The Desert Fathers fled to the Egyptian wilderness in the 3rd and 4th centuries, seeking God in silence, solitude, and simplicity. For centuries, their choice has been romanticized or seen as extreme asceticism. But as an autistic Christian, I recognize something else in their practices: a profound understanding that sometimes you need to escape overwhelming sensory input to truly encounter God.
Contemporary worship often assumes that spiritual experience should be communal, loud, and emotionally demonstrative. Praise bands, light shows, crowds of people, simultaneous conversations during fellowship time—these are considered marks of a vibrant church. For many neurotypical believers, this environment facilitates worship.
For me, it often triggers sensory overload.
The competing audio inputs, the unpredictable lighting, the proximity of bodies, the expectation of simultaneous processing of music, lyrics, and social cues—it's not that these things are inherently bad. They're simply overwhelming to an autistic nervous system. I find myself spending so much energy managing sensory input that I have little left for actually encountering God.
This is where the Desert Fathers speak to me across centuries. They understood something crucial: sometimes the path to God requires removing external stimuli rather than adding more. Anthony of Egypt, often called the father of Christian monasticism, went into the desert specifically to escape the distractions of society. In the silence and simplicity of the desert, stripped of sensory overload, he found space to truly hear God.
The sayings of the Desert Fathers repeatedly emphasize silence. "I have often regretted having spoken, but never having remained silent," one elder said. For an autistic person who finds spoken language exhausting, who needs time to process thoughts internally before articulating them, this resonates deeply.
Their practices weren't about hating the world or other people. They were about recognizing that different nervous systems have different needs for encountering the Divine. In the desert's sensory simplicity—monotonous landscape, quiet, predictable routine—they found freedom to focus entirely on God without the constant drain of managing overwhelming input.
This has practical implications for my spiritual life. I've learned that my best times of prayer and Scripture reading happen in sensory-friendly environments: low lighting, silence or white noise, minimal visual clutter, predictable surroundings. This isn't spiritual weakness; it's understanding how God made my particular nervous system.
I've also learned to give myself permission to skip events that would drain me more than edify me. If a worship service would leave me so depleted that I'm useless for the rest of the day, it's okay to worship differently. I can read Scripture in a quiet room. I can pray while walking alone in nature. I can listen to theology podcasts at my own pace, pausing when I need to process complex ideas.
The Desert Fathers would understand this. They recognized that there are multiple valid paths to God, and that solitary contemplation is no less valuable than communal worship. In fact, they believed solitude was essential for developing the inner life that makes community meaningful.
This doesn't mean autistic Christians should all become hermits. Community matters. The Body of Christ needs all its members. But it does mean recognizing that "one size fits all" worship fails to account for neurodiversity. The Church should make room for both the communal celebration and the solitary silence, the sensory-rich and the sensory-simple.
When I read about Anthony spending decades in the desert, emerging occasionally to teach and then returning to solitude, I don't see pathological avoidance. I see someone who understood his needs and honored them in service of his relationship with God. When I read about the desert monastics' emphasis on quiet, routine, and simplicity, I see practices that would today be called "sensory regulation" and "creating a low-stimulation environment."
Perhaps the Desert Fathers were onto something that modern Christianity has forgotten in its emphasis on bigger, louder, more stimulating worship. Perhaps some of us are wired to need what they sought: space, silence, simplicity, and stillness. Perhaps these aren't signs of spiritual immaturity but different—and equally valid—paths to encountering the God who meets us where we are, as we are, in the way we need.