig up a way to record spoken messages and send them through.  As for us, we rely heavily on typing, so that is a reflection of our own communication and processing styles.  We are happy to receive feedback and ideas if anyone has any to share.

So, what is the point of the form?  Anything our visitors want to say, share or ask.  Over the next few weeks, as Lent begins, we thought we might offer the specific idea of folks sharing their triumphs and frustrations with their Lenten journeys, since that (especially the latter) seems to be a common theme among fellow neurodiverse travelers.  Look for a blog post on that topic in the very near future.  But really, any topic you find relevant is of sufficient interest.

Please click through and give it a go!  May Saint Thorlak’s Virtual Café bless us with an autism-friendly realization of fellowship in the Body of Christ!

 

The Urgent Need: Autistic Mission

by Aimée O’Connell

Earlier this week, I referenced a recently published book intended as a field guide for bishops and seminary faculty in guiding and supporting autistic men discerning and responding the call to the priesthood.  As an autistic person, I feel the need to call attention to all that this book represents and its implications for the Church at large.  As a married woman, I am in no way qualified to speak about the priesthood or seminary formation – nor do I intend to.  However, as a member of the laity, I am charged with the same call to holiness and prayer as all my brothers and sisters in Christ.   I am the mother of a son who one day may himself feel a vocational call, if that is God’s plan for him.  I am a member of a Church begging for new vocations, more priests, pleading with Matthew 9:38 that the Lord will send more laborers to the harvest.  I may not be a seminarian, but I most certainly have a stake in the lifeblood of the Church – as is true for all members of the laity, men and women, all ages, all abilities, all neurotypes.

It does not matter who wrote this book or who endorsed it – by name, anyway.  This is not anything personal.  My observations are global, pointing to the big picture, and casting no blame on anyone in particular.  I pray that those reading this will follow likewise in seeing the system view rather than seeking out individuals.  We are all members of this same Body of Christ, with the same mission of actualizing the love of Christ in the world we live in.

In short: This book, Autism and Holy Orders, may fairly be characterized as a de facto policy statement of sorts, written in conjunction with and on behalf of Church leadership.  It makes public the working model which the Church holds on what autism is and how it is to be lived.  It bears the seals of approval by representatives of the Catholic hierarchy as well as those of Catholic religious orders, Catholic academia, Catholic seminaries, the Catholic diaconate and the secular field of clinical psychology.  This takes in a very wide swath of predominantly Catholic representation from on high, and one can assume that endorsements at this level trickle down through the ranks to each tier of leadership and staffing, eventually shaping the actions and opinions of staff and volunteers at even the parish level.

It is fair, then, to conclude that the prevailing approaches, attitudes, and beliefs of our Church toward autistic people are at least twenty years behind where the current and reputably acceptable understanding of autism is in the rest of academia, the healthcare and helping professions, and actual lived experience.  And this is a huge problem.

One need conduct very minimal research to see how autism has progressed from grossly misguided and stigmatizing treatment to much more humane, compassionate and accurate approaches informed by neuropsychology and the collective stories of actually autistic individuals.  The collective dialogue about autism has grown substantially and the global understanding is slowly coming around to see that autistic people thrive when allowed to be autistic, rather than following a pathology-driven model of symptom elimination.  Though the challenges of an autistic neurotype remain the same, contemporary approaches draw on personal assets rather than deficits and encourage autonomy through identifying those skills which would be most helpful to each individual.  Emotion regulation, distress tolerance, interpersonal effectiveness and coping ahead are skills that any person needs, but can also be tailored individually to fit the configuration of autistic people based on where they are finding the most difficulty. But, lest this paint too rosy a picture, I will add that it is still an uphill climb.  Meltdowns, burnout, shunning and stereotypes still exist all over the place.  The difference is that we as a collective society have more tools and better ways to frame things than we did twenty years ago, so there is better hope for better growth and thriving than in the darker days of autistic history.  People finally know that Rain Man is not the last word on, or the most accurate picture of, autistic life.

Enter, then, this book – published September 1, 2022, as a long-awaited guide for the Church in shaping and forming autistic men for holy orders.  In fact, once I started reading it, I realized the Church has waited TOO long to start looking at these questions.

Again, I emphasize that I read this book as a member of the laity who takes my call to pray for priests and vocations seriously, and as the mother of at least one person who may – who knows? – one day hear that call for himself.  And so it is that I speak up as one who is very concerned, who wants very much to support priests and vocations to religious life, and who recognizes that the pool of prospective members likely reflects the same demographics as we see in the mainstream population.  If we go with the one-in-44 estimate, debatable or not, we can safely assume we have several autistic people among us in every parish, in every diocese.   How many autistic people are called to religious vocations?  Only the Holy Spirit can answer that.  But it is our responsibility as fellow members of the Church to support all vocations, including those stirring in autistic individuals.

