On Faith and Belonging: Reflections from Tennessee's Disability Community

People tend to not understand the mental framework of an autistic individual. They see the meltdowns, the covering of the ears during loud performances, the tapping of the feet or being fidgety. These are things that are evident to an outside observer, but what’s going on that makes an autistic person behave in such a way? My goal as an advocate is to emphasize the need for a more inclusive environment in which autistic people can feel comfortable and welcome to participate in services and fellowship. But it’s difficult for many people to understand the importance of such adaptations.

For instance, oftentimes when someone brings up that the instruments are being played too loud during church service, they’re seen as wanting to dim the rejoicing of the word. Yet, if they wear noise canceling headphones/ear buds, they’re seen as intentionally blocking out the worship and being disrespectful. Additionally, fidgeting and stimming is viewed as highly disruptive. For autistic individuals, this behavior is a form of self-soothing for sensory and emotional regulation. It can include tapping feet, flapping hands, pacing back and forth, etc. Some Christians have the extreme view that it is evidence that the person is possessed by the devil and needs to be “tamed.” Others think it’s distracting and proof that the person isn’t paying attention to the message. These are but a few examples of misunderstandings about autism that I’ve witnessed. But what is missing in these interpretations is the understanding of how autism impacts our perception of the environment. Loud noises actually tend to reduce our enjoyment, not amplify the feeling of “the holy spirit.” Stimming allows us to adapt to the physical space we are in and regulate ourselves. If there is more awareness on why autistic people behave differently from others, it paves the way for acceptance.

What inspired me to be involved with disability ministries was the sense of discomfort I felt in a place where I was supposed to feel welcome. I noticed how others would judge and harshly label someone they viewed as being different for a myriad of reasons. Maybe their behavior was off-putting, or maybe they’re blind, physically disabled, etc. As I got older, my observations made me realize that it’s not that people innately have an aversion towards disabled people. Most people just don’t know how to approach or include them. When I first shared my testimonies of growing up feeling ostracized by my peers or the adults in my life, I fully expected to be made fun of because, from my perspective, people seemed to dislike me. To my surprise, people were sympathetic and astonished by my experiences and wanted me to delve deeper. Church members, family, friends, they were all eager to hear more because they truthfully didn’t know before. When you don’t understand the impact of sensory overload, being unable to control your hyperactivity, and feeling socially isolated, it’s easy to make assumptions on the outside presentation.

As an autistic individual, belonging in a church environment feels like being able to say no to things I dislike without being judged. Being able to say that something is too loud, or that I need personal space. For another person it may be being allowed to roam the halls without shame, or having their meltdowns be seen as information of need that’s not being met vs. a reason to be disciplined. Churches are making progress in that many offer headphones for loud music, and in congregations overall, being neurodivergent is less stigmatized. But there’s still much progress to be made in the advocacy and awareness of our struggles and what wider changes can be made on a systemic level. This is why I chose to dedicate my efforts to this ministry; in order to make people like myself be truly seen.

-Annabelle Brooks, disability ministries advocate

Mary Jane Owens is attributed to have said, “If bars are more accessible than altars, if theaters are more welcoming than churches, if the producers of PBS are more sophisticated about communication access than our liturgists, if the managers of department stores know better how to appeal to those with disabilities than our church leadership, if publishers of popular magazines are more knowledgeable about alternative formats than those who produce religious materials; then we have failed to meet Christ’s challenge to us all.” This is a challenge that continues to inspire me, as a father, neighbor, and friend, to learn how I can be an advocate so each person with a disability feels loved and welcomed.

Ableism, which is often seen as assumptions, structures, and practices that favor those with typical abilities and disadvantage individuals with disabilities, is a driving factor in why many places of worship and gatherings are often not prepared physically and attitudinally to welcome individuals with disabilities. My realization of this ingrained bias came when I began my ministry as a young pastor and had an interesting encounter with one of my elders. He would often attend late to services, and on one particular worship experience, he shared that it was a very difficult morning as he had to spend extra time with his child with special needs. Though he tried to explain to me in the best way he knew how, his words went right over my head. I showed no empathy and an unwillingness to learn more about the situation.

