Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (14)

‘Reveal all your thoughts and feelings regularly to a trusted person.’

Decades ago, when I was an evangelical student, there was some pressure in the circles I moved in to be completely open with one another. This was something I found impossibly stressful. Hopko’s 14th maxim is much more nuanced than this, but it can still sound threatening to autistic Christians However, this is not a demand to become emotionally ‘transparent’ in a socially neurotypical way, nor to over-share with people who have not earned your trust. Rather, it is an invitation to step out of the isolation of your own head by choosing at least one safe person – a priest, therapist, close friend, spouse, or spiritual mother/father – before whom you can gradually bring your inner world: your scruples, special-interest worries, sensory fears, anger, joy, and confusion. The point is not to perform piety, but to stop carrying everything alone and to let Christ meet you through another person who knows you are autistic and honours that reality. 

Because many autistic people have been gaslit or punished for ‘too much honesty’, this maxim requires clear boundaries and structures. You might agree on regular, time-limited check-ins (e.g., once a week for 30 minutes), use bullet points or written notes to organize what you want to say, or give advanced warning if you need concrete feedback instead of vague reassurance. ‘Revealing thoughts’ can include naming sensory overload and meltdowns, describing masking fatigue, confessing when you have fixated on a fear or resentment, or simply saying, ‘My body and brain feel strange and I don’t know why.’ You do not have to share with everyone; part of this maxim is about learning who is actually trustworthy, and giving yourself permission to withhold your inner life from people who mock, minimize, or spiritualize away your autistic experience.

For many autistic Christians, written communication will be the most truthful and least overwhelming way to live this maxim. You might email your priest before confession with the main themes you need to discuss, keep a private journal that you sometimes share in part, or send a message to a trusted friend when you notice yourself getting into a vicious spiral of shame or anger. An autistic-aware therapist, psychiatrist, or support group can also be a legitimate fulfilment of this maxim, especially when your thoughts and feelings are shaped by trauma, OCD, anxiety, or depression as well as by autism.

Lived this way, ‘revealing all your thoughts and feelings’ does not erase your need for solitude or your preference for clarity; instead, it becomes a gentle, structured practice of stepping out of lonely hyper-reflection into communion, where another person helps you sort what is truly sin, what is suffering, and where the mercy of God is already at work.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (13)

Hopko’s 13th maxim is ‘Do not engage intrusive thoughts and feelings. Cut them off at the start.’

This is not an order to ‘think like a neurotypical’! Autistic Orthodox Christians should not feel pressured into suppressing every intense emotion or special-interest thought, or blaming oneself for sensory overwhelm. Rather, for neurodivergents, it means learning to notice when a thought or feeling is pulling you away from trust in Christ – especially shame scripts, catastrophic ‘what if’ spirals, replaying social interactions, or harsh self-criticism – and choosing not to feed them with endless analysis. You can acknowledge, ‘This is an intrusive thought, not the voice of God’, and then gently return to a short prayer, a psalm verse, or a grounding task, without expecting the thought to vanish instantly. 

However, because autistic cognition often tends towards looping, rumination, and very detailed analysis, ‘cutting off’ intrusive thoughts may need to be concrete and embodied, rather than purely mental. Helpful practices can include setting a time limit for reviewing a distressing event, using a timer; writing down the worry once and then placing it before an icon; shifting attention to a sensory-safe task (walking, knitting, simple chores); or using a script like, ‘Lord, this thought is noisy; You are still here’, whenever the loop restarts. Intrusive feelings can also be intensified by sensory overload, low blood sugar, or exhaustion, so part of obeying this maxim is caring for your nervous system – reducing noise or light, eating, resting – so that your brain is less likely to grab onto every passing fear as absolute truth. 

It is also important not to confuse clinical anxiety, OCD, depression, or trauma responses with deliberate spiritual failure. If intrusive thoughts become constant, blasphemous, or terrifying, or if cutting them off feels impossible, this maxim quietly points towards the later maxims about getting help without fear or shame: talk with a trusted priest, therapist, or doctor about what you are experiencing. In some cases, using medication, therapy, or structured coping tools will actually make this maxim more keepable, because your brain will have enough stability to notice and redirect thoughts instead of being dragged down by them.

Lived in this way, Hopko’s 13th maxim becomes an invitation to let Christ stand guard at the edge of your vivid, detail-rich inner world, so that not every passing image or feeling has the right to rule your heart.