Thus, I raise the alarm.

Alarm? Isn’t that a bit melodramatic?  Not really.  Take a look at this review of the book by an autistic priest, and tell me afterwards if I am being dramatic.  Considering he was ordained 35 years ago, it is fair to deduce that he came of age during that time when autism was less understood and widely pathologized.  His words suggest that he has endured a lot of pain as a result.  While we can shrug and say that this was an unfortunate matter of people not knowing about autism like we do now, how can we reconcile that when this book – filled with the same pathologizing characterizations – was just published?

This needs to stop.

I have no answers.  I have no idea how to bring the Church up to speed so that she can work hand in hand with her autistic members in a way that is accurate, compassionate and truly nurturing of who we are.  I just know that if this book is commensurate with a policy statement, we’re in trouble.  I would feel the same way and make the same statements if a book like this came out in any other context – school boards, medical societies, secular academia – and I would issue the same call that I am now.

The Church is in the dark about autism. We, as autistic Catholics, need to be light.  We need to be visible.  We need to be who we are, as brightly as possible – because the Church is not seeing clearly.  The Church is stuck in the same rut that paints autism as a burden, a puzzle, something to be swept under the rug or passed over as quickly and deftly as possible so as not to draw attention to anything that looks or sounds different.  The Church is not comfortable with us as we are.  And this is not just limited to holy orders; ask any autistic person who has tried to participate in ministries, leadership roles, youth groups, sacramental preparation, faith sharing… and found them inaccessible, impenetrable and immutable.  Has nobody yet heard of universal design, or is it too scary to think of introducing something new at the institutional, diocesan, seminary or parish level?

We autistics have spent our lifetimes learning ways to grow and thrive and accept that non-autistic people do things differently.  We have been explicitly taught scads of social skills and social graces, scripts that help us come across in ways that supposedly pass muster so that we are taken seriously.

It’s time to model this for the Church.

It’s time to model compassion, active listening, comprehension, acceptance.  It’s time to model patience with a system that appears to us as lacking empathy, slow to understand and rigid in its ways.   But hey… we’ve been there.  We have both the experience to teach and the capacity to forgive.

If I may, allow me to paraphrase Ross Greene in closing: The Church’s stance on autism is challenging because it lacks the skills to not be challenging.  Skills do not just drop out of the sky; grace, however, makes all things possible.  As autistic Catholics, our mission seems clearer and clearer: We must be the light that is currently lacking. We must pray, be visible, and be the truth that makes up for twenty-plus years of systemic turning away and not seeing the pastoral necessity of understanding neurodiversity.

May God help us all in our mission.

Dr. Hahn: It’s not funny

by Aimee O’Connell

 

I have recently become aware of a book just published, Autism and Holy Orders, touted as a long-overdue resource for helping autistic men navigate the process of priestly formation, ordination and service in the Church.  I could not wait to start reading… until I hit the foreword by Scott Hahn.

Scott Hahn’s name always brings a smile to my face.  I have an entire shelf devoted to his books.  I have attended his conferences and speaking engagements.  I relish with guilty pleasure every single Dad joke he has made and refer many, many people to his writing, as I feel he has a gift in being able to explain Church doctrine in a way that is memorable, relevant and relatable to anyone.  I don’t know him personally, but it’s no exaggeration to say he is a part of my Catholic fabric.

The foreword made me gasp.

In an instant, this well respected, well recognized, NON AUTISTIC writer / speaker / scholar, to whom so many look for guidance and encouragement, dismissed the condition of being autistic as a fad, a marketing ploy, a source of confusion.  His flippant tone made me want to shrink, mask, camouflage, hide.  If he said this in one of his public talks, any autistic person in the crowd would wish to become instantly invisible.

He goes on to qualify his thoughts along the lines of some of his best and brightest students have had autism, and it pains him to see them suffer needlessly from a lack of understanding.  His departure from Dad jokes to full-on irony hit me like a hard smack in the face, and I’m still not laughing.

The rest of the book, I’m sad to say, followed suit.  You can read my review here.  On the one hand, it’s a consolation to know that a book like this has a very narrow target audience, so Dr. Hahn’s insensitivity won’t necessarily be felt by as many people as it might if he wrote this in a more mainstream book.  On the other hand, how many autistic people know what sort of attitude Dr. Hahn holds toward us, and perpetuates – knowingly or unknowingly – through his example?

