My son just turned 5. We celebrated him with croissants (he prefers pastries to cakes), and a small gathering of friends and family. His current favourite pastime is flicking through books whilst sitting on the floor at the end of his bed. So, for his birthday he was inundated with gifts of books, especially books about animals, and books about sea creatures even more so.
Shortly after his 2nd birthday, our son’s nursery alerted us to some behaviours that seemed “atypical”, and to a lack of other behaviours that are deemed “typical” for a child at his age and stage. It was a deeply painful meeting that could have been summed up with the words, “Your child is just different, you may need help.” On the 15th August 2022 he was diagnosed with Autistic Spectrum Condition (a welcome shift from referring to autism as a “disorder”). Our son, we would soon learn to say, is an autistic person, one of 700,000 people with the condition in the UK.1 His being autistic is a defining feature of his character, an inseparable part of his story.
Each person is a story, a parable, that God is telling the world.
It just so happens, that the parable that God had chosen to speak to the world through our son would be one framed by and told through the lens of his autism; a largely misunderstood and mischaracterised condition.
And our son’s autism, is his autism. He wouldn’t be our son without it - that’s a reality we cannot even imagine. One thing you’ll hear time and again in autistic circles is “If you’ve met one autistic person, then you’ve met one autistic person.” Each is entirely unique, no two autistic persons are the same. Sure they might share some of the same traits, like finding social interactions difficult, or repetitive behaviours, but they will still have entirely different ways of processing the world around them. The term “autistic person” then is really describing something not so much indescribable, but something infinitely describable, you cannot separate out individual persons from autism and expect to come up with a kind of generic extrapolation that you can apply to all times and places. People will often say, “Well, we’re all on the spectrum somewhere.” But, no. We’re really not. Even the word ‘spectrum’ is misleading, as though you can simply plot all persons on a linear scale somewhere between “mildly autistic” and “profoundly autistic” - if you spend even a little time around autistic persons, you’ll soon learn that autism is not linear, it just doesn’t work like that.
One such developmental milestone our son seemed to have missed when compared to his neuro-typical peers, was the acquisition of words. Most children start to learn to use words between 12-18 months, but for the last few years, we have lived with the prospect that our son might never learn to speak. There was a possibility that his non-verbal reality could last his entire lifetime, as it does for many autistic persons. This was an agonizing realisation, that took some time to come to terms with. It was almost impossible not to project into what that (and being autistic in general) might mean for his future. I am ashamed to say that we grieved for his future, or at least the future we expected for him. We thought about his life, about his relationships. We thought about all the erroneous preconceptions we had of autistic persons; dis-affectionate, socially-inept, robot-like… People who, at best, had useful skills like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man (one of the first questions people often ask when hearing about our autistic son is, “Oooh, what’s his thing?” or “What’s he really good at it?” as though being autistic was a utility akin to a superpower), or amusing traits (the very first person to be diagnosed with autism in 1938, Donald Triplett - who died earlier this year - was once invited to join the circus2), and at worst were incoherent bodies who were a drain on those around them and couldn’t make any sense of their world (the episode on autism in Louis Theroux’s documentary series Extreme Love seemed to paint the condition mainly in this light). All of these awful projections swam through our heads. My wife would be overcome with sadness (and subsequently guilt for feeling sad) that she might never hear him say, “I love you too.”
Before the diagnosis, when people would try to interact with him, we had to shuffle out the awkward words, “he’s ‘pre-verbal’”, desperately attempting - and likely failing - to not sound apologetic on his behalf, or put the person earnestly trying to engage with him to shame. We had a lot of well-meaning friends attempt to comfort us with stories about how their child didn’t speak until they were 4, or 5, or 6, or even 7, and now they “can’t shut them up.” But it was plain to see (to us at least) that our son’s lack of vocabulary was about more than just developing typical characteristics at a slower rate than his peers. There was something much more complex going on in his little body and mind, something we now recognise as much more amazing.
What seemed to lay beneath these well-meaning words of comfort, however, was that the possibility of our son being autistic had been deemed an unspeakable and shameful reality that no one wanted to acknowledge (a bit like not saying ‘Voldemort’), as though it were some awful sickness that you wouldn’t wish upon anyone. I am deeply grateful to live in a time when autistic persons are not simply locked away and put out of sight and institutionalised in “bedlam” as though they were criminals.3 Even today though, autism - and many other atypical neurological conditions - remain shrouded in stigma and false preconceptions. I have felt this keenly in the church. On more than one occasion, as soon as I have mentioned that my son is autistic, I’ve seen eyebrows droop and the bottom lip come up in a gesture of sympathy before a condoling hand is placed on my shoulder with the words, “I’m sorry.” I have had people offer to pray for him as though he were in need of “healing”, as though the distorting effects of Sin had come down harder upon him than on anyone else, as though autism were not a part of God’s good creation, as though he were demon-possessed even.
