Article
Creed
Faith
Psychology
3 min read

Autism and belief: beyond the stereotypes

Reflect on living with the illogical beauty of feeling hemmed in by faith.
A theatrical set door stands in the middle of a snowploughed road between fields of snow under a blue sky.
Photo by Zach Vessels on Unsplash.

Do autistic people believe in God? Can they? The stereotype says no. The stereotype says that autistic people have a preference for all things logical, scientific and systematic, and therefore God, accessed only through the medium of metaphor and subjective experience, must be beyond the autistic ken.  

But we all know about stereotypes – they rarely serve us well. As it turns out that there are quite a few autistic people in churches, worshipping a God in whom they supposedly cannot believe. In fact, at the Centre for Autism and Theology (based at the University of Aberdeen) we have whole programme of research dedicated to understanding what it means to be an autistic person of faith.  

It is not only true that autistic people can and do believe in God (some, anyway), but also autistic Christians can teach the rest of us a thing or two about the assumptions we make when it comes to why people live a life of faith. For example, if we assume that anyone with a preference for all things logical, scientific, and systematic is not going to believe in God, then we are also assuming that that faith is some kind of considered, intellectual choice; a conscious decision that Christians have made on how to approach the world and the experience of living in it.  

But is faith really a choice? For many centuries the church was mired in this very argument about free will versus predestination. The matter never really got settled, indeed some theologians still earn their bread and butter by carrying the discussion on. Meanwhile, here in the academic cheap seats (so called ‘practical’ theology) we ask a different question: not do people have free will to choose the Christian faith, but do people feel like they have free will to choose the Christian faith? And what difference does this feeling make? 

If I reflect on my own life as a Christian, I know there have been times when I’ve stumbled into prayer, angry or in despair (often both), feeling as if I don’t like my faith all that much. Or that maybe that God just doesn’t like me. More than once I’ve prayed, “I’m going to keep following you, God, no matter how hard you make this!” Is this great faith, or just sheer bloody-mindedness? I like to believe that I can walk away from practicing my faith, but can I really walk away from having it? 

My research with the centre for autism and theology has been an education in how to live with the illogical beauty of feeling hemmed in by faith.

At one point in the Old Testament a psalm-writer speaks of feeling “hemmed in” by God. This resonates. My life is a patchwork quilt of being faithful to the Christian call, but also unfaithful, reluctantly faithful, faithful in public but, frankly, a bit iffy in private… yet every time I get to the very edge, somehow God is there. I cannot rationally explain God’s persistence in always catching me before I fall into utter, irrevocable faithlessness. It is certainly not logical. It is most certainly beyond my ken.  

My research with the centre for autism and theology has been an education in how to live with the illogical beauty of feeling hemmed in by faith. Autistic Christians have taught me so much in the way that many of them persist in attending church, even when it is being stated or implied, not only by their non-Christian acquaintances but also by other churchgoers, that they are simply not meant to be there. Some have wandered from church to church and from denomination to denomination, trying to find acceptance and welcome. As one autistic young woman put it:  

‘Going to church is just part of what Sunday is… [but] a lot of spiritual life is just up in the air and me working things out.’ 

When the purpose is counting bums-on-seats, research does tend to show that autistic people are more likely to be atheists. At the same time research also tends to show that socialisation is a big factor in the formation of faith. Perhaps it is little wonder then, that a group who often find themselves excluded socially are less likely to nurture and develop a faith. But then again, how do we explain a whole cohort of people who still have their bums on the Sunday seats and their hearts engaged in worship? Autistic people can and (some) do believe in God, and they keep engaging with church, working things out. Is this great faith, or sheer bloody-mindedness? At any rate such resilience is certainly not logical or rational, but perhaps it is just another thing that is beyond my ken. 

Explainer
Awe and wonder
Christmas culture
Creed
3 min read

‘Midnight Mass’: a guide for the perplexed

Get set for the wee small hours.
A boy concentrates hard as he holds one candle to another to light it.
A boy little a candle during a Mass in Greece.
Malcolm Lightbody on Unsplash.

For many people in 2024, Christmas is the one time of year that they might seek out a church service. As they survey their local parishes' banquet of offerings, ‘Midnight Mass’ (or ‘Midnight Communion’) may be one dish that jumps out to them. 

But what is this strange midnight event, and where does it come from? Let’s dive in.  

Quite straightforwardly, Midnight Mass is all the same words and actions from a Sunday morning Communion service - i.e., the bread and wine blessing, performed as per Jesus’ command during the Last Supper to “do this in remembrance of me”. Midnight Mass typically begins just before Christmas Day starts at midnight. You can expect a quiet, but poignant service, recalling the birth of Jesus - whom Christians regard as the world’s true king - born in the wee small hours, in a provincial backwater of first century Judea.  

It is a very old tradition. Christians from the get-go would celebrate the great calendar days by holding ‘vigils’ - that is, by staying up all night for prayers and singing, and then conducting a communion service at dawn. In the late fourth century, a western pilgrim called Etheria writes about her visit to the middle east. Already, she records, Christians were doing special ceremonies for the Nativity (the feast day of Jesus’ birth), including a procession all the way from Bethlehem to Jerusalem in the middle of the night. Etheria notes that it takes longer than expected because some of the monks penitentialy refuse to wear shoes. 

But the early Christians were quite particular about something else: the communion bit  should only happen in daylight. They would always reserve that part of their celebration for the sunrise. But how could they develop their celebrations of Jesus’ birth - bearing in mind that tradition held he was born at midnight on the 25th December - with this ban on nighttime communion? 

In 440, the Pope permitted a communion service beginning at midnight as a special ‘one off’ for Christmas. In fact, he allowed for three - one at midnight, one at dawn, and one at the usual midmorning. This was a welcome innovation, because Christians were already quite smitten with Christmas - they loved the festival, and many popular customs built up around it.  

After the Protestant reformation, the Church of England stopped the Christmas tradition of a midnight service, preferring a morning communion on the 25th alone. But in the mid 19th century, amid a lot of general nostalgia for an ‘Olde English Christmas’, it returned, and has been a fairly consistent Anglican offering ever since.  

If you attend a Midnight Mass this Christmas, you will be joining in with something that Christians have done for centuries, and which was a result of a fascination with the facts of Jesus’ birth. Christmas rituals did not spring from any pagan winter festivals, despite what fashionable critics might say. Rather - as you might notice yourself, sat in a pew on a dark winter night - they were animated by a completely new hope: the sense, however small and unexpected, that a great light had come near. 

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