Radical openness

In the Mass we celebrate our deepest hopes and beliefs – but not everyone finds it easy to be still in the presence of the Lord. An autistic deacon seeks respect for all who struggle with social norms

A PARENT ONCE asked me: “Deacon Mark, what is expected of a child during Mass?” He had been referred to me by the diocese. His son, who is autistic, had been involved in an incident at a school Mass, after which the boy refused to return to church. The assumption – never quite stated, but clearly felt – was that he had behaved wrongly; that he had failed to meet expectations.

But what, precisely, are those expectations? And who decides them? More importantly, why was the child the only one expected to change? The Church mirrors society, and our parishes mirror our communities. The expectations we bring to Mass are shaped by assumptions about “normal” behaviour in public spaces. We rarely question those assumptions – still less notice whom they exclude.

In my ministry, I have encountered many individuals and families who feel pushed to the margins of parish life. This exclusion is almost never deliberate. It happens through glances, murmured comments, fraught expressions – a subtle but unmistakable withdrawal of welcome. A child calls out. A young woman stims in response to sensory overload. A teenager uses a fidget to regulate himself. None of these things fits the expected pattern, and so they are quietly corrected – or quietly judged.

We tell ourselves that everyone is welcome. But the experience of many autistic people suggests this is not necessarily so: you are welcome, but only so long as you behave like everyone else.

As an autistic person myself, I know how difficult – some- times impossible – it can be to recognise or conform to these unwritten rules. We may need to move, to make noise at unexpected moments or to regulate ourselves in ways that draw attention. We may feel overwhelmed by sound, smell or crowding. These are not acts of defiance; they are ways of coping. Yet they are often interpreted as disruption – and, very often, treated as such.

Every weekend, I serve as deacon at Mass, yet it remains a sensory battleground: the sound, the smells, the movement and the closeness of people are always on the verge of becoming overwhelming. Usually, as in any situation involving other people, masking routines kick in. I try to appear composed. Even so, I can feel myself on the edge of losing focus, my mind threatening to spiral.

One Sunday, I closed my eyes at several points – something I have learned helps me decompress. At the church door afterwards, a parishioner asked whether I found Mass boring, having seen me sitting with my eyes shut, fiddling with my robes. Was I aware how irreverent that looked?

I do not believe it was said unkindly. But I remember the feeling of it – of having tried my best to participate in something that is, to me, of the highest significance, and still being found wanting. What was, for me, an effort to cope and remain spiritually, mentally and emotionally present was seen simply as a failure – a mark of disrespect. It left me with a quiet but persistent question: whether there was, in fact, a place for me there at all.

No one intends to ostracise. Yet good intentions do not prevent this happening. When participation in the liturgy depends on conforming to neurotypical norms, the Church risks becoming a place where some people learn, very quickly, that they do not belong.

The gospels present a stark challenge to this. Jesus does not ask people to meet social expectations before approaching him. Again and again, he resists attempts to control access or impose conditions. When others seek to exclude, he rebukes them. His ministry is marked by a radical openness: people come as they are, not as others think they should be.

It is striking how often those closest to him struggle with this. The instinct to manage, to filter, to impose order – to decide who belongs and on what terms – is not new. But it is one that Jesus consistently refuses. And if that is so, then perhaps we are asking the wrong question.

Instead of asking “What is expected of an autistic child at Mass?”, we might begin by asking a more uncomfortable one: “What needs to change in our parishes so that this child can belong?”

That question shifts the burden – from the child to the community. It asks us not simply to make space, but to relinquish control over what “appropriate” participation looks like. This could be a moment of honesty for our parishes. Not simply to affirm that all are welcome, but to ask whether that welcome is actually experienced as such.

It begins with a simple, rarely asked question: “What do you need? What would help you to feel safe, calm, and able to take part?” And then, more challengingly still, with a willingness to accept the answer.

Mark Paine serves as a permanent deacon at Our Lady and St Rose of Lima, Weoley Castle and St Peter, Bartley Green in the Archdiocese of Birmingham.