Is disability theology becoming my special interest?

The early stages of a deep dive on the Bible, Christianity, & the experience of disability

I am autistic.

Autism is a disability.

I have a disability.

I’ve been contemplating these sentences since getting my diagnosis—rearranging the words, turning them over in my mind, considering how I experience each phrase. Adding and removing the word “therefore” when the mood strikes me.

I’ve even gone down a rabbit trail relearning logical proofs to make sure I wasn’t reaching. I thought about symbolic logic and making inferences. Modus ponens and modus tollens were on my mind for the first time since taking calculus.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing this exercise. My best guess is that it’s part of processing and reconsidering my own understanding of what disability is and isn’t. I don’t want to take away from the experience of others, but I also want to give myself room to understand and process my own lived experience.

As I’m doing this processing, I’m noticing language and systems in ways I previously didn’t. Today, I’m sharing specifically about what I’m noticing in the Bible and at church and how my perspective is evolving and expanding.

I know I have a diverse group of subscribers with varied backgrounds and theological and ideological views. Thinking and writing about this feels urgent, so I hope you’ll bear with me and keep reading, even if you think it’s not for you. Maybe you can share this with a friend or loved one who this might resonate with.

My previous experience reading about disability and the church only left me with confusion and questions. I couldn’t get my head around this idea of a disabled God. I wondered why we experience pain. I didn’t like any of the answers I got when I asked what purpose suffering and pain could serve.

I was operating under the assumption that suffering is a necessary part of disability—and from there, I wonder if I was assuming that meant a limited opportunity for joy.

Recently, I’ve discovered a world of brilliant thinkers, academics, and pastors who are working through these questions and have the credentials to talk about this. I’m excited to keep learning from them. I’m sure I’ll return to this topic again, so I’m just going to share what’s on my mind right now.

Discovering of my own doubt on Low Sunday

In many liturgical traditions, the Sunday after Easter is commonly called Low Sunday or Doubting Thomas Sunday.

In this season of parenting and sleep deprivation, I rarely sit through the entire service on a Sunday, and I almost never get to hear the entire sermon. Between my kids’ needs and my own restlessness, it’s an inconsistent experience at best. But on this particular Sunday, I was able to sit through most of the service.

A brief recap for those who may not know or remember: In the lectionary, the gospel reading for this particular Sunday is from John 20. In the passage, the disciples are gathered in secret and encounter a resurrected Jesus. (Perhaps it’s better to say He encountered them.) But one of the disciples, Thomas, wasn’t there. When the others told him what happened, Thomas was understandably skeptical. He basically tells them he’ll believe it when he sees it. And that’s exactly what happens. Jesus returns a few days later, asks Thomas to examine the wounds for himself, and encourages him to believe.

My mind wandered during the sermon. I kept thinking about Jesus in this passage—still presenting with such profound injuries, even in his resurrected and redeemed body. He didn’t say to Thomas, “Look at my scars, just see how I’ve been healed.” He said, “Put out your hand and place it in my side.”

I noticed that this didn’t align with how I’d always pictured and reflected on this verse. I began to wonder if I’d misunderstood the entire concept of resurrection and redemption since becoming a Christian more than a decade ago.

Jesus said IN, I kept thinking.

Am I even qualified to talk about this?

Let me take a little detour here to say that I’m not a theologian.

I have no academic qualifications that make me uniquely equipped to talk about this. I’m a writer on substack who posts ramblings less frequently than she’d like.

What I know of and have read of disability theology is a drop in the bucket at best. In fact, I am doubtful that any of the ideas I present here will be novel—I am sure smarter and more thoughtful people have already reflected on these themes, and I’m excited to discover and learn from them as I go.

This arrived this weekend. More to come!

What I do have is lived experience. I am a neurodivergent mom parenting neurodivergent children. I am an adult who only recently received her diagnosis and is doing this exploration as part of a broader effort to reframe my childhood, my relationships, my career—truthfully, my entire existence in all the contexts I’ve experienced. For example:

• Context: I was born in and grew up in Georgia. In the south and in a large metro area, I’ve existed in political spaces of every kind. Now I am mostly frustrated, and I desperately wish I could be apathetic.

• Context: I’m Indian, but I never did the things other Indian kids were doing. I couldn’t speak Hindi. Never trained in traditional forms of dance. I grew up Hindu, and while I flirted with the idea of church in my adolescence, I only became a Christian as an adult. This life change surprised everyone, especially me. I’ve walked away from Christianity once and returned.

• Context: I was educated in public schools. I suffered greatly, except for a few friends and teachers who truly made me feel seen. I’m choosing to educate my children at home. I’m part of a classical Christian community, but our approach is eclectic and relaxed. But we’re not quite unschoolers.

In pursuit of this recontextualization and helping myself and my loved ones feel safe, seen, heard, and loved, I find myself feeling politically, academically, theologically, and culturally homeless.

Yet here I am, desperate to see the whole person in each of these contexts and more. Here I am, eager to understand the gospel and God’s love for humanity in the context and experience of disability.

What I’ve heard religious people say about disability

I grew up believing in reincarnation. I remember being told that sickness and disability were a karmic consequence of our actions in a past life. My father was chronically and terminally ill, and the karma aspect was repeated enough times that the idea is still seared into my brain.

I’ve heard people of every religious background refer to disability as a testing of faith or a punishment from the divine. I’ve heard horror stories of friends being told that they or their children are disabled because of past sin or a lack of prayer.  Although it has happened, I am grateful that this has been a rare experience for my family.

In Christian spaces, I’ve almost always heard disability presented as proof of a fallen world. I’ve noticed the implication that disability is something to be tolerated during this earthly existence because redemption and resurrection equate to no longer being disabled or even to being more useful humans.

