"Look at me when I'm talking to you." I've heard this countless times—from parents, teachers, employers, even well-meaning church members. For neurotypical people, eye contact signals attention, respect, and engagement. Refusing eye contact seems rude, evasive, or defiant.
For many autistic people, it's physically uncomfortable bordering on painful. Eye contact requires intense concentration, processing facial expressions while simultaneously parsing spoken language. It's overwhelming, not because we're being rude, but because our neurology processes this differently.
I can either make eye contact or listen carefully—rarely both. When I look at someone's eyes, I miss much of what they're saying because I'm devoting cognitive resources to maintaining socially expected behavior rather than processing content. When I look away, I can actually focus on their words.
This creates a dilemma for autistic Christians. We're taught that relationship with God is personal and intimate. Biblical metaphors emphasize seeing God, looking to Jesus, fixing our eyes on Him. "Seek the LORD and his strength; seek his presence continually!" (Psalm 105:4). Are we failing at spiritual intimacy if we struggle with the basic human act of eye contact?
The Incarnation offers a surprising answer. When God wanted to reveal Himself to humanity, He didn't demand we ascend to heaven, master esoteric practices, or conform to divine norms. He descended to us. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14). God accommodated Himself to human limitations.
Jesus met people where they were. He touched lepers when touching made you unclean. He spoke to Samaritans when Jews avoided them. He welcomed children when adults dismissed them. He healed on the Sabbath when religious leaders demanded strict observance. He consistently prioritized human need over social convention.
The Incarnation reveals that God's posture toward us is one of accommodation and meeting us where we are, not demanding we first meet arbitrary standards before He'll engage with us. If God Himself was willing to accommodate human limitation by becoming human, surely He accommodates neurodivergent humans who process social interaction differently.
This has practical implications. When churches require autistic people to make eye contact to demonstrate spiritual engagement, they're imposing cultural norms as theological requirements. They're saying God demands neurotypical social behaviors as prerequisites for relationship with Him. But this contradicts the Incarnation's message: God meets us in our particularity, not in spite of it.
I've learned that I don't need to make eye contact to pray, to worship, or to experience God's presence. I can look at the ceiling, close my eyes, stare at the wall—whatever helps me focus. God isn't offended by my autistic neurology. He designed it. He knows exactly how my brain works and what I need to engage with Him.
When Scripture speaks of seeing God or fixing our eyes on Jesus, it's using metaphorical language about attention and focus, not literal instructions about eye contact. Many biblical figures encountered God with their eyes closed (visions during sleep), their faces covered (Moses on the mountain), or looking away (Elijah hiding in a cave). God's presence doesn't require specific neurological processing of visual social cues.
The Incarnation also reminds me that God fully understands embodied existence. Jesus had a human nervous system. He experienced sensory input, physical pain, and the limitations of human neurology. He knows what it's like to be embodied. If He were autistic—and there's no theological reason He couldn't have been—He would know exactly what sensory overload feels like, how exhausting masking is, and why eye contact can be painful.
Even if Jesus wasn't autistic, the Incarnation establishes the principle: God fully enters into human experience, including its neurological diversity. He doesn't demand we transcend our embodied limitations to encounter Him. He meets us in our bodies, with our neurology, as we are.
This is profoundly liberating. I don't need to perform neurotypicality to be acceptable to God. I don't need to force eye contact during prayer to prove I'm truly seeking Him. I don't need to override my neurology to demonstrate spiritual maturity. God accepts me as He made me, autism included.
This doesn't mean autism is exactly how God originally designed humanity—we live in a fallen world affected by sin. But it does mean that my particular neurology, right now, is not an obstacle to relationship with God. He works with me as I am, not as I would be if I were neurotypical.
Churches need to understand this. When you require autistic people to make eye contact as a sign of respect or engagement, you're creating unnecessary barriers. When you interpret lack of eye contact as spiritual coldness or inattentiveness, you're misreading autistic behavior through neurotypical assumptions.
Some practical changes would help:
- Don't require eye contact during prayer or worship
- Don't interpret looking away as disrespect or inattention
- Understand that someone might be listening more carefully when they're not making eye contact
- Don't make eye contact a test of spiritual authenticity
The God who became incarnate to meet us where we are doesn't require neurotypical social behaviors as prerequisites for relationship. He sees the heart, not the direction of the gaze. He values genuine engagement over performed social norms.
When I pray, I often close my eyes or look at something neutral. This isn't avoiding God; it's removing distracting sensory input so I can focus on Him more fully. When I worship, I might close my eyes during songs or look down at lyrics. This isn't disengagement; it's managing sensory input so I can actually engage.
The same God who stooped to become human stoops to meet autistic humans in our particular way of being human. Eye contact isn't required. Conformity to neurotypical social norms isn't required. What's required is a heart turned toward God—however our particular neurology best facilitates that turning.
The Incarnation teaches that God's love is radically accommodating. He meets us where we are. He works with our limitations. He doesn't demand we become something we're not as a prerequisite for relationship. This is good news for all humans, but especially good news for those of us whose neurology doesn't match cultural expectations.
God sees me—truly sees me—whether or not I make eye contact. And that's all that matters.