It actually became much easier for us once we had a diagnosis. We suddenly had a word (not a perfect word by any means) with which we were able to name and describe to some extent the unique way our son inhabits the world. But communication in general got increasingly difficult, not easier, in the years following that initial conversation with his nursery. He had gone from a happy babbling baby engaging us with good eye contact and gesturing and pointing to things that excited him, to seeming completely absorbed in his own interior world without any regard for anything or anyone outside of himself. I was told this kind of “regression” is typical of autistic children. Communication is still a struggle at 5 years old, he still can’t tell us what he wants and needs, or what is needed to help pacify him, or bring him down from sensory overload and meltdown.
But within the last few months, things have begun to shift. He has now - praise God - started to use a few words, build a vocabulary, and appears to be a little more engaged with the world and the people around him. Every single little word he utters is a precious gift to us. Even so, the words he does now use are purely for enjoyment. They have no utility for him, just pleasure. He will use them to name his favourite animals, or replay scenes from his favourite TV shows and movies in his head. We hear him dropping little inchoate quotes as he plays around the house that my wife and I revel in deciphering, trying to figure out what he’s saying and where’s it’s coming from.4 Our son doesn’t use words like us adults do. He doesn’t use words to praise, or to shame, or to make demands, or to express gratitude and admiration, or condemnation and judgement, or to puff himself up, or to bring others down, or to share jokes, or inflict insults, or to explain, or confuse. Words are not a utility for him, they are just a simple delight. I want to use words more like that.
And nowadays, my wife doesn’t worry so much about him not saying “I love you too”, partly because words have now entered into his repertoire of making sense of the world, so the day may yet come when he does say it. But she mainly doesn’t worry about it because we have both learnt (we have had to learn) the actuality of the cliché “actions speak louder than words.” I wouldn’t say that is true for every circumstance, far from it, but in the case of our son, it is often true. My wife doesn’t worry so much now because, in his not so subtle but unique way, he says “I love you too” by climbing onto her lap, clasping her head in his big paws, and pushing his face into hers as tightly as he can with a huge beaming smile. For all the complexity and challenges that raising autistic children brings, these moments of simple affection make it the best thing ever.
There’s an irony to the fact that this is my son. I love words. I love conversation - not small talk per se, I’m no good at it, “deep talk” is more my bag - stretching my vocabulary to its limits in dialogue with a fellow interlocutor. A large part of my job as a preacher of the Gospel about Jesus is dealing with words (preaching itself is also deeply ironic, because we seek to put words to the ineffable reality that is God). What excites me about the linguistic dimension of my role as a pastor and theologian is attempting to put words to something that cannot be contained by words. The endlessly searchable and knowable mystery of God, means that we have an endless way of being able to talk about God, and to God. Words will never fully satisfy to explain or contain God, but the process of trying to do just that is something I find great satisfaction in - this is the enjoyment of theology. Just as autism itself is infinitely describable, so God is too.
However, in my son, I am confronted with someone for whom words mean something very different. Instead, the “silence” that the absence of his words create is full of meaning for him. And besides, words are just one more ‘thing’ for the autistic mind to process when it is already processing infinitely more than my “neuro-typical” brain can; that bit of lint floating through the air, that magpie croaking in the trees, the colour of that woman’s dress, the smell of the rain, the sensation of movement, the feel of those socks, the hardness of concrete… there’s so much more of the world to process, so much more take in, so much more to be overwhelmed by, and yet also so much more to delight in. So my son’s words are used sparingly and arguably to their best effect - to create joy.
It can often seem like some autistic folks just aren’t aware of anything, that there’s not a lot going on in their heads, that could not be further from the truth, their minds are deep deep wells of activity. It can often seem like autistic folks are not engaged with the world, in my experience I think the converse is in fact true. I often watch my son just playing, reading and stimming (repetitive actions like rocking or flapping that some autistic persons use to regulate their senses and emotions5), and I find myself envious of how much more connected to the world around him he seems to be. I think he notices things more, I think he sees beauty in unlikely places and ways quicker than most, and I think that in itself is profoundly beautiful. He is preoccupied with the world in ways I cannot fathom.
So, I’ve learnt to discern my son’s voice in ways that don’t necessarily involve words, sometimes I discern it in the sounds he makes for sure, but he often expresses his “voice” in other ways without words, sometimes with silence.
I belong to a Christian tradition which places great emphasis on hearing God’s voice. Every day that I work in my church office, I’m reminded of this. There is a bookshelf next to my desk with titles like How to hear from God, often written by some celebrity pastor who appears to have it sussed. Do a quick google search for ‘hearing from God’ and you’ll be given a thousand entries from different people promising “7 simple steps to…”, or a “Beginner’s Guide to..”, or “The Key to…” hearing God’s voice. I have friends who seem to hear it in everything as though everything is a burning bush. It’s not so for me (which again is ironic because I’m a priest), I just don’t ever really hear anything. Any time I think I’ve come close to it, I realise that what I’m hearing is my own voice - and I think part of the gift of discerning God’s voice, must be to discern your own, because they are so often confused. “God” is much easier to “hear” when He’s made in our image.
