Helena Mary Cole

In the months leading up to the first COVID lockdown, my current Catholic parish was in the process of setting up perpetual Adoration. I don’t think the building of an Adoration chapel was in the works, but, at the end of mass one Sunday, a sign-up sheet was passed around, and everyone was encouraged to sign up for one hour-long time slot, so that at least one person would be in the building for Adoration at all times.

This struck me forcibly: I’d never been handed a sign-up sheet for something related to church events that didn’t fill me with anxiety before. As an evangelical Protestant, coming to church for something other than a Sunday service always, always had a social element to it. While it is good for an autistic person to attend social events, the events usually aren’t set up with autistic needs in mind. The noise alone can be overwhelming enough to trigger my mutism or send me hurtling towards meltdown, not to mention any of the other potentially overwhelming elements. In my case, the wires in my brain got crossed in such a way that I sometimes experience noise in an almost tactile way. Noise feels very much like a literal barrier to me. And so, there were always many challenges for me wrapped up in coming to church, especially on non-Sundays.

There were exceptions, like singing in choir, which I did for a few years at my old church. For me, that meant an hour of group stimming on Thursday nights. Being a choir member had its social challenges but there were things about it that made up for that.

But the thing I’m trying to say is this: when that Adoration sign-up sheet came round to me, I was thinking, “You mean you want me to come to church on a day and time that suits me best, to do something that’s inherently silent and solitary? You want me to come here alone, make as little noise as possible, and whether or not I see anybody or talk to anybody is totally optional? You want me to just sit for an hour in prayer, with Jesus, and then I can just leave? And you’re telling me that this silent, solitary activity is vital to our community?” Let’s just say I’d never encountered anything like it as an evangelical Protestant, and it was very appealing to me. At long last, I’d found a visible way I could contribute to my faith community that plays to my strengths.

Of course, then the lockdowns hit and perpetual Adoration got cancelled, and has yet to happen at our parish to this day. <sigh>

I know the more contemplative elements of the Christian faith are creeping back into the evangelical Protestant church, but in Catholicism, they’ve been there all along. While evangelical Protestantism was showering most of its admiration on the more charismatic-types like, for example, Billy Graham, Catholicism has always showered equal admiration on the more solitary, contemplative types as well. You don’t have to dig very deep to find a myriad of those among the canonized saints. Just saying. In that way, Catholicism is less alienating to autistic people. Of course, Catholic parishes have their big, noisy social events that aren’t set up with autistic needs in mind. But it would help immensely with an autistic evangelical Christian’s sense of belonging if the solitary activities were encouraged and celebrated with the same emphasis and admiration as the social. Maybe things are going that way in the evangelical church now. But like I said, there’s no need to “bring them back” in the Catholic Church. Those things never left.

Even an evangelical prayer meeting involves getting together with other people, and composing one’s own prayers on the spot, which can present many challenges to an autistic person. Depending on the day, and how much I’ve been struggling against things like sensory overwhelm, I may or may not be able to do something like that. Getting together with other people to lead everyone in the Rosary, on the other hand? I could do that at the drop of a hat with very little anxiety. Unless it’s been a very, very bad day and I’m struggling with speaking at all. But it’s the Rosary. I’ve prayed it so many times, I know it by heart. Repetition is an autistic person’s best friend. We love it.

Actually, I have yet to hear a devout Catholic say they don’t like the Rosary. It’s not just autistic Catholics.

Autistic people tend not to value spontaneity the way the general population does. Before I left it, I noted a tendency within the evangelical Protestant church towards spontaneous worship. Worship, in order to be sincere, must arise unrehearsed on the spur-of-the-moment, because that’s the only way it can really be from the heart. So goes the philosophy. In my experience, though, the repetitive, Church-prescribed prayers free up the mind to be receptive to the grace of God. It’s amazing. I agree that there’s a time and place for pouring out one’s heart to God in one’s own words. At other times, if I’m fussed and bothered with bringing the words myself, I might get in the way of what God is trying to say to me.

Finally, I think the sameness of mass, week after week, can also draw autistic people towards Catholicism. It’s not just the sameness week after week, either, it’s the sameness from one end of the world to the other. I could get on a plane and fly to Brazil, walk into a Catholic parish on Sunday and know exactly what to expect. The language would be hard for me to understand, but I’d know what it was about, because it would be the exact same ritual I know so well, only in Portuguese. In the Protestant church, the language barrier would be a much bigger deal.

Well, those are my musings on why Catholicism is more autism-friendly that certain branches of Protestantism. Just something to think about.