Monday - August 22, 2022

SCRIPTURE Hebrews 2:5–9 What are human beings that you are mindful of, or mortals that you care for? WORDS OF HOPE Autistic Pride Day Today is more than just a date on the calendar. It is —a day that invites reflection on the sacred dignity of autistic people everywhere. It is a reminder that neurodivergent minds are not mistakes to be corrected, but lives to be honored. Too often, society has reduced autism to stereotypes—sometimes through portrayals like Rain Man, and other times through misunderstanding, silence, or exclusion. But autism has never been one story. It is a spectrum of human experience shaped by intensity, creativity, sensitivity, memory, pattern, and perception. For me—and for many autistic people—the world does not arrive quietly. Sounds, smells, lights, textures, and environments can feel immediate and overwhelming. Over time, I have learned there is wisdom in honoring those realities instead of apologizing for them. Sometimes that means choosing quieter spaces like Half Price Books over loud and overstimulating environments. There is comfort in predictable shelves, familiar silence, and the gentle order of books. Those choices are not limitations. They are forms of self-understanding. As a child, I was drawn to systems and patterns—airplanes, dinosaurs, NASA launchpads, construction equipment, maps, history. I lined up Matchbox cars across the floor and built tiny cities because order made sense to me in ways the social world often did not. And like many autistic people, I learned early what it felt like to be different. From school through college, I experienced bullying and teasing for my routines, intensity, and way of communicating. I learned to mask—to study people carefully, rehearse conversations, and edit parts of myself in order to fit in. But masking is exhausting. It teaches you how to survive while quietly convincing you that belonging must be earned through performance. And underneath all of that is a very human longing: to be loved without translation. Even so, I carried forward. I graduated high school. I graduated college. I earned both a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree. Those milestones matter to me not because they define worth, but because they represent persistence in systems not always designed for neurodivergent minds. Today, I work alongside individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities, including people with Down syndrome and other unique support needs. Those relationships have changed me deeply. They remind me again and again that dignity is inherent. Belonging should never be conditional. Some of the most compassionate, joyful, and genuine people I have ever met are people the world too often overlooks. Autism has also given me gifts I would never want to lose. My mind naturally connects details, stories, music, history, theology, and ideas. I notice patterns. I remember small things. I feel deeply. And honestly, I sometimes wonder if autistic people notice sacred things others miss. The comfort of repetition. The emotional weight of music. The ache of injustice. The relief of finally being understood. Perhaps what the world calls “sensitivity” is sometimes a form of attentiveness. There is also something important that must be said clearly: autistic individuals who are LGBTQIA+ are beloved exactly as they are. Their identities are not contradictions or problems to solve. They are sacred reflections of human diversity, worthy of dignity, affirmation, safety, and love. As an ally, I celebrate with my queer friends at Cathedral of Hope—a community that reminds me every week that love is expansive and that nobody should have to erase themselves in order to belong. As Temple Grandin once said, “I’m different, not less.” That truth feels deeply spiritual to me. I do not believe autism is a mistake. I believe neurodiversity is part of the beauty of creation itself. The same God who creates galaxies, oceans, fingerprints, ecosystems, and stars also creates different kinds of minds. In the poetry of the Book of Genesis, creation unfolds through rhythm, pattern, and wonder. Maybe that is why I find comfort in systems and detail. Maybe that is why I believe God is not frightened by difference. And sometimes I wonder—not literally, but spiritually—if God understands neurodivergent experience more deeply than we imagine. Not a God confined to categories, but a God who delights in complexity, notices what others overlook, and calls it good. Perhaps neurodivergent minds are not deviations from the image of God, but reflections of its vastness. Too often, religion has demanded conformity when Jesus seemed far more interested in compassion. Again and again, he moved toward those who had been excluded, misunderstood, or pushed aside. Maybe holiness has never been about pretending to be normal.  Maybe holiness looks more like honesty. More like tenderness. More like making room for each other. So today, on Autistic Pride Day, I do not celebrate perfection. I celebrate authenticity. I celebrate autistic people learning they do not have to apologize for who they are. I celebrate the slow unlearning of shame. Autistic people are not outside of God’s love. We never were. We are held within it. PRAYER God of wonder and compassion, You who made every mind and everybody with care, We give thanks for autistic people and the many ways they experience your world. For those who have been misunderstood, excluded, or asked to hide who they are, bring comfort, belonging, and peace. Remind us that no one is a mistake in Your creation— that every person is held in love, dignity, and purpose. May LGBTQIA+ autistic people know they are fully embraced, never divided in their identity, never beyond Your care. And teach us to see one another as You see us: beloved, whole, and enough. Amen. DEVOTION AUTHOR Reed Kirkman