It’s not from want of trying that I don’t hear God’s voice. As much as I attempt all of the spiritual practices that will supposedly enable me to hear, that will unlock this magical ability to discern the voice of God, I’m met with wordless silence.
Nothing…
People will often say (and I think I’ve probably said it myself), “God is always talking, you’ve just got to tune out of the world and into His channel.” But that implies that God is somehow hiding away, either not powerful enough to make himself heard, or not wanting to be heard by everyone… just the select few with “the gift.” Or they say that God speaks in whispers, often misappropriating the story about the prophet Elijah’s encounter with YHWH in the cave on Mount Horeb. The wind, the earthquake, and the fire, the story goes, YHWH is not in these things, which is really just another way of saying God is not these things. God is not wind, earthquake, and fire, as the pagans believe, but YHWH, the creator of all, does indeed use those things to speak. In fact, He’s using them like a megaphone to try and get stubborn Elijah’s attention. A better translation of the infamous verse (“a still small voice” as it’s often rendered) reads like this:
“and then there was a sound of sheer silence…”
- 1 Kings 19:12 NRSVue
It’s as though it was written by Simon and Garfunkel. A sound of sheer silence seems like an oxymoron. A silence implies something is absent, but a sound implies something is present. There is something in that nothing. The verse immediately following, Elijah hears that something in that nothing, he hears the presence in the absence.
Just as my son’s “silence”, his limited vocabulary, is pregnant with meaning, so too is God’s silence bursting at the seams with His presence. My son has taught me that God’s silence is filled with His presence. He provides me with a glorious ministry of silent presence.
Around a decade ago, when I reconverted to the Christian faith I was raised in (after a failed “Rock-'n'-roll” hiatus), when God apocalypsed Himself to me in my desperate and sad and angry prayer, I didn’t hear anything. There was no audible voice, no words, no rolling around wailing as if the Holy Spirit was bursting out of me like John Hurt in Alien… but I knew God was with me. I experienced His silent presence and I know that everything would be different now. That silent presence, at times felt, but most often not, I am sure has stayed with me ever since. My inability to hear the voice of God does not mean he is absent, far from it, he is closer and more tuned into me than I know.
Sometimes, when I’m in his room and my son is busily playing on his own with his toys or flicking through yet another book about whales, it seems as though he is unaware of my presence, when in fact he is actively aware of and tuned into me using his peripheral vision and senses to keep tabs on me. God is certainly very busy, yet he always has tabs on me.
In silence, I worship the inexpressible.
- Cyril of Alexandria, 376-444 ad.
As much as the theology that I love is about words, it doesn't begin with words. To paraphrase Dietrich Bonhoeffer, “Theology begins in silence”. That is, it begins with our silence. The only thing that fills the void is the one word that God has ever spoken, the word before whom all our attempts at defining and explaining God fade away. Through this one word, Jesus, God has said it all. Everything that need ever be said or done has been said and done in God’s one word, His Son, Jesus Christ, the man from Nazareth. Through this one word God has spoken all things into being. Through this one word, God tells the story of all creation. Through this one word, God creates and speaks a parable of His love to the world in each of us. This one word fills all things.
My son, who is a person of few words, taught me all this before he ever really said anything. He taught me that when my words fail, as they often do, when I don't know how to talk to God, when I lack the faith to pray, the Spirit - with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26), fills in my lack, fills in my absence, fills in my silence, with the presence of God’s one word Jesus.
When my son was born, I would watch him sleeping and without saying anything, my whole inner being would, almost like a stim, be crying out on repeat “I love you… I love you… I love you…” now 5 years on and my boy has since taught me that before I had said or done anything God has been doing the exact same, without condition, on repeat, like a stim, for eternity, with but one word… Jesus.
https://www.autism.org.uk/advice-and-guidance/what-is-autism
The Atlantic published this brilliant article on Triplett in 2010 - https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2010/10/autisms-first-child/308227/
Another article by The Atlantic written by Jennifer Senior called ‘The Ones We Sent Away’ about the aunt she never knew she had, paints an awful picture of life for neuro-divergent persons in the mid-twentieth century. It’s a long read but highly recommended (just have a box of tissues to hand) - https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2023/09/disabled-children-institutionalization-history/674763/
His current favourite is to quote the beluga whale from the Pixar movie Finding Dory (superbly voiced by Modern Family’s Ty Burrell) who with great excitement recovers his lost echolocation skills exclaiming, “Oooh guys! Oooooh guys!”
You can see evidence of this in this 1989 interview between actress Daryl Hannah - herself an autistic person - and Terry Wogan. Hannah’s nerves lead her to stim throughout the interview which manifests in her running her right hand across her left forearm in a repetitive fashion. When she was diagnosed as a child, Hannah’s mother rejected the recommendations of Doctor’s that she be medicated and institutionalised which was the typical response to autism in the 50’s and 60’s shortly after the term autism was coined.