New life for an old lens

I have, as a legacy from my Nikon using days, an old Nikkor 50mm f/1.8 AF lens. It is a nice lens, but it wasn’t compatible with the autofocus mechanisms of either of my Nikon DSLRS. As a result, I could only use it on manual. And I really didn’t like the manual focusing aid on those cameras. So, I only made occasional use of it for close-up work.

Recently, I invested in an Urth Nikon F to Fuji X adapter. And the old lens has become a great addition to my (still small) collection of lenses for the XT-3. Now manual focusing is a doddle because the XT-3 has focus peaking.

In fact, my recent use of that lens on the XT-3 has tempted me to (a) stick to manual focus all the time and (b) build up my lens collection with prime lenses rather than zooms. On the latter point, using a prime lens means I have one less decision to make: I don’t have to choose a focal length; if I can’t frame what I want to photograph, I simply have to move.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (12)

Hopko’s 12th maxim is ‘Go to confession and communion regularly.’

Confession can be an intense experience, and the Russian Orthodox practice of queueing up to say confession before every Liturgy with other parishioners milling about nearby can be too much for some autistic people. To make confession manageable, you might want to agree with your priest to meet at a quieter and more private time and place. If you are non-speaking or liable to selective mutism, it is a good idea to write down a brief list of your sins, which you can read out or hand to the priest. It is also a good idea to ask for suitable accommodations such as that the priest use clear, concrete language or that he indicates clearly when you are finished. If eye contact is hard, if you need to stim, or if you speak in a very detailed or ‘info-dumpy’ way, none of these things invalidate the sacrament; you can name them briefly (‘I’m autistic, so I may . . .’) and then focus on bringing your heart and your real actions into the light before Christ.

It is worth remembering that receiving communion (or engaging in any other act of Christian piety) ‘regularly’ is primarily about our relationship with Christ and our fellow members in the body of Christ; it is not a matter of frequency or copying someone else’s pattern. It is perhaps best to work with your priest to find a simple, predictable rhythm that takes account of your needs as an autistic person, rather than waiting until you feel ‘worthy’ (which will never happen) or forcing yourself into a schedule that leads to shutdown. 

Hopko’s maxim should not be seen as a terrifying demand to perform neurotypical piety. Rather, it is a promise that, through a realistic, sustainable pattern of confession and communion, Christ will keep meeting you in your actual autistic body and story, cleansing, strengthening, and feeding you for the Kingdom.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (11)

Hopko’s 11th maxim, ‘Go to liturgical services regularly’, is an invitation to anchor your life in the Church’s prayer.

But ‘regularly’ need not mean ‘every single service, no matter what’; it can mean a stable, realistic pattern of attendance (e.g., Divine Liturgy every Sunday and one weekday service when possible). For neurodivergent Christians, such a pattern should take seriously your sensory limits, executive function, and energy. The goal is not to collect attendance ‘points’, but to let Christ reshape your time, body, and imagination through the rhythms of the Liturgy, the feasts and fasts, and the presence of the saints. 

Because services can be loud and crowded, this maxim should be interpreted with compassion and creativity for autistic needs. You might stand at the back or near a door, use earplugs or noise-reducing headphones, hold a small object to stim with (such as a small cross or a prayer rope), or agree with your priest that you can step outside and return as needed without shame. The relatively predictable structure of the Orthodox Liturgy does mean that, once you become familiar with it, the sensory and social load is easier to handle and your mind can rest more on the prayers themselves. For some, ‘going regularly’ may also include connecting via livestream when illness, shutdown, or travel makes physical attendance impossible, while still treating in-person Liturgy as the irreplaceable centre whenever you are able to be there. 

This maxim also touches the pain many autistic people feel when church becomes a place of misunderstanding, exclusion, or pressure to mask. Going to services regularly does not mean enduring spiritual or psychological abuse, forcing eye contact, or pretending that everything is fine while you quietly break down; it means returning again and again to Christ in the midst of His people, with your real body and real needs, and letting Him meet you there. You may need to choose a parish or a particular priest who is willing to discuss accommodations, to arrive early or late to avoid crowds, or to sit or kneel when others stand, without apologizing for being ‘different’. In this way, Hopko’s maxim becomes not another impossible social demand, but a promise: that the liturgical life of the Church can be a stable, patterned refuge where your neurodivergent nervous system and your baptized soul are both slowly shaped for the Kingdom.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (10)

There is no 9th maxim in this series because Hopko was not consistent in his treatment of maxims 7, 8, and 9. Sometimes, he split Maxim 7 into eating good foods in moderation (7) and keep the Church’s fasting rules (8) with Maxim 9 advising us to spend time in silence every day. On other occasions, he offered a single Maxim 7 on eating and fasting and split Maxim 9 into practising inner and outer silence (8) and spending time in silence every day. I have chosen to use the combined versions of both maxims.

