Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (31)

Hopko’s 31st maxim, ‘Be simple, hidden, quiet, and small’, does not imply that you must erase your autistic personality; rather, it is a way of following Christ who ‘made Himself of no reputation’. For autistic Orthodox Christians, simplicity can mean reducing needless internal and external complication: fewer competing obligations, fewer social roles you can’t sustain, clear routines instead of constant reinvention. ‘Hidden, quiet, and small’ does not mean ashamed or invisible; it means letting most of your life be lived before God rather than the crowd – less driven by social media, arguments, or proving yourself; more anchored in prayer, ordinary work, and loving the few people actually given to you. 

Because the autistic life is already socially marginalized, this maxim must not be twisted into ‘accept neglect or abuse’ or ‘never ask for accommodations’. It does not forbid explaining your needs, advocating for accessibility, or seeking recognition where justice demands it. Instead, it speaks to the temptation – especially when you have been misunderstood – to build a large, defensive identity around being ‘the autistic one’, ‘the wounded one’, or ‘the genius’, and to measure everything by how much attention you receive. To be simple and small here might look like choosing depth with a few people instead of chasing every conversation; allowing whatever you do to be good and careful without obsessing over any audience; letting your special interests be real joys without needing everyone else to share them.

Practically, you could live this maxim by making your prayer corner, not your online presence, the centre of your day; by deliberately stepping back from some debates you could win; by leaving some good deeds entirely unmentioned; and by accepting that much of your faithfulness – managing sensory load to avoid hurting others, quietly enduring loneliness, showing up at Liturgy despite anxiety – will be known only to God. ‘Quiet’ may mean creating a little silence in your daily routine, not silencing your voice when it is needed; ‘small’ may mean taking on work that does not look impressive but is genuinely within your energy and gifts. Lived this way, ‘Be simple, hidden, quiet, and small’ becomes a deliberate choice to let your autistic life unfold on a human scale, where you can actually breathe and pray, instead of striving to meet what you imagine to be others’ expectations of you.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (30)

Hopko’s 30th maxim advises us to ‘Be cheerful’. But this does not imply appearing permanently happy or imitating a neurotypical social vibe. For autistic Orthodox Christians, cheerfulness may be closer to quiet trust than to visible exuberance: a small, steady ‘yes’ to God that can coexist with anxiety, shutdown, or low mood. It may look like a gentle tone rather than a sharp one; a small smile or nod when you greet someone; a willingness to notice and name good things; or simply refusing to let bitterness become your default inner narrative. You can pray for this kind of cheerfulness as a grace – ‘Lord, give me a kind and uncomplaining spirit’ – rather than trying to manufacture it as a performance. 

Because autistic communication and affect are often misread (‘flat’, ‘rude’, ‘too much’), this maxim should not be equated with masking or pretending to be fine. Real autistic cheerfulness might look like: keeping a short list of things that genuinely delight you (light, trees, certain colours, a favourite hymn, a science fiction series, photography) and deliberately giving thanks for one or two of them each day; choosing not to narrate every situation in catastrophizing language, even when anxious; or learning one or two simple, repeatable phrases of encouragement you can offer others without draining your social battery. On very hard days, ‘being cheerful’ may shrink to one or two small refusals: not snapping at someone when you easily could, not posting that angry comment, or quietly telling Christ, ‘I feel awful, but I still belong to You’.

This maxim becomes most healing when it is anchored in the previous ones: facing reality, being grateful, being faithful in little things. For an autistic person, that might mean accepting that you may never look outwardly ‘bubbly’ and that your version of cheerfulness may be calm, slightly awkward, gently humorous, or very low‑key – and that this is entirely acceptable to God. It can also mean allowing yourself to receive cheerfulness from others and from the Church’s worship: the brightness of feast days, the joy in Paschal hymns, the relief of a friend who understands your special interest. Lived this way, ‘Be cheerful’ is not a demand to overwrite your real emotions; it is an invitation to let a quiet, stubborn hope in Christ colour even an overstimulating, confusing day with a small but real light.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (29)

