I spent years treating Sabbath as a suggestion rather than a commandment. After all, the New Testament seemed to indicate that Christians weren't bound by specific day-regulations. I could worship God every day; why did I need to rest on a specific day? Besides, there was always more work to do, more tasks to complete, more productivity to achieve.
Then I experienced autistic burnout.
Burnout isn't just being tired. It's a state of profound depletion where basic tasks become overwhelming, where masking social differences becomes impossible, where sensory sensitivities intensify to unbearable levels. For autistic people, burnout often results from years of operating beyond our capacity, constantly adapting to neurotypical expectations without adequate rest or recovery.
In the middle of my burnout, I encountered the Sabbath commandment with new eyes. "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God" (Exodus 20:8-10). This wasn't a suggestion. It was a direct command, embedded in the Ten Commandments alongside prohibitions of murder and adultery.
Why would God command rest? Because He knows something about how He designed us. We are finite creatures with finite resources. We need regular, rhythmic rest to function properly. Not as weakness, but by design. God Himself rested after creation—not because He was tired, but to model for us the pattern of work and rest.
For autistic people, this pattern is especially crucial. We typically spend more energy than neurotypical people on basic tasks. Navigating social situations requires conscious processing of cues others read intuitively. Managing sensory input demands constant regulation. Masking our autistic traits to fit in depletes our reserves. Without regular restoration, we burn out.
The Sabbath commandment offers a theological framework for this needed rest. Rest isn't laziness or self-indulgence. It's obedience. When I rest, I'm not being unproductive; I'm honoring God's design for human flourishing. I'm acknowledging my finitude and trusting that God is sovereign over outcomes, that the world won't fall apart if I stop working for a day.
The specific practices of Sabbath also align well with autistic needs. Traditional Sabbath observance involves ceasing from regular work, avoiding commercial transactions, and focusing on worship, family, and rest. For me, this means:
No email or work projects. No household chores that feel like obligations. No social events that require masking. Just rest, Scripture reading, prayer, and activities that restore rather than deplete me. Sometimes that's solitude in nature. Sometimes it's pursuing special interests without pressure. Sometimes it's stimming without shame, knowing this day is set apart for recovery.
The Sabbath also provides external structure, which many autistic people need. Without a hard boundary, I'll keep working indefinitely, unable to judge when enough is enough. The commandment gives me permission—even obligation—to stop. It's not my decision to constantly renegotiate; it's God's command to obey.
Jesus's conflicts with the Pharisees over Sabbath weren't about abolishing rest; they were about what constitutes genuine rest versus burdensome legalism. "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath" (Mark 2:27). Rest should serve human flourishing, not become another exhausting performance of rule-keeping.
This is particularly important for autistic Christians who often face pressure to participate in lengthy church services, social fellowships, and volunteer commitments on Sundays. If these activities deplete rather than restore us, they're not honoring the Sabbath principle. True Sabbath might mean worshiping in ways that work for our nervous systems and resting in ways that actually replenish our resources.
Some might object that I'm being self-indulgent, prioritizing my comfort over serving others. But sustained service requires sustainable practices. If I burn out from refusing to rest, I become useless to everyone. The Sabbath isn't selfish; it's stewardship of the body and mind God gave me.
Moreover, Sabbath rest is an act of faith. When I stop working, I'm trusting that God will provide, that my value isn't based on productivity, that outcomes are ultimately in His hands not mine. This is especially counter-cultural in contemporary America, where worth is measured by achievement and rest is seen as weakness.
The Sabbath also points forward eschatologically. Hebrews 4 speaks of a future Sabbath rest for God's people. Our weekly rest is a foretaste of eternal rest, a reminder that our ultimate identity isn't as workers but as beloved children who will one day rest from all labor in God's presence.
Since implementing genuine Sabbath rest, I've noticed significant changes. My burnout symptoms have decreased. My capacity during the other six days has increased. My relationship with God has deepened as I spend unhurried time in His presence. I've discovered that rest isn't a luxury; it's a necessity woven into creation's fabric.
For autistic Christians facing burnout or at risk of it, I can't recommend Sabbath observance strongly enough. Find one day in seven—it doesn't have to be Sunday—and fiercely protect it for rest. Don't work, don't perform, don't mask. Just rest in God's presence, trusting that He's got the world handled for the next 24 hours.
It's not a suggestion. It's a commandment. And it might be the medicine your weary autistic soul desperately needs.