Then I return to that reading in John 20. To Jesus saying put your hand IN my side. To a resurrected Jesus who was still profoundly, tangibly injured.

I notice that the logic isn’t following for me anymore. I wonder if the resurrection and redemption narrative is not assuredly synonymous with and does not necessitate a lack of disability.

I do believe there will be an end to suffering. I no longer understand disability and suffering as synonymous.

What if disability isn’t proof of a fallen world, but our treatment of people with disabilities is?

I am exploring the idea that perhaps disability is not evidence of a fallen world. At least, not in the way modern, western Churches talk about it.

Instead, perhaps the proof of brokenness and fallenness is in our struggles and suffering at the hands of people and systems that are notably not compassionate, loving, or considerate of the whole person, let alone every person. Our society isn’t built to accommodate and care for people who are navigating additional support needs. The humans maintaining and proclaiming to improve these systems aren’t necessarily acting with concern or even a passive regard for those of us who often need it most.

I have been thinking about Jacob encountering God in the wilderness and wrestling with Him, ultimately left with a limp he would walk with for the rest of his life (Genesis 32). The mark of God on Jacob wasn’t a gift of supernatural strength or prosperity—instead, it would have tangibly affected his livelihood and capacity, especially in an agrarian society.

I keep reflecting on all the times in Scripture that Jesus encountered people with disabilities. I’ve been wondering if He healed them so that they would be able to participate in a society that otherwise excluded and ostracize them. He healed their bodies so that they could engage in a system that wasn’t built for them.

Perhaps Christ’s greatest acts of mercy in those moments were actually toward the society that couldn’t find a way to love someone who desperately needed support.

Perhaps God is gently offering us opportunities to be more inclusive, to be more compassionate, to shift our systems and ways of existing to accommodate those who need our support the most.

As I’ve shared these thoughts with friends, I’ve been pointed to Nancy Eiesland, Lamar Hardwick, John Swinton, Brian Brock, Sandra Peoples, Amy Julia Becker, Joni Eareckson Tada, and others. My reading list is ever-growing, and while I haven’t read them all, I share their names in case anyone else would also like to seek out their work. (Comment and let me know if you do!)

Diversity, suffering, and loving our neighbors

As I talked about all these things with my husband last week, he began to wonder if our differences will actually be more profound—more varied—after the resurrection. Even if we’re not neurodivergent, most humans will find themselves in situations where we have to (at least occasionally) camouflage, mask, codeswitch, or otherwise tailor our language or behavior to a specific context or set of rules/norms.

We all hide truths about ourselves that God already knows and sees. And someday, we’ll be able to be ourselves—we’ll be able to truly express all of the good things that God put in each of us—without fear that the brokenness around us will make it unsafe.

I’m continuing to wrestle with the idea of suffering. I’m trying to hold suffering in tension with the truth that pain is lifesaving and necessary, that it alerts our brains that something is wrong. I am wondering if there’s ever a time it’s inappropriate to pray for healing—and if that’s different than praying for an end to suffering. I know that God hears our prayers, and I believe it isn’t always internalized ableism to want to be unburdened from suffering. But I’m not sure what that unburdening might look like. Thankfully, God does.

I am experiencing a lot of uncertainty, but I also feel peace that I’m not somehow more distant from God because of a diagnosis. I may never have all the answers, and I have so much to learn.

I’m also realizing my ideas of perfection, redemption, and an end to suffering are deeply informed by modern, western, individualistic, and industrialized views of work, success, and ability.  I’m wondering how much of the contemporary American Christian view is, too.

I still believe in my bones that Jesus is who He says He is. Most of the Christians around me do, too.  It’s always been clear to me that it’s a Biblical imperative to be more considerate of the people around us—to love our neighbors, and that still rings true.

No matter where this exploration and reflection lands, my hope is that we’ll commit to living like Jesus in new and profound ways. My prayer is that we’ll all lean further into opportunities to live out our faith in ways that truly, authentically reflect an increasing capacity for love and compassion.

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Bits & Bobs

• St. Thomas | I can’t write about Thomas without remembering that he is the patron saint of India. I’ve always been so curious about this and wish there was more information about his time in India. Maybe that’ll be a deep dive in the future.

• Don’t Forget Me | Have you ever loved a song AND pretty much every cover that’s been done? I stumbled across The Head and the Heart’s version of Don’t Forget Me on Spotify. I hadn’t heard the song in years. Harry Nilsson wrote it and put out his own version, but it was first released by Joe Cocker. Then I remembered that I loved Neko Case’s cover of the song. I ended up taking a detour looking for other covers, too. The Walkmen, Neil Diamond, and Macy Gray. I wasn’t expecting to delight in all of them, but I proceeded to listen to all these versions on a loop the whole time I was writing this piece.

• Ghosted | I just finished reading Nancy French’s new book. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I definitely wasn’t expecting so much of her story to resonate with me. Definitely recommend it, even if you don’t agree with her political or religious views.

• The Racism of People Who Love You | Samira K. Mehta’s book of essays came out early last year. This was another book I wasn’t expecting to resonate as deeply as it did, but for totally different reasons. And because I know the folks subscribed here are varied in your experiences and worldviews: this, too, is worth the read, regardless of your political or religious views.

• Lamar Hardwick | I mentioned him in my post, but I wanted to mention his work specifically here. I started following him on Instagram after googling “autistic pastor” one Sunday. I was delighted to discover he’s based in Atlanta. He’s been an instrumental voice in helping me engage the conversation about disability theology, and he’s currently going through cancer treatment for stage IV cancer. You can read his substack and learn how to support his work here.

Alright. That’s it. I know this was a long one. Thank you for sticking it out with me, friends.

Until next time. 👋