The worship band is loud—really loud. Flashing lights pulse in sync with the drums. Everyone around me has their hands raised, eyes closed, bodies swaying. The worship leader encourages us to "let go" and "get lost in worship."
I'm standing completely still, hands at my sides, every muscle tense, desperately trying not to have a meltdown.
This is what worship looks like in many contemporary evangelical churches. And for many autistic people, it's not worshipful—it's torture.
The Contemporary Worship Template
Modern evangelical worship has converged on a particular template: concert-level sound systems, emotional musical styles, dim lighting with spotlights or strobes, extended singing sets, spontaneous elements, physically expressive congregational response.
This template works well for many neurotypical people. It creates emotional engagement, community feeling, sensory intensity that facilitates transcendent experience.
But for many autistic people, this same template creates sensory overload, anxiety, pain, and exclusion.
Sensory Assault
Start with the volume. Many worship services exceed 100 decibels—loud enough to cause hearing damage with prolonged exposure. For autistic people with auditory sensitivity, this isn't just uncomfortable; it's physically painful.
I've left church services with my ears ringing, my nervous system in full fight-or-flight, unable to process conversation for hours afterward. This isn't because I'm weak or insufficiently spiritual. It's because my auditory processing doesn't include the automatic volume regulation that neurotypical brains employ.
Add flashing lights, and you compound the problem. Strobe effects that create "atmosphere" for some people trigger migraines, seizures, or sensory overload for others. The same lights that make worship feel dynamic to neurotypical attendees make it literally unbearable for some neurodivergent ones.
The Extroversion Assumption
Contemporary worship also assumes extroverted expression. Raising hands, swaying, maybe dancing, spontaneous verbal responses—these are framed as normal worship expression. Stillness gets interpreted as disengagement.
But introverted and autistic worship often looks different. I worship through focused attention, careful listening to lyrics, intellectual engagement with theological content. My body is still because my mind is active. I don't close my eyes because I process better with visual input.
None of this means I'm not worshiping. It means I worship differently.
Yet in many churches, my worship style reads as non-participation. Worship leaders exhort the congregation to be more expressive, more demonstrative, more emotionally open. The implicit message: if you're not worshiping our way, you're not really worshiping.
Spontaneity and Predictability
Many contemporary services prize spontaneity—unexpected transitions, extended worship sets that run over time, spontaneous prayers or testimonies. This creates a sense of being "led by the Spirit" rather than following a script.
For autistic people who need predictability, this is anxiety-inducing. I need to know how long the service will last, what will happen when, what's expected of me. Surprises aren't delightful—they're destabilizing.
This doesn't mean the Spirit can't lead spontaneously. But churches can accommodate both spontaneity and predictability by communicating clearly about what's happening and what's optional.
The Emotional Expectation
Contemporary worship often emphasizes emotional experience—feeling God's presence, being moved, having a transcendent encounter. These are framed as normative worship outcomes.
But autistic emotional processing often differs from neurotypical patterns. I might experience worship primarily cognitively or aesthetically rather than emotionally. Or my emotional response might be delayed—I process the experience intellectually during the service, and emotions come hours or days later.
Neither pattern is less valid worship. But both get marginalized in cultures that equate genuine worship with immediate emotional response.
Historical and Cross-Cultural Perspective
Here's the thing: contemporary evangelical worship style isn't universal Christianity—it's a particular cultural expression from a specific time and place.
Visit an Orthodox liturgy, a traditional Anglican evensong, a Quaker silent meeting, or a Taizé service, and you'll encounter radically different worship aesthetics. Quieter, more structured, more contemplative, less emotionally demonstrative.
These traditions sustained Christian worship for centuries. They worked for people whose neurology didn't fit the contemporary template. They still work today.
The contemporary worship style has strengths, but treating it as the only valid approach impoverishes the church and excludes believers whose neurology requires different sensory and emotional environments.
Accommodation as Hospitality
Some churches are beginning to accommodate neurodivergent worshipers:
- Providing quiet spaces or sensory-friendly service times
- Publishing service orders so people know what to expect
- Keeping volumes at reasonable levels
- Avoiding strobe or flashing lights
- Explicitly affirming diverse worship expressions
- Offering fidget tools or noise-canceling headphones
- Making participation optional rather than mandatory
These aren't special favors—they're basic hospitality. If we believe God calls all people to worship, we should create environments where all people can actually do so.
The Theology of Accommodation
Paul writes about becoming "all things to all people" (1 Corinthians 9:22). This includes accommodating different sensory needs, emotional styles, and neurological patterns.
The body of Christ includes diverse members with diverse needs. A church that only accommodates one neurotype is like a body that only values one organ. We need the whole body, which means making space for neurological diversity.
This isn't compromising the gospel—it's embodying it. The incarnation is God's ultimate accommodation to human limitation. Churches that refuse to accommodate neurodivergent needs miss the incarnational pattern.
Autistic Worship Gifts
Here's what often gets missed: autistic people bring unique gifts to worship.
Our attention to detail means we notice theological precision in lyrics that others miss. Our pattern recognition helps us see connections between Scripture, theology, and liturgy. Our intense focus enables sustained contemplative attention. Our honesty makes us uncomfortable with emotional manipulation masquerading as worship.
When churches accommodate autistic worshipers, they don't just include people who would otherwise be excluded—they access gifts that enrich everyone's worship.
Practical Suggestions
For church leaders:
- Offer variety: Different service styles for different neurotypes
- Control sensory input: Reasonable volumes, minimal strobes
- Communicate clearly: Publish orders of service, set expectations
- Make participation optional: Stop pressuring people to perform worship
- Value diverse expression: Affirm that stillness and movement are both valid
- Provide accommodations: Quiet spaces, sensory tools, clear exits
- Listen to neurodivergent voices: We know what we need
For autistic worshipers:
- Find communities that fit: Not all churches follow the same template
- Communicate needs: Let leaders know what would help
- Permit yourself to adapt: Wear earplugs, step out when needed, stimm if helpful
- Remember worship is valid: Your way of worshiping counts, even if it looks different
- Seek historical resources: Explore liturgical and contemplative traditions
Conclusion
God created neurological diversity. Autistic brains aren't defective neurotypical brains—they're different designs with different strengths and needs.
Worship culture that accommodates only one neurotype doesn't reflect the diversity of the body of Christ. It creates church as a monoculture when it should be an ecosystem.
The contemporary worship template works for many people. But it's not the only valid approach, and treating it as such excludes believers God calls to worship.
We need quieter services, more structured liturgies, contemplative spaces, sensory-friendly environments. We need to stop equating one worship style with genuine spirituality.
The body of Christ is diverse. Our worship should be too.
When I find a worship environment that fits my neurology—maybe a quiet liturgical service, or a contemplative prayer meeting, or even just a church that keeps the volume reasonable—I can actually worship. My attention focuses on God rather than managing sensory overload. My mind engages theologically rather than defending against anxiety. My spirit connects with God's presence rather than desperately trying to survive the environment.
That's what worship should be. And every believer, regardless of neurology, deserves environments where worship is actually possible.
One size doesn't fit all. And that's not a problem to solve—it's diversity to celebrate.