Hello dear readers. This is the last in this series of ultra-personal pieces I’ll share, but I want to reflect a bit more with this lens of high-masking autism (if this term doesn’t mean anything to you, please do read my last newsletter) and to bring you up to date with just how religious (or not) I am at this point in time. I just ask that you please read with some grace and positive regard as I put myself out there!
In the family I grew up in there’s an often-used phrase:
“You just need to play the game.”
The implication is that there are ways people expect you to behave that might not make much sense, but you need to do it to reach the end goal.1
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As a young child, I struggled with friendships. Not so much with making friends, and a lot of the time I had a bestie or two at school. But at some point, they would eventually join with the other girls in the class in singling me out for mockery.2 I spent so much time replaying and dissecting these school interactions, but I could never quite understand why this kept happening and why these girls were so cruel.
I’ve always been “over-sensitive”, but while I had a sibling who had meltdowns that dominated family life for a period,3 as far as I remember I was a fairly quiet and compliant child. At home I was content reading novels and daydreaming, building complex worlds to occupy in my imagination.
Horses were my first great passion.4 I had read every book on riding horses I could get my hands on before I’d been anywhere near the animal itself, and from my first riding lesson as a ten-year-old it was all I wanted to be doing. Everything about riding - the outdoor environment, the smells, the rhythmic gaits, and the calming presence of these beautiful animals - was soothing and delightful for all my senses. When I made friends with girls at school who didn’t ride I’d invite them to come along with me. My passion often became our shared passion and a valuable point of social connection.
As I got a bit older and many of my horsey friends became more interested in parties and boys, my love of horses made way for a faith that offered clarity and order in a world that often felt chaotic and overwhelming. At youth group I made new friends who I could talk endlessly with about Jesus, and in these spaces I was celebrated for my single-minded focus and devotion.5 What’s more, fitting in with others became irrelevant. We were supposed to be different, to be “in the world, but not of the world,"6 so of course I thought and behaved differently from my peers.
With this faith lens, fitting in didn’t matter but connecting with other people still did. I’ve always considered myself an extrovert, and since meaningful relationships are central to this framework for a purposeful life I became a student of human interaction. I knew people sometimes perceived me as aloof or intimidating, so I worked hard to ensure I always had an open posture and inviting smile. Group dynamics were extra tricky, but I put relentless effort into one-on-one interactions - initiating conversation, organising get-togethers, and asking curious questions to try to understand others’ inner worlds. I’ve never been interested in small talk but I learned that people would only share meaningful and honest things if I go first, so I led with vulnerable self-disclosure. I learned how to listen well, to recognise the emotion beneath what people said, and to give verbal empathy.7
I got really skilled at playing this game, but why did I still feel so disconnected?
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The church internship that I referred to in an earlier newsletter was only the first of many “adverse religious experiences” for me. These have mostly been the result of people in positions of leadership prioritising control over care. I don’t think this has generally been done with nefarious intent. Rather, these leaders are part of a system that has had them constantly judging themselves against their Christian doctrine. What’s more, they’ve been taught (often explicitly)8 that making sure the people they oversee have the right behaviours, thoughts and beliefs is part of being a good leader.
What I learned over and over though is that people in Christian leadership can’t be trusted to care for my well-being. And I also learned that these communities themselves aren’t safe - that people who are part of a church will always side with those who have authority in these spaces, keeping the peace and not risking their own belonging, relationships, or status. Apparently, that’s what “playing the game” looks like. That lesson about people and situations that aren’t safe isn’t just one I’ve learned with my mind, but it’s one I carry in my body and my nervous system regularly reminds me of the danger - that’s what religious trauma can look like.
Much of this control from leaders is about ensuring people stay committed to the faith, with the assumption that external motivators like an authoritative bible, accountability and judgement, and the promise/threat of an eternity in heaven/hell are crucial to passing on our beliefs. I’d describe this as a top-down approach to faith, beginning with the doctrines we’re committed to believing and then making scriptures, history, and our experiences fit… or just denying their legitimacy. My intrinsically motivated, bottom-up thinking style took in all of that information and, however hard I tried (and tried and tried), couldn’t reach the same conclusions.
The cognitive dissonance of this has been another source of distress for me. I’ve gone all in on this faith, so what am I left with if I can’t make this work?
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I have no interest these days in arguing anymore about whose theology or biblical interpretation is correct. I’ve written systematic theology and biblical exegesis assignments and been given top marks while citing more progressive theologians than my conservative classmates. I know how to play that game, and I know that we are really all just writing about our own concepts of a divine mystery. What makes sense to me is that that’s really what this faith tradition and the bible itself are - thousands of years of people forming, revising and reforming their thoughts about a God who none of us can be certain about.9
I want to believe in a loving, personal creator-God. Sometimes I do, and I choose to lean into that faith and find comfort and familiarity in the language of the tradition.10 Learning about the psychology of attachment has helped me to understand why some understandings of God can be a source of distress and others can be a source of relational security and inner healing.11 My spiritual practices look different these days from what they once did, and I look more to contemplative Christian traditions12 as a way of calming my nervous system, fostering gratitude, finding greater compassion for myself and others, and seeking wisdom.
I still endeavour to live out the values of compassion, justice, and supporting the flourishing of all creation, but alongside that I deeply value delight, peace and gratitude. I choose to trust that there is something eternal in these values, hoping that what little I can contribute is part of some bigger arc of transformation in the world. The afterlife isn’t front of mind for me at this point, but when it is I expect I’ll lean into trusting whatever brings me the greatest comfort within a great mystery that, again, none of us can know for certain.