Hopko’s 29th maxim, ‘Be grateful in all things’, does not mean pretending everything feels good, or thanking God for abuse, injustice, or sensory agony. For autistic Orthodox Christians, it means daring to look for God’s gifts within a life that includes overload, shutdown, social misunderstanding, and executive dysfunction. Gratitude can be very concrete and very small: ‘Thank You for noise‑cancelling headphones; for this cup of tea; for the friend who texts clearly; for the priest who believes me; for the beauty of trees and light that my brain notices in detail’. It is less about a mood and more about a chosen habit of naming good things in the middle of mixed days, so that your attention is not swallowed entirely by what hurts. 

Because autistic perception often highlights what is intense, wrong, or out of place, this maxim is best practised as a gentle, structured exercise rather than a vague command to ‘feel thankful’. You might keep a short gratitude list, add one line of thanks to your rule of prayer (‘Glory to You for…’), or link gratitude to sensory grounding (‘I feel my feet on the floor; I thank You that I can stand’). On very bad days, ‘in all things’ may shrink to ‘in this breath’, ‘in this icon’, ‘in this safe corner of my room’. Gratitude here does not erase the need to lament or to seek justice; it simply insists that suffering does not have the final word about your reality.

This maxim becomes particularly healing when turned directed at your own autistic life. You can begin to thank God, cautiously at first, for some of the things you once saw only as defects: for your ability to focus deeply, to notice patterns in theology or creation, to be loyal, to care passionately about truth, etc. You do not have to be grateful for every meltdown or exclusion, but you can thank God for sustaining you through them, for the people and practices that help you recover, and for the ways they have made you gentler to others who struggle. Lived this way, ‘Be grateful in all things’ is not a demand to overwrite your pain with pious language; it is an invitation to let your intensely observant mind also become intensely observant of grace, so that even in an overstimulating, confusing world, you regularly glimpse the quiet, particular ways God is already with you.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (28)

Hopko’s 28th maxim, ‘Face reality’, is not a command to ‘toughen up’ or ignore your autistic limits; it is an invitation to acknowledge before God how things really are, not how you wish or fear they might be. For autistic Orthodox Christians, reality includes at least three layers: who God is (merciful, present, not your intrusive inner critic), who you are (an autistic human being with particular strengths and vulnerabilities), and what your concrete circumstances are today (your energy, sensory load, finances, relationships, sins, traumas, responsibilities). Facing reality means rejecting both denial (‘I can do everything; I’m fine’) and catastrophic fantasy (‘I will never cope; everything is ruined’), and instead saying, as precisely as you can, ‘This is my situation before God, here and now’. 

Because autistic minds lean easily into detailed imagination, analysis, and what‑if scenarios, ‘face reality’ will often mean gently distinguishing facts from stories. Helpful questions include: ‘What actually happened?’ ‘What do I know versus what I am guessing?’ ‘What is my nervous system doing right now?’ You might try writing a short, factual description of a conflict or problem before interpreting it, check your impressions with a trusted person, or ask your priest or therapist to help you separate sin from disability and trauma. Facing reality also includes recognizing when something is genuinely unjust or harmful. For example, if a church environment, job, or relationship consistently ignores your needs or exposes you to abuse, facing reality does not mean simply praying more or trying to be ‘less autistic’; rather, it means recognizing that this situation may need to change, and that getting help is part of living in truth.

Spiritually, this maxim pairs with Hopko’s later counsel to be totally honest with yourself, to be merciful with yourself, and to get help without shame. For autistic Christians, that means accepting that autism is a lifelong condition; that meltdowns, shutdowns, and executive‑function crashes may still happen even when you are doing everything ‘right’; but that God will meet you there, not in some imagined neurotypical version of yourself. It also means recognizing the real gifts – your focused attention, pattern‑sensitivity, sense of justice, etc. – that God has entrusted to you are to be used in his service, and not suppressed as shameful quirks. Lived this way, ‘Face reality’ becomes a deeply hopeful maxim: you step out of fantasy, self‑gaslighting, and impossible ideals into the place where Christ stands with you, so that your next small act of obedience can begin from solid ground.

