Autistic minds excel at pattern recognition. We notice details others miss, see connections across disparate domains, and detect inconsistencies in systems. This cognitive trait, while often exhausting in daily life, offers a unique perspective on one of Christianity's hardest problems: theodicy, the question of how an all-good, all-powerful God can coexist with evil and suffering.
The pattern I've noticed in most theodicy discussions is that they treat suffering as an anomaly requiring explanation. But what if suffering, in a fallen world, is actually part of a larger pattern we can only partially perceive?
Consider fractals. A fractal is a geometric pattern that repeats at different scales. Zoom in on a fractal, and you see the same pattern recurring endlessly. Each small section, viewed in isolation, might seem chaotic or meaningless. But zoom out, and the larger pattern becomes clear. The apparent chaos at one scale is actually part of an elegant structure at another scale.
I'm not suggesting suffering is good or that we should minimize real pain. But the fractal analogy helps me understand how God might perceive suffering differently than we do. We experience suffering at one scale—the immediate, personal, temporal scale. It's real, it's painful, and it's often seemingly meaningless from our limited vantage point.
But what if God perceives reality at all scales simultaneously? What appears as senseless suffering at the human timescale might be part of a pattern that makes sense across cosmic timescales, or in dimensions of reality we can't perceive. This doesn't make the suffering less real, but it does mean our inability to see the pattern doesn't prove no pattern exists.
My autistic brain understands this intuitively. I routinely experience situations that seem overwhelming or chaotic in the moment, but later I recognize they were necessary parts of a larger pattern. The apparently random sensory input that triggered a meltdown was actually my brain detecting an important signal I consciously missed. The social interaction that felt like meaningless small talk was actually establishing relationship groundwork that became crucial later.
Scripture hints at this multi-scale perspective. God tells Isaiah: "My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways... For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts" (Isaiah 55:8-9). Paul writes that we see "in a mirror dimly" but one day will see "face to face" (1 Corinthians 13:12).
This resonates with my experience of pattern recognition. I often see patterns others don't, but I also sometimes think I see patterns that aren't there, or miss patterns because I'm focused on the wrong scale or the wrong variables. My pattern-recognition ability is real and valuable, but it's also limited and fallible.
If even human pattern recognition—which can predict weather, decode DNA, and discover physical laws—is limited and fallible, how much more limited is our ability to perceive the patterns in God's providential governance of history?
This doesn't solve the problem of evil. It doesn't make suffering okay or excuse us from fighting against it. But it does provide a framework for faith in the face of suffering. Just as I trust that mathematicians have discovered genuine patterns in nature even when I can't personally verify every equation, I can trust that God perceives patterns in history and creation that I can't yet see.
Moreover, Christianity claims that God entered into suffering Himself through the Incarnation. Jesus experienced human pain, betrayal, and death. The cross demonstrates that God doesn't stand aloof from suffering, observing patterns from a distance. He enters into the chaos, experiencing it at the human scale even while perceiving it at the cosmic scale.
This is profoundly important. It means suffering isn't just a pattern to be observed; it's a reality to be entered into and ultimately redeemed. God doesn't just see the fractal from all angles; He steps into the part of the fractal that experiences the most pain, and from that position, begins the work of redemption that will ultimately transform the entire pattern.
As an autistic person, I find comfort in this. My pattern recognition helps me understand that my limited perspective doesn't exhaust reality. There are patterns I can't see, connections I can't make, and scales of meaning I can't access. But there's also Someone who sees all the patterns, who designed them, who entered into them at the point of greatest suffering, and who is working to bring them to a resolution that will vindicate both His goodness and His power.
I don't have all the answers to theodicy. But my autistic experience of seeing some patterns while missing others, of finding meaning in what seems chaotic and chaos in what seems ordered, helps me hold space for mystery while maintaining faith. The pattern exists. I just can't see all of it yet.