Well, it just so happened that a few years later, I stood facing some members who had a difficult time handling the movements from my neurodivergent child. I tried explaining the need for patience, but as I faced people who were apparently indifferent to my situation, my words went right over their heads. I was upset, but as I went home and prayed about the matter, I sensed God reminding me of the same callousness I had towards the elder. That day, I felt impressed that, instead of becoming bitter toward others, the Lord wanted me to educate myself and learn to bring awareness to various circles.

Because of my daughter's experience, I pursued my doctoral studies on ways the church can make room for individuals with disabilities. Upon completing my doctoral program, my local Church Conference, which oversees several churches in Georgia and Tennessee, asked me to serve as the Disabilities Ministries Coordinator in 2023. Since that time, I have had the privilege of addressing our children’s ministries directors and young adult leaders, hosting seminars, and seeing our Conference provide subsidies to churches seeking to update their bathrooms, entrances, and sanctuaries to be ADA-compliant.

Disability ministries is critical to faith families, as it helps the body of Christ to be a community that celebrates and values each person's abilities. For a church to say we have no room and patience to celebrate and welcome into their midst someone with a disability prevents that church from experiencing the fruit of the Spirit. How can you gain patience, love, and gentleness when the church rejects some of the greatest disciple-makers that God has strategically placed in our lives?

I mentioned disciple-makers because what can you teach a blind person about faith when, daily, they navigate spaces where they trust various individuals? What can you say to a person who has Down syndrome about love, when so often they love the same people who mock them? What can you teach a person about patience to a person who is unable to move from their bed, while the world went insane during the early days of the pandemic when so many longed to go to their usual stores?

My daughter, and countless others with visible and hidden disabilities, are my greatest teachers about the characteristics of God. They remind us of what love is all about, and by their presence, the church is richer, brighter, better. My daughter, now a young adult, is making her presence felt by advocating for individuals with disabilities and doing what she can to ensure the church is a place that welcomes them.

-Shaun Brooks, Disability Ministries Coordinator, Georgia-Cumberland Conference of Seventh-day Adventists

I feel like I belong at my church. I go to Baptist church. They have special needs church group called Sonshine that I am very involved in the group. I love the church that I go to and feel like I belong and feel like I am heard too. I go to different church then my mom and dad. They usually drop me off and come pick me up after. And I feel like I fit into that church. I have started to make some good friends in my Sunday school class. I love the music there.

- Katie Moore, Council member, Lenoir City

My last faith community followed the Protestant path and was highly charismatic in practice. While officially the community's position was that neither disability nor illness were punishments, there was a tiring undercurrent that the longer a person's "healing" was delayed, the more that person needed to look "inward" for the reason. It was a big disappointment, and one of several reasons I ended up leaving that faith community.

I have a specific example of a couple whose son has cerebral palsy. This happened about 18 years ago. The boy's dad was a pastor at the church and seemed more at peace with his son's CP. The boy's mom seemed to view her son's healing as an expectation. I was on the ministry team at the time. At his mom's request, I had prayed a number of times for her son. The time that I remember the most was a time of group prayer that I was asked to participate in for the young man. I joined the group, but after the initial prayers, which focused more on blessing the young man and speaking words of encouragement and destiny to him, I faded to the background when the prayers for healing began. The longer the prayers continued with no "healing" happening, it seemed to distress the young man. More senior pastoral care folks noticed his distress and began to wrap up the prayer session. Whether the group meant to or not, this experience sent three messages:

1) The young man was not who he was created to be because he had CP.

2) Disability was something to be healed from.

3) Maybe something in the young man or in his family was blocking his "healing," which ultimately seemed to place blame on him and/or his family.

- Alicia Cone, Director of Program Operations, Council on Developmental Disabilities

I asked my daughter Becca what it was like to be part of our church as a person with a disability. Becca thought for a moment and said, “I love being myself, and I love being part of a community. Sometimes, though, those two don’t fit together perfectly.”

Becca was born about 12 weeks early, weighed less than a pound, and spent 123 days in the neonatal ICU. It was touch and go for a long time. We’ve been to countless doctor and therapy appointments, but today, Becca is thriving and just started senior year of high school. Becca’s disabilities include cerebral palsy, sensory issues, neurodiversity, and being hard of hearing. As Becca’s quote indicates, all of that can sometimes make it difficult for them to access their environment and fully participate in the life of the community.

