I've Been a Pastor For Years. I Recently Found Out I Have Autism.

This story is Part Two of a three-part series about people who got diagnosed with autism late in life, a group experts have dubbed “The Lost Generation.” Read Part One here.

When I took my three-year-old son for his assessment, I had no doubt they would confirm he had autism. What was shocking for me was the doctor’s suggestion that I, too, may be autistic. Though in hindsight, my son is the spitting image of all of my “eccentricities”—and autism is genetic. 

This can’t be true, I thought. I’m a pastor! I can’t be autistic. My role would be infinitely harder if that were true. I had believed my entire life that I was simply a horribly awkward, confused, and weird person. I was blessed (or cursed) with the insatiable desire to gain pure mastery over whatever my mind would fixate on. (No, seriously—ask me anything about J.R.R. Tolkien's work, the ancient world, church history, or theology.) Along with my own unique traits, I assumed I was merely anxious, depressed, and terrible at socializing. That seemed the obvious explanation for the lack of friends, the years of being bullied, the horrific self-destruction. 

That was who I was…wasn’t it? Or could my entire life of living on the outside really be explained by the way my brain is wired? After a year of obsessively learning everything there is to know about autism so my wife and I could best help my son, I came to the realization that the best explanation for all of my life experience—my challenges, my ostracization, and even my unique strengths—was that I was autistic. 

So after several sessions of assessments, I was diagnosed and the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed. I began to give myself permission to say “no” to social gatherings when I didn’t have the energy. To reject overstimulation, rather than fight through it. I began to accommodate my life to the brain that God gave me. As a result, I’ve done away with the unhelpful, mislabelled anxiety and depression, along with the meds that failed to bring me relief. So happily ever after, right? I understand who I am, accommodate my life to match, and model for my son a healthy way of thriving as an autistic individual. 

Not so fast. All of the heaviness, mental anguish, and trauma of growing up heavily masking the autism I didn’t understand would only return if I didn’t take the final step of integrating my life: I had to be open about my autism.

How do I fulfill my highly social and public calling, without donning a neurotypical mask?

The fact that I’m a pastor brings with it two unique challenges: Firstly, how do I fulfill my highly social and public calling, without burning out from donning a neurotypical mask? Secondly, how do I reconcile my autism with my faith, not simply for myself, but for all those I am called to form and lead?

My calling as a pastor requires me to revolve my life around people. The image that often comes to mind for a pastor is a friendly, extroverted individual. Highly social, and highly relational. This is to some extent true of the calling. I tried to live up to this ideal of the hyper-extrovert who has mastered the art of small talk. This was what had caused me to live with a lowgrade autistic burnout for years. I realized that would not work if I were to continue in this role—which I firmly believe is my call from God. 

So how do I fulfill the role I believe God has called me to, with the accommodations required? This turned out to be the easy part. I don't understand social intricacies or the way that the neurotypical variety speak sometimes, but I love people. I also love being in small gatherings of people having real conversations. Do I love the large, dynamic gatherings? Not so much. However, aside from Sunday service, the majority of my social interactions are smaller and more in depth. Which is where the “autistic superpower” of increased empathy comes in handy—so long as I take the steps I've learned to balance out how to respond to that empathy. In fact, the more I began to allow myself to be truly, genuinely myself, the better I became at my role.

The second obstacle was far more difficult: How do I understand my autism in light of my faith? More importantly, how do I help the people I pastor to understand? In every community there are the common barriers of misunderstanding when people learn you are autistic. People wonder: Are you unintelligent? Are you weird? Are you dangerous? Are you capable of handling responsibility? 

Those assumptions are utter nonsense, of course. But there’s a strain of Christian thought that believes that God will always heal, from all things, if you have enough faith. This minority view can present problems when a pastor, who is opening the Word of God and proclaiming in faith the promises of God and direction of Jesus for His people, also says “by the way, I am disabled.” This is the understanding that many in the church have concerning autism. That it is a disability. Something inherently bad. Something that one should desire to be healed of. 

Now, I believe that God can heal—that Jesus has the power and willingness to respond to the prayers of His people and heal when and where it is His will. But I don’t think autism is something that needs healing. I believe what the Bible says, that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, that God formed each of us in our mothers’ wombs. I don’t think my brain is broken; I think my brain is a unique part of how God made me. 

I knew saying all that would mean that some people would leave my church. That some people would no longer be able to respect my teaching, as they would view me as mentally disabled. I wrestled with this fact. Would it be worth the risk to live openly autistic? 

I wrestled through this in prayer. It was impossible for me to live a truly integrated life if I could not be open in my church—these people are my life, my community, my family, the people God has called me to care for. Then I noticed something. There are a number of teens, children, and even adults in our community who are also dealing with their neurodivergence, some openly grappling with the same shame I had been. Some trying to hide, even from themselves. I was not the only one. 

So I decided it was time. I became open about the fact that I am autistic, and that I believe that God made me that way. I receive it as a gift—one that comes with its challenges, for sure—but a gift that enables me to serve in my calling far better than I could if I were not. 

As I feared, some people were upset. Some left. Some were unable to reconcile this fact. Yet the majority received this news and it changed nothing, aside from creating a chance for our congregation to also live openly and authentically. So I continue now in every space to advocate for autistic acceptance, especially within the church. For everyone to see and receive us with the unique brains that God gave us.