Autistic people are often described as "literal thinkers," and this is usually framed as a deficit—we miss sarcasm, don't get jokes, take idioms at face value. When I was younger, I worried this would make me a bad reader of Scripture, which is full of metaphor, poetry, and figurative language. Ironically, I've discovered the opposite: my autistic literalism actually helps me read the Bible better.
The confusion comes from misunderstanding what "literal interpretation" means. In biblical hermeneutics, the "literal sense" doesn't mean reading everything as factual prose. It means understanding the text according to the plain sense of the author's intended meaning, given the genre and context. A literal reading of Psalm 23 recognizes it's poetry using shepherd imagery metaphorically, not a claim that David is literally a sheep.
This is where my autistic brain helps rather than hinders. I'm intensely focused on what the text actually says, not what I assume it says or what I've been told it says. I notice when traditional interpretations don't quite fit the actual words. I catch contextual details others skip over. My pattern recognition finds connections between passages that illuminate meaning.
For example, consider Jesus's statement "I am the door" (John 10:9). A simplistic "literal" reading would be confused—Jesus isn't made of wood. But the actual literal sense, understanding John's genre and first-century context, recognizes this as metaphor: Jesus is the means of access to salvation, just as a door is the means of access to a sheepfold. My autistic literalism helps me see that the text is clearly using metaphor here, precisely because I'm attending carefully to what it actually says rather than imposing assumptions.
Conversely, when the text presents something as historical narrative, my default is to read it as such unless there's clear textual evidence otherwise. Many modern interpreters quickly move to metaphorical readings when the text describes miraculous events, but this often says more about their philosophical assumptions than about what the text actually claims. The Gospels present the resurrection as a historical event, not as metaphor or spiritual experience. A literal reading—understanding the author's intent—takes this seriously.
My autistic attention to detail also helps with difficult passages. When Paul seems to contradict himself, my first instinct isn't to harmonize through vague generalities. It's to look carefully at the precise words, the specific context, and the exact logic of his argument. Often, what seems like contradiction resolves when you attend carefully to subtle distinctions the author is making.
For instance, Paul's statements about the Law seem contradictory until you notice he's using "Law" in different senses in different contexts—sometimes meaning the entire Mosaic covenant, sometimes meaning the moral law, sometimes meaning the ceremonial law. My autistic brain wants to categorize and distinguish, which helps me track these nuances.
The autistic tendency toward systematizing also aids biblical interpretation. Scripture is a library of 66 books written over thousands of years by dozens of authors in multiple genres. Making sense of it requires systematic thinking—tracking themes across books, understanding covenantal development, seeing how the parts fit into the whole. This is exactly the kind of complex pattern recognition that autistic minds excel at.
However, my autistic literalism has also taught me humility. I sometimes miss emotional or relational nuances in the text. I can over-systematize, forcing neat categories onto messy reality. I sometimes focus so intently on precise exegesis of individual verses that I miss the forest for the trees. I need the broader Body of Christ—neurotypical readers bring perspectives I miss.
The key insight is that "literal interpretation" isn't about neurology; it's about respecting the text's genre and authorial intent. Poetry should be read as poetry. Apocalyptic literature should be read as apocalyptic literature. Historical narrative should be read as historical narrative. Legal codes should be read as legal codes. My autistic literalism helps me resist the temptation to flatten these distinctions or impose foreign categories on the text.
This has practical implications for church teaching. When preachers make grand claims about what a passage "really means," my autistic brain asks: "But is that actually what the text says, or is that what you want it to say?" This can be uncomfortable, but it's also necessary. Scripture deserves to be read on its own terms, not as a ventriloquist's dummy for our preferred theology.
The autistic insistence on precision and accuracy isn't pedantry when applied to Scripture. These are the very words of God—they matter intensely. Every word, every grammatical structure, every contextual detail potentially matters. The neurotypical tendency to read for general impressions and emotional resonance is valuable, but it needs to be balanced by careful attention to what the text actually says.
My autistic literalism, properly understood, is a hermeneutical gift. It keeps me grounded in the text itself, prevents me from too-quickly allegorizing away difficult passages, and helps me build systematic understanding of Scripture as a unified whole. Combined with the Spirit's illumination and the insights of the broader Church, it's a valuable tool for understanding God's written revelation.
Literal doesn't mean wooden or simplistic. It means faithful to the text's actual meaning. And that's something my autistic brain, for all its quirks, is surprisingly good at.