For now, my family and I choose to continue to identify with this tradition of people who seek to understand the divine mystery, people who have been captured by stories of a God known first as the redeemer of Israel and then through the radical teaching and self-sacrificing love of Jesus. We particularly choose to identify with others who these stories have motivated towards acts of compassionate care and movements of social justice. We are part of a church that prioritises these values and allows space for all this complexity and tension without controlling leadership, and while I continue to feel ambivalent towards faith and religion I’m thankful to have this church.
Calling myself a Christian gives me a chance of connecting with others who share in this tradition, understand some of my experiences, and might even be asking some of the same questions. In my job as a chaplain, it gives me a chance to offer care to people who I have an affinity for and understanding of (even if we don’t believe all the same things) in a way that hopefully contrasts with the control they’d likely find seeking support it a church. It’s not always a helpful label to use - some people might say I don’t have any right to use it, and it often feels like I need to couch it in disclaimers - so I think I’ll hold the Christian label loosely from here on.
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When I was wondering if I might be autistic and first heard the word ‘masking’ I hated it. I’ve always taken such pride in being totally, authentically myself so the idea that I was being fake in some way was a total affront. But I’ve realised that many of the skills I’ve very intentionally learned and use in order to do things that are really important to me could be described as masking. I’m so glad that I’m able to give people a space to be heard and empathised with, and I have every intention of continuing to use these skills. What I now know is that I also need interactions where I can be heard too, and where I can geek out over the things I’ve been observing or learning about and thinking over13 without being worried about being seen as too intense or intimidating. I need people around me who say what they mean and mean what they say, so I don’t have to be constantly trying to guess at the underlying subtext. And I know that I’m right to trust my instincts about what I need to thrive, and about what my children need from me too.14
Tentatively taking on an autistic label helps me understand myself, my experiences, and my struggles with greater self-compassion and more compassion for the people in my life who weren’t equipped to support me well. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to explain myself to other people, and autism gives me a name for this strange constellation of deficits and strengths. It opens up opportunities to connect with others within the growing autistic community who share so many of my experiences, and celebrate the quirky particularities of Autistic Culture. And this label gives me some hope of being better understood and validated by the people around me.
This isn’t always going to be a helpful label to use. It’s hard to feel really confident in a self-diagnosis,15 and most of the time it needs to come with a lot of explanation about what it actually means to be autistic. So I’ll hold it loosely, and perhaps direct people toward my writing here if there’s any chance that’ll help.
If you’re autistic or wondering if you might be, or if you’re a Christian but wondering if you might not be, or some combination of the two, I hope this is a place you might find connection and understanding. Don’t hesitate to reach out, in the comments or elsewhere!
The other implication being, of course, that everyone intuitively knows the rules of the game…
So much there I still can’t make sense of, but when I saw a description of affectionately named ‘T-Rex arms’ (bent elbow position many autistic people find most comfortable and least awkward) I had immediate flashbacks to mockery of my limp-wristed arms from primary school classmates.
As we’ve discussed, autism has a huge genetic component, but of course I’m not diagnosing other family members who haven’t gone there themselves!
Apparently (amusingly), horses have become a stereotype for autistic girls’ special interest in the same way that trains have long been for boys.
I’ve long been critical of the way churches generally prioritise bringing young people into the fold when they’re at their most pliable and vulnerable, and heaping them with affirmation and asking them to commit for life. Thinking about the vulnerability of autistic youth who take it all very literally adds another layer to this!
This is said a lot in Christian subculture, and is a paraphrase of something Jesus said.
This might be a time to point out that the notion that all autistic people struggle with empathy is rubbish. Some autistic people have ‘alexithymia’, which means they struggle to identify and name their own emotions so might not be able to read others’ either. However, most autistic people are extra emotionally sensitive to their own and others’ emotional states. The skill that takes more work is making cognitive sense of those feelings and learning ways of expressing empathy.
I took a pastoral counselling course through a bible college a couple of years ago. We covered some decent psychology concepts and therapeutic approaches, but the lecturer ended the course (following an awful class on counselling for “sexual issues”) by reminding everyone that whatever modality we use, it’s always important that we don’t hold back from telling people the Truth. In this class full of people who were planning to go into pastoral ministry, I was the only one who spoke up with any objections.
While needing to acknowledge the terrible, power-related aspects of the Christian religion throughout history that I really don’t want to associate with.
I don’t want anyone to think that this is the path I’m instructing them to take. Whatever you believe, or identify with, or did believe but don’t any more, I’m not here to exclude you or tell you you’re doing anything wrong.
I’ll point you again toward Krispin Mayfield’s fantastic book, Attached to God.
Things like breath prayer and centering prayer sometimes, but to be honest more often just walking in nature with an awareness of a personal, loving divine presence within all that beautiful, multi-sensory delight.
Not just existential or religious stuff! Give me pop culture analysis, human psychology, any other bizarre science stuff, fascinating events in history… whatever it is, let’s get in deep.
If the huge uptick in autistic self-diagnosis means a generation of autistic parents being more attuned to the needs of their autistic children, surely that’s worth celebrating.
Accessing a formal autism diagnosis in New Zealand feels like a pretty unsurmountable task. Finding an appropriate clinical psychologist (let alone the cost and the long wait times) is just too much for me right now, but maybe one day.
To be christian or not to be christian, that is the question.
So many top down experiences lead me to think 'hell no' yet I had an experience at Taize, a contemplative community in France, without words, that god is in my heart and I am in the heart of god. It's refreshing when you meet other ' christians' who are open to expanding our view of god the mystery, ever present in love
#13. Have I got a solution for you! Xianbrainstretch.substack