As a parent, some of my deepest desires are for all of our children to know that they are loved and valued and for them to find real connection with others in community. I know Becca has found these through church, even if it’s not always a perfect fit.

As a pastor, I have those same hopes for members of my church to know they are loved and valued and to find meaningful connections. I remind our congregation every week that there is a place for everyone at our church. Do we always fully embody that sentiment? Of course not – we’re only human. But when we do, it is beautiful.

Our facility was built before codes required elevators. Several years ago, though, the church raised money to install an elevator and make our space more accessible. When two church members started using wheelchairs, volunteers modified some of the pews in the sanctuary to create better space for our members to use. We now use closed captioning during the worship service at the request of a member who is hard of hearing. We recently remodeled the sanctuary and named accessibility as one of our leading values for the work to be done. We widened all the aisles, installed flexible seating, reduced trip hazards, improved lighting, and invested in the sound system.

These are all physical manifestations of a deeper commitment by our community of faith to welcome and include all people. I have been so impressed by the adults who work with our children and youth. If a young person needs to take a sensory break, they can do that. If we need to modify an activity so that everyone can participate, we do that.

Each year, our church hosts an Easter Egg Hunt for the neighborhood. A couple of years ago, a child who uses a wheelchair attended, and their caregiver had to pick them up and carry them down some steps to participate. After that, we rethought the layout and spaces we use to make it easier for someone using a wheelchair to participate. As Becca said, it wasn’t a perfect fit to begin with, but we’re putting forth an effort to make it better.

Like Becca, I know many people have encountered situations at faith communities that haven’t been a perfect fit. I can’t speak for everyone, but I think most faith communities genuinely want to be a welcoming place and are willing to work to make that a reality. Often, we simply don’t know any better. We are grateful for the opportunities to discover ways we can improve and for the grace that is extended to us as we address our oversights and try to grow.

When Becca was in elementary school, they had a difficult time sitting still through an entire worship service. Sometimes, Becca would get up and move about the sanctuary during the service, including walking up to the front where I would be leading worship. One Sunday, Becca came up by the altar while I was celebrating the liturgy for holy communion, twirled around, and knocked over a chalice full of grape juice. Without missing a beat, a member of the choir grabbed a towel and helped Becca to get cleaned up, literally washing Becca’s feet. No judgment; simply coming alongside to care. Maybe not a perfect fit, but a loving one for sure.

-John Hill, Senior Pastor, Crievewood United Methodist Church

James was born in Dickson and has attended the Walnut Street Church of Christ for his entire life – three times a week. :) When he was born, it wasn’t just John and I that had a child with Down syndrome – our congregation welcomed “their” son, who had a disability. Throughout his life, James has had Bible class teachers and youth leadership that has been open to his full participation. Along the way, John and I have plugged in as support and chaperones as needed, which has been substantial, but not beyond reasonable.

I quizzed James about church. Here are some of his comments. “I feel happy at church. I get to lead prayer, read the Bible and help with VBS. Everyone knows my name and asks about my life - my school and my job - and is happy for me. People talk to me about their lives and problems. I feel loved.”

-Robyn Lampley, Partners in Policymaking® graduate

Faith has always meant more to me than religion to me. Growing up in a Hindu family, spirituality was a personal journey shaped by individual beliefs rather than strict practices and faith beliefs. As someone of mixed cultural heritage family, who later married into a traditional family with a different language and culture, and only to live across in a new country for the last 15 years, finding a sense of belonging within a faith community has not always been easy. Even within the same religion, cultural, regional, and linguistic differences can sometimes create barriers. Raising a child with a disability has added another layer of isolation, making it difficult at times to feel fully included in traditional faith spaces.

Yet these challenges have also helped me rediscover what faith and community truly mean. One religious scripture, Bhagavad Gita, states that a wise person “sees the Self in all beings and all beings in the Self,” and while another text (Upanishad) reminds us that or “the world is one family.” These teachings have shaped my understanding of belonging. My faith may not be rooted in religion, but in humanity, empathy, kindness, and shared understanding. For me, a faith community is not defined solely by rituals or traditions, but by creating a safe and supportive space where people are accepted, valued, and able to be their authentic selves. Through the last few years, I have built a village and a community of caregivers to specially-needs children where we have faith in each other and belong to a community that transcends race, religion, and faith.