Certainly, Dr. Hahn is entitled to believe and feel whatever he does.  It is not my place to police his comments.  However, it is within bounds to remind everyone who is not autistic that autism is no picnic.  We aren’t broken, yet people still look at us that way.  Alexithymia and sensory anxiety still make it very difficult for us to feel we are “enough” in the eyes of God, let alone the eyes of the Church.  Our intellect may know that God loves us as we are, but our bodies send signals of constant doubt which we have to consciously recognize and counteract if we want to maintain any kind of spiritual life.  It is a thousand times worse when our community sends us signals that feed this doubt (… such as when a renowned Catholic speaker belittles autism as a fad).  And, it’s amazing to see that even the people who consider autism a disability still speak about it as though they know everything about it, yet have zero knowledge of what it’s like from the inside, or any seeming desire to truly listen to those of us who talk openly about it it (… especially if they so quickly dismiss that as attention-seeking).

Dr. Hahn: It’s not funny.  I’m not laughing.  I pray that you may grow in compassion, offering Jesus’ prayer on your behalf: “Father, forgive him; he does not know what he is doing.”

 

 

From The Anchorite: An Open Letter To My Beloved Church

An Open Letter To My Beloved Church

By Fr. Mark Nolette

 

To all Catholics, and all people of good will: May grace and peace be yours from the Father, through the Son, in the unity of the Holy Spirit!

I am an autistic Catholic priest.

My unusual identity gives a particular twist to how I am called to live out my priesthood. In the ancient world, one of the images used to describe the priest was pontifex, Latin for bridge-buulder. We still use this term when we refer to the Pope as the Supreme Pontiff. The role of the priest was seen as building a bridge between divinity and humanity. Since Jesus Christ, by His Passion, Death, and Resurrection, reconciled us to the Father in the Spirit, He became known as the true High Priest, the ultimate bridge-builder between God and humanity.  All Catholic priests, from that time on, have been given a share in His work of bridge-building. Some exercise this in parish ministry. Others serve as hospital or prison chaplains. Still others dedicate themselves to specific groups of people who are in need of shepherds and bridge-builders.

I had been in parish ministry until the effects of my autism and my growing sense of a calling to devote myself to a more contemplative form of priesthood led me to retire from parish ministry. However, my calling to build bridges remains. The Lord has shown me that an important part of my vocation now is to be a bridge-builder between the Lord, the Church, and autistic people. I seek to do this through this blog.  I seek to do this through the Autism Consecrated website. I seek to do this through a life devoted to prayer as a contemplative hermit in the Lord’s presence. It is in this role as bridge-builder that I address you now.

Autism is considered to be a disabling condition. If you are diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder and meet certain criteria, you can qualify for Social Security Disability in the United States. As a nation and as a Church, we still struggle to make our churches and public spaces accessible to people with disabilities in general. Many of our churches may have wheelchair ramps. Some may have people who can interpret the words of the Mass in sign language for our deaf members. It’s the rare parish that offers more than this.

What about the needs of autistic Catholics? Most of the books written (so far) on autism and Church have been written by Protestants.  Those written by Catholics are chiefly focused on how to adapt a faith formation curriculum for autistic children.  People forget that those children grow up! A few parishes have set up “sensory-friendly” rooms (anti-cry rooms, so to speak), separate from the main worship area. These rooms feature (ideally) softer lighting, lower audio volume, and a TV screen for watching Mass.  Having spent time in one, I can say that such rooms cut both ways. On the one hand, they are a positive help. On the other, people who use these rooms are easily forgotten by the parish community, even its leaders, because they are unseen. A few dioceses are trying “sensory-friendly Masses”. These are Masses in parish churches, in their usual worship space, which feature lower audio volume, softer lighting, and other tweaks. These Masses are a step in the right direction.

The biggest challenge, however, isn’t about buildings or programs or even sensory input. It’s about attitude. Do you want us? Do you, my dear fellow Catholics, want us autistic Catholics as part of your faith communities? If the attitude is there, the rest will follow.

This is an extremely important question. One recent survey has shown that over 80% of autistic Christians (Catholic, Protestant and Orthodox) do not attend services in their local churches. This is the highest percentage of non-attendance of any group with a disability that still leaves them capable of going to church. Slipping into my logical brain, I would assume that this statistic alone would make autistic Catholics (and other autistic people) a prime focus of the New Evangelization. I would assume that this would make autistic Catholics an ideal target for the New Apologetics that Bishop Robert Barron and his Word on Fire community speak about. The harvest is indeed rich. Where are the laborers?

