Neurodiversity and the Body of Christ 

In recent months, I have been reflecting on the presence of neurodiversity in our parishes — not as an abstract idea, but as a lived reality. Autism is not rare in the church. It is present in our pews, our parish halls, our Sunday schools, and in many of our families, including my own. As a parent supporting a daughter on the spectrum, I have seen how autistic ways of experiencing the world can be both profoundly challenging and profoundly beautiful. And I have seen how the church, often without meaning to, can either make room for those differences or make life harder. 

One of the most striking moments in my own parish life came when my daughter served at the altar. She found participating in the liturgy deeply fulfilling. I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the chance to work closely with me. Perhaps it was the comfort of having purposeful tasks to do during the service. But I suspect it was something more: the clarity, structure, and embodied rhythm of serving offered her a way of worshipping that felt safe, meaningful, and spiritually alive. What some might call “distraction” or “restlessness” in the pews became, at the altar, a form of grounded participation. 

There is a quiet gift in Anglican liturgy’s structure and rhythm — a gift that can meet neurodivergent worshippers with steadiness, clarity, and grace. In its ordered flow, many find a place where their whole selves can rest and belong. 

This past spring at St. Jude’s, we conducted a parish survey as part of a pilot project for our diocesan work on disability, inclusion, and belonging. The survey was meant to help us listen more deeply to the lived experiences of our parishioners, especially those whose challenges are not immediately visible. Several responses pointed to sensory overwhelm, social fatigue, and difficulty navigating unspoken expectations during worship — realities that are common among neurodivergent people. Reading these reflections alongside my own family’s experience made something unmistakably clear: neurodiversity is already present in our parish life, even when it is not named. And listening to these stories is not simply an administrative exercise; it is an act of pastoral care. When the church pays attention to the needs people carry quietly, we begin to see the Body of Christ more truthfully. 

Neurodiversity invites the church to reconsider what “normal” participation looks like. Too often, we assume that worship should be experienced in a particular way: sitting quietly, making eye contact, processing language quickly, socializing easily, and following subtle cues without difficulty. These expectations are cultural, not theological. They reflect a narrow understanding of human experience. And they can unintentionally exclude those whose minds work differently. 

The Body of Christ is not built on sameness. St. Paul’s vision of the church is one of interdependence, where each member brings gifts shaped by their own embodiment. Neurodivergent ways of thinking, perceiving, and relating are part of that diversity. Autistic Christians often bring extraordinary gifts: deep honesty, pattern‑driven insight, sensory attunement, intense focus, and a capacity for wonder that can enrich the church’s understanding of prayer and worship. These are not deficits. They are gifts the church needs. 

Yet neurodivergent people often carry invisible wounds. Many have been misunderstood, judged, or excluded because their behaviour did not fit expectations. I have heard stories of autistic children being labelled disruptive, autistic adults being treated as problems to manage, and families quietly withdrawing because church became a place of stress rather than welcome. These experiences are not rare. They reveal how fragile our assumptions about “normalcy” can be, and how easily the church can wound without intending harm. 

If the church is to honour neurodiversity, our hospitality must become more spacious. This means creating worship environments where movement is allowed, sensory needs are respected, and participation has many forms. It means resisting the urge to interpret behaviour and instead cultivating curiosity, gentleness, and flexibility. It means recognizing that someone who steps out during the service may be overwhelmed, someone who avoids conversation may be managing sensory overload, and someone who fidgets or stims may be regulating their nervous system. These are not disruptions. They are simply different ways of being present. 

Supporting a neurodivergent family member has changed the way I see the Body of Christ. It has taught me that the Holy Spirit does not work only through minds that are calm, linear, or predictable. The Spirit works through minds that are quick, associative, sensory‑rich, and wonderfully different. Neurodiversity is not a challenge to be solved. It is a gift to be received — and a call to deeper hospitality, where every person is welcomed as they are, and where the church learns to see Christ in ways it never expected.