- Nidhi Mali, Partners in Policymaking® graduate

For families of individuals with special needs, finding a church where everyone truly belongs can make all the difference. It is about more than having a wheelchair ramp, a special classroom, or a volunteer who is willing to help. It is about knowing that your family is seen, valued, loved, and welcomed exactly as you are.

We have been members of Hope Church since 2001, and shortly afterwards, they started their special needs program. Over the years, the ministry has grown into something that has touched not only our family but also countless families throughout Shelby County. In fact, many special needs families came to Hope Church because their church told them to leave. They told the parents that their child was disruptive and that they could not handle them. I can truly see why families would just stay home.

Today, I have the privilege of serving as the Director of Special Needs at Hope Church, a position I have held for the past four years. Serving in this role has given me an even greater appreciation for what families need from their church. Special needs ministry is not simply about caring for an individual with a disability. It is about nurturing the whole family.

Families may face challenges that others never see: constant planning, appointments, caregiving responsibilities, financial pressures, emotional exhaustion, and worry about what the future will hold. Sometimes families simply need someone to say, “We see you. You are not alone. Your family matters to us.” That is what we strive to provide at Hope.

Through Macky and Friends, our special needs ministry, we serve children, adults, and their families with a variety of abilities and needs. We work to create opportunities for worship, friendship, fellowship, Bible study, recreation, and community. Our goal is not simply to provide a separate place for individuals with special needs. Our goal is to help them become an important and valued part of the larger church family.

We believe every person has God-given gifts, purpose, and value. Every individual deserves the opportunity to worship, learn, serve, make friends, and grow in faith.

Hope Church has been a blessing to our family for more than two decades. Now, through my role as Director of Special Needs, I am honored to help extend that same sense of belonging to other families throughout Shelby County.

-Donna Nasso, Council member, Memphis

My family and I are Sikhs, and we moved to the United States about 20 years ago. When our younger son was diagnosed with autism, ADHD, developmental delays, and other complex needs, our world was shaken. Like many parents, we were overwhelmed by fear, uncertainty, and questions about why this was happening to our child. For a time, my faith was deeply tested.

What helped restore it was the love and acceptance we experienced from our Sikh community. One day, when he was still a toddler, an elderly gentleman at our gurdwara quietly watched him playing and called my husband over. He said, “This boy is here to live his life. Feed him like you are raising a wrestler, take exceptional care of him, and leave the rest to the Almighty.” He knew nothing about autism or the challenges that lay ahead, yet somehow, he saw strength, joy, and possibility in my son before we could see it ourselves. Those words became a turning point for our family.

As more people learned about his disabilities, we were met not with judgment, but with compassion, encouragement, and prayers. Because of his sensory challenges, Kabir cannot tolerate covering his head, an important practice in Sikh worship. Yet not once has anyone made us feel unwelcome. Instead, people smile, embrace him, ask about him, and remind us, “Keep bringing him. He belongs here.”

Sikhism teaches that the Divine light exists within every person. Through him, I have come to understand that teaching more deeply than ever before. Our faith community may not be able to remove the challenges we face, but it has given us something equally powerful: the comfort of knowing that countless people are praying for our son, believing in him, and cheering him on. Their acceptance helped transform my fear into faith and my grief into purpose. It inspired me to spend my life helping other families. Belonging, for me, is knowing that my child is seen not for his diagnosis, but for who he truly is: a beloved child of the Creator, worthy of love, dignity, and joy, exactly as he was meant to be.

- Mandeep Nerwal, Partners in Policymaking® graduate

Not too long ago, I went to temple with my partner at the time, believing it would be different enough from the churches and religion of my childhood not to bother me. Twenty minutes in, I had to leave – not because I was asked to, this time, but because of a panic attack. It was the kind built from too many experiences to name or remember, coming to the surface again. I spent the rest of the service in the reception hall, listening through the doors. Years before, I’d had the same experience in a Unitarian Universalist church. A pew is a pew is a pew, as it turns out.

