There’s a sensory room at our church, a little place to get away with lower light, plush chairs, a small library, and some sensory toys.
I’ve had parishioners remark on the gentle, atypical tenor of our worship services, open for “disruptions,” the kinds of moments less typical in contexts that expect neurotypical conformity.
Neurodivergent parishioners lead or serve in all aspects of our congregational ministry, and I think it’s very likely some of our most unique, transformative ministries have come about precisely because neurodivergence operates as an embodied, spiritual gift.
This isn’t at all to say that we’re completely “there,” as if everything we do is already fully informed by the insights of neurodiversity advocacy. Quite to the contrary, I think intentionally patterning church life with neurodiversity in mind is a growth area for us. Some of our main programs like Queer Camp are ahead of the curve. But, for example, I’m still trying to figure out how to manage the different needs of worshippers, some who want the organ to rumble their very bones and others for whom the volume of the organ or band makes the sanctuary unwelcoming.
But if we are not yet there, we are at least aware, and growing in our awareness. It’s been remarkable hearing from parishioners who are diagnosed as autistic as adults. It’s a real “aha!” moment, because it helps the one with the diagnosis, and their community, understand better who they are as a person and what diverse gifts and needs they bring to the community.
Some of our best steps in terms of welcoming neurodivergency as a part of Christian life come naturally, as if we were born to it—because I guess we were. But in the same way that heteronormativity and other kinds of cultural norms dominate in many spaces, so too we are always in the process of overcoming in order to explore what it means to truly be a diverse people of God.
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The summer we started Queer Camp (a week-long camp for LGBTQIA+ youth), I finally had the chance to watch Crip Camp, a documentary about the disability revolution. That film documents a remarkable moment: a camp for teens facing disabilities is founded in the woods of the Catskill Mountains, and out of the bonds formed at that camp arose a revolution that became the Disability Rights Movement.
I’ve often thought perhaps queer teen youth programs like Queer Camp may serve a similar and pivotal role. Who knows what kind of revolution can happen when queer youth find each other, build connections, and dream.
There is considerable overlap between queer advocacy, disability advocacy, and neurodivergent advocacy. The communities are intertwined in many ways. I think I first came to an awareness of the extent of this reality when I read Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, a book about “creating spaces by and for sick and disabled queer people of colour, and creative "collective access" -- access not as a chore but as a collective responsibility and pleasure -- in our communities and political movements.”
Whenever I read a book like this, I think to myself, “Why didn’t someone in the church write this?” Then I ask myself, “Why do I want a Christian book on this topic?” And then I tell myself, “Actually, you don’t. It’s probably better it isn’t.”
Nevertheless, the spirit of the book is the spirit I wish to inhabit and spend time with. In that sense, and this is a common phenomenon in my life, I find that Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha’s work is more “faithful” than a lot that passes as religious reflection on neurodivergency. I recommend it highly.
There has been considerably more literature produced at the intersection of disability and theology than neurodiversity. A recent example is the widely acclaimed My Body is Not a Prayer Request: Disability Justice In the Church by Amy Kenny. Put “disability and theology” as search terms in an Amazon search and you’ll see what I mean.
My theory on why this is the case is twofold. First, because Christianity is indeed focused on “the body,” and because the Disability Rights Movement in the 1960s and 70s enlivened the minds of many theologians of that generation, we have seen the fruits of that work in the academy and church (even if they haven’t been widely applied). But the conversation around and insights into neurodiversity are more recently won and ongoing, so it should come as no surprise that studies of neurodiversity and theology are still forthcoming.
Also, the mind is even more complex than the body, so perhaps it is harder for writers to get their “minds” around the issues.
We can take our lead, per usual, from neurodiverse people themselves. It’s a worthwhile exercise in church community to sit down with those who have sensory processing needs, or are autistic or neurodiverse in some other way, and find out what barriers there are to full participation in the life of the church, but also what gifts they bring that can crack open some of the old complacencies of neurotypical church.
For further reading, check out Samuel Wells in The Christian Century, who reports on attending a conference on theology and neurodiversity, “the first of its kind,” in 2020! He concludes with a zinger of a line, “Perhaps neurodiversity could show us the face of God like never before.” Perhaps indeed.
As a neurodiverse person, I find passing the peace to be a painful experience. (I like the idea of it, but the actual experience is awful.) Looking at everyone in the eyes and shaking hands, or the post-covid making a weird peace sign is so uncomfortable. Thought, it's an improvement over shaking hands. I was hoping that Covid would end shaking hands for good, but it hasn't in all contexts yet. I hate making sweeping generalizations, but I'm pretty sure that most neurodiverse people hate shaking hands as much as I do!
How can we “pass the peace” in a way that’s authentic and not painful for neurodiverse people?