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Spirituality and autism

By Debra Reid, tutor at Spurgeon's College

A few weeks ago, while listening to a podcast, I was introduced to a new compound adjective that I hadn’t heard before. The presenter, somewhat in passing, mentioned that the term 'spiritually-autistic' had been used in his hearing to describe someone who was perceived to be deficient in terms of their relationship with God. Unfortunately, I didn’t really give much attention to the rest of the podcast because that phrase jarred and disturbed me, joining as it did two terms that feature daily in my life, but using them together in an inherently negative way to represent impairment, and spiritual impairment at that.

Working in a theological College, 'spirituality' or 'being spiritual' is often a topic of discussion. We write courses about spirituality; we design programmes that seek to develop spirituality; we introduce students to practices associated with various traditions of spirituality. We understand spirituality to be important because it is about living faith or if you like 'lived theology'. As a parent of an adult son whose life is often defined by the label 'autism and learning disability', understanding the relationship between autism and spirituality also matters to me. What does 'living faith' look like for my son?

To me, the phrase 'spiritually-autistic' sounded unjust precisely because its intent was to describe, somewhat remorsefully, a deficient relationship with God. The resulting implication is that being truly or fully 'spiritual' is incompatible with being autistic. To put it personally, when I hear this phrase, it carries this meaning: 'Precisely because this person is struggling in their relationship with God, they are comparable to your son.'

This in turn raises for me a number of questions, including, are there in fact degrees of spirituality? Do we know what good or sufficient spirituality is like? What qualifies us as judges? What does a God-pleasing spirituality look like for any given typical or atypical person? Are there not different flavours and expressions of spirituality which we need to value?

On reflection, describing someone as 'spiritually autistic' offers no one justice. It assumes a stereotypical understanding of what being autistic means in terms of relationship forming and spirituality. Those choosing to use the phrase may not even have a deep knowledge of any person with an autism diagnosis - but they certainly don’t know every person living with autism. Generalising in this way, doesn’t tend to offer justice but rather judgmental stigmatisation. Furthermore using this phrase to describe someone else is indicative of a judgmental attitude - one which we can easily succumb to when we encounter anyone who doesn’t live up to our religious expectations or whose Christian experience and expression of faith differ from our own. I like to think that Christian spirituality should be salvific – embracing hope and communion with God and his people, through the realisation of the work of Christ in our lives. And, not least because that saving work of Christ is 'once and for all', it demands the celebration of difference and disallows the self-centred attitude and prejudice that declares 'what is not like me is not good enough, but deficient.'

On the Sunday following my introduction to the phrase 'spiritually autistic', I was directed at the end of our Church service to a man in his 70s whose mobility was limited. He had told someone else that he wanted to speak to me. He has been sitting behind me in church and had no doubt watched me try to navigate my son through the quiet sections and the exuberant sections of the service – equally challenging for different reasons. This spiritually sensitive man simply said this: “It was beautiful watching you and your son in Church this morning. I felt I had a glimpse of what heaven will be like when all that we consider proper worship is abandoned and we will become more real and God-pleasing.” I didn’t have time to probe further (my son pulled me away!) but that’s what Christian spirituality verbalised sounded like to me that morning. It was healing, affirming, embracing, restorative.

For the record, I think I am found spiritually deficient more often, and more profoundly, than my son ever is. In him I see:

an unguarded vulnerability that reflects the vulnerability of Christ himself
an intuitive love and concern for others regardless of their class, gender or status
an instinctive enjoyment of the wonders of creation and attention to its details
a willingness to embrace solitude and to be lost in contemplation
an unquenchable desire to do all things well
a joyful spirit that is authentic and contagious
a willingness to receive help that blesses others by the reception of it
a hyper-awareness of the presence and welfare of others
a meaningful way of living in the moment rather than using meaningless words signifying intent
a humble appreciation of wondrous acts rather than a cerebral need to explain them
a non-judgmental acceptance of differences without discrimination, envy or pride

With my son, what you see is what you get! There is no pretence, no manipulation, no agenda, no ceremony, no inhibitions, no desire to impress nor to flatter. Now truly, isn’t such genuineness a mark of the kind of rich relationship with God that we all wished we enjoyed?