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.

Maxim for (autistic) Christian living (7)

Hopko’s seventh maxim, ‘Eat good foods in moderation and fast on fast days’, is rooted in the understanding that food is a good gift of God, not an enemy to be conquered or a god to be served. For an autistic Orthodox Christian, this means resisting both obsessive preoccupation with food (tracking every gram, endlessly researching diets, catastrophic thinking if routines change), and a kind of practical Manichaeism that treats certain foods as ‘unclean’ in themselves rather than receiving all things with thanksgiving and discernment. Food becomes truly Christian when it is eaten with gratitude, with a blessing, and with the intention that your body be strong enough to love God and neighbour in prayer, work, and service. So, moderation is not merely ‘eating less’, but eating so that your body remains a servant of your nous (heart, centre of soul), rather than your nous becoming a servant of your belly.

However, autistic people often live with real sensory issues, interoceptive differences, and very concrete needs around blood sugar and routine, and these should not be ignored in the name of a false asceticism. If you struggle to notice hunger or thirst, interoception-aware strategies such as setting alarms for meals, using visual schedules, or linking food to fixed daily events (after Matins, after work, before Compline) can be a humble, ascetical way of ‘keeping watch’ over the body, rather than a lack of faith. Choosing ‘good foods’ here can simply mean foods that you can tolerate sensorially, that nourish you and keep your blood sugar reasonably stable, so that you are less vulnerable to meltdowns and ‘hangry’ episodes that make prayer, confession, and peaceful relationships much harder. This may involve eating smaller, frequent meals, ensuring some protein and fat at each meal, and having safe, predictable snacks available before services or stressful social situations.

Given that fasting is an integral part of the Orthodox life, neurodivergent Christians will need to do so with discernment, taking into account their sensory, medical, and psychological needs. The Fathers insist that there is no single rule of fasting for everyone, but one common goal: the point of fasting is to use food for salvation, not self-destruction. Precisely what this means for each individual is something to be discussed with your parish priest or spiritual father/mother with a view to finding a modified rule of fasting that maintains the routines and nutrients needed to prevent meltdowns/shutdowns, while still gently limiting excess, emotional eating, or impulsive snacking. Thus, Hopko’s maxim becomes a compassionate path that enables us to receive food as gift, honour our autistic wiring, and slowly train both body and soul to live in grateful, watchful freedom before God.

Becoming present with a camera

An interesting quote from Alister Benn of Expressive Photography:

A camera, when used gently, pins the mind to the present moment. It interrupts the spiralling loop of past and future. It asks you to respond to sensation rather than narrative. Light on sand. Wind against skin. The temperature of shadow. Sensation becomes perception. Perception becomes memory. Memory becomes emotion. That sequence is always happening. Photography simply makes it visible.

I like the notion of using a camera gently. Perhaps that is why I increasingly use my camera’s touchscreen rather than its viewfinder. Looking through a viewfinder detaches me from my environment in a way that using a touchscreen doesn’t. Somehow photography with a viewfinder feels more aggressive – ‘shooting’ my subject; the camera as sniper rifle. 

Normal service will be resumed . . .

To be honest, I’m not sure when normal service will be resumed. I felt surprisingly well in the immediate aftermath of the heart attack. But about ten days ago I ran (metaphorically, of course) into a wall of fatigue. And at the end of last week I found myself back in hospital overnight after a scare in the early hours of Thursday morning.

So, for the foreseeable future, my blogging will be rather erratic. It will probably consist largely of quotations that have jumped out at me from the books I am reading.