When I could see that I could no longer do parish ministry, I proposed to officials in my diocese that I could be a consultant or liaison for ministry to autistic people in my diocese. No one showed interest in this. Diocesan officials say that the local parishes should do something about this. Local parishes say that they lack the resources for this.

That is not all. I regularly hear from autistic people who have tried to connect with their parishes and find that they are ignored, their needs minimized, and their behaviors (over which they may have little control) ridiculed or mocked – even by pastors and lay parish leaders. Many autistic Catholics end up feeling like they have to pastor themselves. Is this right? Is this what Christ had in mind for His Church?

It doesn’t help that autism is seen by many as a “mental illness”. Even in 2022, when people see the term “mental illness”, they are much more likely to think of serial killers and mass shootings than the story of a group of Down’s Syndrome adults who had a foot race in a Paralympics.  The ones who took the lead then slowed down so that all the runners could cross the finish line together and win together.

Let me be blunt. If we autistic people were all wealthy, parishes and dioceses would beat a path to our doors. If we were members of a favored group in our culture, some Church ministers would reach out to us, if only to score points with society as a whole. Far too often, Church leaders take their cues (even without realizing it) from the prevailing cultural standards and not from the Gospel. We matter only if the surrounding culture says that we matter.

The Gospel has a different narrative to propose to us. Christ offers us the parable of the man who had a hundred sheep. One of them runs off. In first-century Palestine, anyone wealthy enough to have a hundred sheep could easily replace the missing one. Yet the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine in search of this one sheep that had no worldly value.

Saint Paul gives us more guidance. The community he founded in Corinth was beginning to think highly of itself from a worldly point of view. They believed that they had “made it” in the world, and looked down on those (even of their own Christian community) who had no worldly status. Saint Paul reminded them, first of all, that most of them had little worldly status when they first embraced the faith. Moreover, they are now members of the Church, the Body of Christ, where all cultural values are inverted. Those who seem to be worthless in the culture’s eyes are all the more valued by Christ and should be all the more honored by all His disciples.  Every Catholic community, from then until now, shows its understanding of the Gospel by how they love those people who are deemed to be lowest in the society around them.

Autistic people, at first glance, may not seem attractive or promising candidates for a Catholic community. We have trouble reaching out and expressing our feelings, even feelings of love. We may seem cold and uncaring to those who do not know us. We can move in odd, repetitive ways, make sounds unexpectedly, or have meltdowns in public. We wear headphones to church to protect us from the audio volume (which may be too loud even for you) and we are accused of disrespect as you assume we’re listening to music.

If there is anything you can learn about us, let it be this. We are like you in many ways.  The things that bother you, bother us. Where we differ from you is not in kind, but in intensity. Imagine an equalizer. In some areas, our settings are like yours. In others, the settings are turned way up – or way down. Some of us are extremely sensitive to sounds, or colors, or certain smells or the feel of certain things. Some of us are very sensitive to inconsistencies and incongruities and cognitive dissonance. If you claim to believe one thing and live another, we see it immediately.  Given our lack of social skills, we might even say so.  This may not ingratiate us to you!

Nevertheless, we have souls and hearts.  We are human beings. Christ died for us as He did for you. Our salvation is as important as yours.  The fact that we are human, like you, should be more than enough for you to reach out to us and work with us to help us become part of our Catholic communities as best we can.

Now I’ll let you in on a little secret. We have a special gift that comes from being autistic. Think of the odd behaviors we may exhibit – the movements, the noises, the meltdowns, the anxieties. Some of these, at least, are in fact given to us for the community as a whole. How so, you ask?

Think of the old story of how miners would bring caged canaries with them into the mines. The canaries were more sensitive to poisonous gases than the miners, so the gases affected the canaries first. When the miners saw this, they knew they had to leave that mine, and quickly.  In the same way, if an autistic person reacts very strongly to the sound volume, or to poor sound quality, this is a problem that will affect everyone eventually. Rather than blame the autistic person, look at the problem this person perceives. If an autistic teenager can’t deal with youth ministry as most parishes do it, maybe the problem is with the way youth ministry is done. I read about a teacher who decided, as an experiment, to change the way she ran her classroom to accommodate her two autistic students.  When she did so, she found that everyone did better, not only the autistic students.

What the world deems foolish is often wisdom before God.

There is much more I can say; much more I can offer in regard to all this.  If you want to pursue this, you’ll find some other posts in my blog and a lot of the material in Autism Consecrated to be most helpful.  Please remember: Christ died for us autistic people, too!

May the Lord generously bless all of you, all that you do and all that you are!

Father Mark