So, Hopko’s 10th maxim becomes ‘Do acts of mercy in secret.’ But mercy is not limited to socially typical expressions like spontaneous small talk, volunteering in chaotic environments, or reading subtle social cues. Acts of mercy can include very concrete, structured forms of care that align with the strengths of neurodivergent Christians: praying by name for others, giving alms online, preparing food or practical help in advance, writing clear messages of encouragement, or using your special interests and skills to support the Church and people in need. What makes them truly merciful is not how ‘normal’ they look, but that they are offered quietly before God, without seeking recognition or praise, even when no one understands how much energy they cost you.

This maxim is also a protection for autistic people who have often been shamed, misunderstood, or taken advantage of in church contexts. Doing acts of mercy ‘in secret’ does not mean letting others exploit you or ignoring your own sensory, social, or executive-function limits; it means that your main ‘audience’ is Christ, not whoever happens to notice. It can be an act of mercy to set boundaries that prevent burnout or meltdowns, to choose forms of service that you can sustain (such as behind-the-scenes tasks, data work, setup and cleanup at quieter times), and to step away from roles where your difference is mocked or erased. Hidden mercy can even include things like patiently regulating your own sensory overload so you do not lash out, or quietly leaving a triggering situation instead of escalating; God sees these as real labour, even if others only see you as ‘quiet’ or ‘odd’.

Because many autistic people experience chronic rejection, isolation, and exhaustion, it is important to remember that you are also a proper recipient of mercy. Sometimes the most honest ‘act of mercy in secret’ is allowing yourself to rest, to seek therapy or support, to ask for an accommodation at church, or to accept help without self-contempt, so that you can continue to love God and neighbour over the long term. You may find it helpful to choose one or two small, repeatable mercies that fit your sensory profile and energy (for example, lighting candles and praying for people, sending one message of encouragement a week, or discreetly funding someone’s needs), and to consciously offer them to Christ with a prayer such as: ‘Lord, receive this little act as love.’ In this way, Hopko’s maxim becomes a path by which autistic ways of perceiving, persevering, and caring become unique channels through which the mercy of God flows into the world.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (8)

Hopko’s eighth maxim advises us to,

Practise silence, inner and outer.

This means learning to be present to God without constant noise, words, or inner commentary. In other words, it is about finding ways for your whole being to rest in Christ. Inner silence may mean gently stepping back from repetitive mental loops, over-analysis, or replaying conversations, and simply sitting before God with the Jesus Prayer, a short psalm verse, or even a single word like ‘Lord’. Outer silence may mean deliberately stepping away from devices, notifications, and information for a short time, so that your nervous system and your heart can become a little less overloaded and a little more able to notice God’s presence.

Because autistic sensory systems are often either overwhelmed or under-stimulated, silence needs to be adapted, not romanticized. For some, ‘silence’ will actually include gentle sensory supports: soft lighting, noise-cancelling headphones, a weighted blanket, or quiet music that helps your nervous system settle enough for prayer. You might schedule very small, predictable amounts of silence – five minutes after morning prayers, ten minutes after work, a brief pause before entering church – rather than aiming immediately at long periods that leave you distressed or dissociative. If your mind races or scripts conversations during these times, you are not failing at silence; you are simply noticing what is already there, and you can keep returning, gently and without self-hatred, to a short prayer or to simple awareness of your breathing before God.

This maxim also has a social dimension that can be particularly complex for autistic people, who may either talk very little or ‘infodump’ at length. Practising silence here does not mean masking your autism, but allowing space to truly listen when others speak and to recognize when continuing to argue, explain, or correct will not bring peace. It can be an act of asceticism to hold back from online debates, from constantly checking for messages, or from continually rehearsing conversations in advance (or, for that matter, after the fact), and instead to entrust misunderstandings and unfinished dialogues to Christ. In all these ways, ‘inner and outer’ silence becomes a merciful, structured practice that honours your autistic neurology while slowly teaching your heart to stand quietly before God, without fear and without shame.