The wisdom of Brother Cadfael

Sometimes, important theological and spiritual truths are found in quite unexpected places. Here, for example, is Ellis Peters’s character Brother Cadfael reflecting on the pleasure he gets from tending the monastery's herb garden:

The manifold gifts of God are there to be delighted in, to fall short of joy would be ingratitude. (From St Peter’s Fair, chapter 1)

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (27)

Hopko’s 27th maxim, ‘Do the most difficult and painful things first’, can be both freeing and dangerous language for autistic Orthodox Christians. The danger lies in interpreting it as ‘ignore your sensory limits and push yourself into meltdown’, or ‘start every day with the thing you dread most, no matter what’. Rather, autistics should read it as ‘give priority to the necessary tasks you are most tempted to avoid within your real energy, sensory, and executive‑function capacity for a given day. As far as you are able, you should focus those tasks that are tied to love, repentance, or responsibility, rather than endlessly doing only easy, stimulating, or interest‑based things. For you, the ‘difficult and painful’ thing might include making a phone call, answering one email, beginning a piece of writing, taking a shower, or initiating a hard but needed conversation, rather than anything dramatic.

Because autistic nervous systems fatigue quickly and crash hard, this maxim needs to be paired with awareness of your personal ‘window’ of best functioning. For many, that will mean tackling one or two priority tasks early in the day or after a predictable regulation routine (e.g. quiet, stimming, tea, brief prayer), when your social and cognitive battery is as full as it will be. You can make a very short list each day: one ‘hard’ task, one ‘medium’ task, and one ‘easy’ task; do the hard one first if your body and brain are reasonably regulated; if not, start by regulating, then attempt the hard thing for a set time (for example, ten minutes) and stop. Tools like timers, written scripts for phone calls or emails, and breaking tasks into tiny steps (‘open document’, ‘write three sentences’, ‘send’) are not cheating; they are how you follow the maxim without harming yourself.

This maxim is also a guard against the autistic avoidance that hides behind perfectionism or spirituality: ‘I can’t start until I know the perfect system / feel exactly calm / understand everything theologically’. For you, ‘doing the most difficult thing first’ may mean beginning while still imperfectly prepared, with a simple prayer such as, ‘Lord, I will take the first step; You carry me through the rest’. It also implies a limit: once you have done that priority hard thing, you are not required to keep seeking out more pain to prove your virtue; you can turn to easier tasks, rest, or wholesome hobbies without guilt, trusting that obedience in one concrete difficult step today is precious to God. Lived this way, Maxim 27 becomes a gentle nudge against paralysis and procrastination, not a command to self‑destruct: a way of honouring your autistic limits while still moving, one small step at a time, into the works of love and responsibility that you would otherwise postpone indefinitely.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (26)

Hopko’s 26th maxim is ‘Do your work, then forget it’. For autistic Orthodox Christians, this speaks directly into the tendency to replay tasks, conversations, and projects in your head long after they are finished – editing them, catastrophizing about them, or trying to ‘perfect’ them in imagination. Doing your work means giving the task your honest attention and effort within your real limits; forgetting it means entrusting the result to Christ instead of endlessly analysing what you ‘should’ have done differently. You are called to faithfulness, not to total control of outcomes or other people’s reactions. 

Because autistic cognition often loops and replays, ‘forgetting it’ will usually need intentional rituals rather than just a mental command. You might mark the end of a task with a short prayer (‘Lord, I place this in Your hands’), physically put away the tools you used, tick the task off a list, and then shift to a clearly different activity so your brain has a cue that the work is over. If you notice yourself mentally re‑doing a completed email, report, or conversation, you can name the loop (‘I’ve left the present’), briefly check if any concrete follow‑is up actually needed and, if so, do it, then deliberately to the next small thing. Over time, this maxim can become a gentle protection against perfectionism and scrupulosity: you still care about doing good work, but you refuse to let completed tasks colonize your thoughts, so that your autistic attention can be present to God, to your body, and to the people in front of you now.