I need to know what's happening next. Walking into an unpredictable situation triggers anxiety. Will there be sudden loud music? Unexpected crowd participation? A spontaneous change in the service structure? For autistic people, unpredictability isn't just uncomfortable; it's often overwhelming.
Many contemporary evangelical churches prize spontaneity in worship. The Spirit might "lead" the service in unexpected directions. The worship leader might extend a song indefinitely. The pastor might abandon the planned sermon for a different message. This flexibility is seen as spiritual openness, sensitivity to the Spirit, and freedom from dead ritual.
For autistic worshipers, it's often a nightmare.
This is where liturgical worship traditions—Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, Lutheran—offer something valuable: predictability. The liturgy follows the same structure every week. You know what's coming next. The prayers are written down. The responses are predetermined. Even spontaneous elements occur at designated times.
Some criticize liturgy as "dead ritual," mere repetition without authentic engagement. But this misunderstands both liturgy and autistic spirituality. Predictability doesn't prevent genuine worship; for many autistic people, it enables it.
When I attend a liturgical service, I don't spend mental energy managing uncertainty or monitoring for unexpected changes. I know the structure. I know my responses. I can focus entirely on the content—the theological richness of the prayers, the meaning of the liturgical season, the truth proclaimed in Scripture and sermon.
The repetition isn't deadening; it's deepening. When you pray the same prayers weekly, they sink into your bones. You internalize their theology. You notice new dimensions each time. The familiarity creates space for meditation rather than requiring constant vigilant attention.
Consider the Eucharistic liturgy. The words of institution—"This is my body... this is my blood"—are repeated at every celebration. For some, this repetition becomes rote. But for me, the repetition is profound. Each week, I'm reminded of Christ's sacrifice. Each week, the same words anchor me in the same truth. The consistency isn't boring; it's grounding.
Liturgical calendars also provide structure across the year. Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost, Ordinary Time—these seasons follow the same pattern annually. You know what's coming. The themes, colors, and emphases are predictable. This regularity helps me mark time, anticipate spiritual seasons, and engage with the whole scope of Christ's work systematically.
Contrast this with low-church evangelicalism, where sermon topics might jump randomly, worship songs change weekly, and there's no overarching structure beyond the pastor's preferences. There's freedom in this approach, but there's also chaos—at least for an autistic mind that craves pattern and predictability.
The autistic preference for routine also aligns with how habits form. Research shows that repeated behaviors in consistent contexts create neural pathways that make those behaviors automatic. If you pray the same prayers in the same part of the service weekly, prayer becomes habituated. You develop spiritual muscle memory.
This isn't mindless repetition; it's embodied formation. When crisis hits and you can't think clearly, the prayers you've repeated hundreds of times are still there. They carry you when you can't carry yourself. This is the genius of liturgy—it forms you through repetition so that truth is available even when you're too overwhelmed to think.
Written prayers also help autistic people who struggle with spontaneous verbal expression. When the worship leader asks for spontaneous prayer and everyone starts praying simultaneously in their own words, I freeze. Too much unpredictability, too much unstructured social interaction, too much pressure to perform spiritually.
But hand me a prayer book, and I can pray fluently. The words are there. I can make them my own through emphasis and intention even though I didn't compose them. I can pray corporately without the anxiety of spontaneous public speech. The liturgy gives me voice when my own words fail.
Some might object that I'm hiding behind "dead forms" rather than engaging authentically. But this assumes spontaneity equals authenticity, which is a culturally conditioned assumption, not a biblical requirement. Scripture records set prayers (the Lord's Prayer, the Psalms), prescribed rituals (the sacrificial system, the festivals), and structured worship (temple liturgy, synagogue readings).
Jesus Himself used set prayers. The Psalms are literally a prayer book. First-century Jewish worship was highly liturgical. The idea that authentic worship must be spontaneous is modern, not ancient; Western, not universal; neurotypical, not neurodivergent.
Moreover, liturgy often carries more theological depth than spontaneous worship. The prayers have been crafted over centuries, refined by theologians, tested by generations of believers. They're doctrinally rich, biblically saturated, and theologically precise. The spontaneous prayer of an individual leader, however sincere, rarely matches this depth.
I'm not saying non-liturgical worship is wrong or that everyone should adopt liturgy. Neurotypical people often find spontaneity spiritually enriching. Different neurology, different needs. But I am saying liturgical worship isn't spiritually inferior, and for autistic Christians, it's often spiritually superior.
Churches that want to be neuro-inclusive should consider incorporating liturgical elements even if they're not traditionally liturgical. Publish the order of service in advance. Use consistent structures week to week. Include written prayers alongside spontaneous ones. Create predictable rhythms within the service.
These small changes help autistic worshipers engage without fundamentally changing the church's character. And they might benefit others too—people with anxiety, those who are introverted, anyone who finds unpredictability stressful.
I've found deep spiritual nourishment in liturgical traditions. The Book of Common Prayer, the Daily Office, the Liturgy of the Hours—these give structure to my prayer life. They ensure I pray about the full scope of Christian truth rather than just my current concerns. They connect me to centuries of believers who prayed the same words.
The predictability isn't a bug; it's a feature. It's not spiritual deadness; it's creating space for authentic engagement by removing the anxiety of uncertainty. It's not mere repetition; it's formation through practice.
For autistic Christians seeking deeper worship, I recommend exploring liturgical traditions. Attend an Episcopal, Lutheran, or Orthodox service. Try praying the Daily Office for a week. Read the prayers slowly, letting their theological richness sink in. Notice how predictability enables rather than hinders engagement.
You might discover, as I have, that routine and ritual aren't obstacles to encountering God. For an autistic brain, they're often the pathway.