The experience of listening from the outside was not new to me. At age 11, in a church, I was not allowed to see the play of Christ being born. I was kept in the kitchen with two much younger children while everyone my age was inside. I could kind of hear it through the door, but nobody explained why I was not allowed to be present with everyone else. I have pieced it together since: I was considered strange. My hair was too short. I moved too much. I expressed myself in odd ways. I did not act or look how I was “supposed” to. I did not know the word for what I felt that night. I only felt it.

Some part of me still stands in a kitchen, listening.

It did not start that way. The first book I learned to read at five was the King James Version Bible, even if I did not understand what this whole “begetting” business was about.

I was baptized at seven, of my own volition. I wanted to be closer to God and washed clean of my sins. I also wanted to be included, not just with God but with my own congregation. The water was warm, and everyone was pleased with me for wanting something so serious, so young. For a very short while, that felt like belonging.

As I grew older, I retained the privilege of inclusion – so long as they were gathering around me to pray away whatever made me “that way.” It happened more times than I can count, in more churches than I can name. Usually it was to be “healed.” Sometimes it was more; the pastor and the people around me, surrounding me, telling the demons to be cast out. To this day, I do not know what all they hoped to cast out. Sometimes it feels like what they really wanted to cast out was just me.

From 13 to 17, I went to a church of mostly older people and young kids who came, at least partly, for the free breakfast and the fact that a bus would come and pick them up. I got on that bus by choice, every time. I liked the breakfasts. I liked wearing casual clothes. I liked the bus drivers, Mr. and Mrs. Ford, retired teachers who never much cared how loud a bus full of kids got. Mrs. Ford taught me to crochet to give me something to do with my hands. None of that was theology. Welcome turned out to be that simple.

One morning before service, a woman who helped with the band was setting up instruments. I was fidgeting as I do often, stepping side to side, to and fro. She grabbed my face, gripping my jaw, and said:

“Behave.”

I can still hear the tone. I can still feel her hand. Until that moment, I had just been existing. After it, I knew the way I existed was not compatible with goodness in their eyes. I could never fully comply, partly because of my disabilities, and partly because of everything else that made me who I am.

These days, I don’t know what I believe when it comes to spiritual context. I think there must be some kind of heaven, if only because it doesn’t seem right for Dolly Parton to have gone anywhere else. The biggest thing I lost for a long time, however, was not a belief in God. It was belief in people.

I was included at every one of those churches. I was in the building. I was often in the center of the prayer circle. But belonging is being wanted there as you are – not as the person you might become in answer to others’ prayers.

I found my belief in people again in a place with no pews. At the Council, I get to see love for disabled people reflected back at me, strongly and daily. I get to see people who own what they work toward so completely that there is no gap between what they say and what they do. So many of them have a faith of their own that intersects with disability, as well, as evidenced by the stories in this magazine. They have never once gathered around me to fix me. They gather around the work.

I know now what the difference between being prayed over and being worked beside feels like. The door I finally walked through was not a sanctuary door. It was an office door, and it was open.

-Dirk Strider, Communications Coordinator, TN Council on Developmental Disabilities

My family’s faith experience has changed a great deal over the past decade. When my children were young, our family was heavily involved in a local church in the Christian denomination my husband and I were both raised in. We taught classes, served in leadership roles, and attended faithfully. In those early years, we experienced a great deal of belonging. Our social and spiritual worlds centered there.

But as our children grew, their disabilities began to have a greater influence on our participation. There is no simple narrative of how we grew away from the community where we belonged for so many years. It was a combination of factors, including physical distance when we moved to a better school district for our daughter. But after years of struggling to find a place with children who didn’t fit the mold, we were on the margins and craving something more genuine. After creating and leading a disabilities ministry program, we were burned out and yearning for more transformative change.

Today, our faith remains, but we count ourselves part of a much wider community. Some of our relationships from church have continued, and we still attend services occasionally. We continue to observe a weekly Sabbath rest. But spiritual community happens for us now in ways that depend less on a building or institution. I wouldn’t say that where we’ve landed is perfect. There are things we miss about regular church involvement. But we believe that we see every day the ways God is present and working in our family, even when that looks a lot different than we expected.

- Jolene Sharp, Chief Strategy Officer, Council on Developmental Disabilities