hiding in plain sight

 

Here is the text of a paper I gave today at the Neurodiversity and the Role of Language in Church conference. It expands on thoughts I have shared at earlier times on social media and/or my blog.

 

Hiding in plain sight: neurodivergent insights in encountering the Word beyond words
Revd Dr Andrew C Dowsett

Abstract

Ancient Hebrew has a far more limited vocabulary than twenty-first century English, with many instances of words that have more than one meaning (semantic range). Typical translation asks, ‘Which of the possible meanings makes the most sense in this context?’ excluding other possibilities and concealing more meaning than it reveals. As a neurodivergent preacher, I find this typical approach to have an impoverished appreciation of the Story. Instead, I seek to hold divergent readings together, making visible the shimmering presence that lies beyond the ‘normal’ range of perception. In this paper, I will consider two stories of encountering God at Sinai/Horeb (Exodus 19.18 and 1 Kings 19.4-8) the mountain where God simultaneously reveals/conceals himself. Furthermore, it is typically assumed that autistic people cannot understand metaphor. The reality is far more complex. I propose that autistic use of metaphor plays a role in navigating between masking and unmasking in our congregations.

 

I am a Church of England vicar, and in this capacity have offered reflections on passages from the Bible, for a congregation, at least two or three times a week for the past seventeen years. But I have lived with—and within—these sacred texts for over fifty years. I am also autistic—probably AuDHD—with cooccurring dyslexia and dyspraxia. Dyspraxia in particular affects how I read, needing to expend measurable time and energy recalling the meaning of every word, rather than scanning sentences for meaning.

Ancient Hebrew has a far more limited vocabulary than twenty-first century English, and (at least proportionally) more instances of words that have more than one meaning (semantic range). Dominant, neurotypical translation asks, “which of the possible meanings of this word makes the most sense in this context?” ruling out other possibilities.

But this results in both a ‘revealed’ meaning and a ‘concealed’ meaning or hidden meanings. And I am drawn to what is concealed. Indeed, I find the ‘Select one’ approach an impoverished reading or appreciation of the Story. Instead, I seek to hold divergent readings together, making visible the shimmering presence that lies beyond the ‘normal’ range of perception. Language conveys our understanding of the world, and I would contend that ancient Hebrew works at both a literal/material and metaphorical/spiritual level. In my experience—perhaps ironically—neurotypical readers tend to read ‘literally’ (“the plain thing is the main thing”) and fail to appreciate the metaphorical.

In Exodus 19.18 Yahweh descends on Mount Sinai. The NRSVA offers us:

‘Now Mount Sinai was wrapped in smoke, because the Lord had descended upon it in fire; the smoke went up like the smoke of a kiln, while the whole mountain shook violently.’

Here we have a theophany, which is simultaneously a revealing and concealing of God, and a masking which we might be encouraged to understand as an accommodation of human frailty in the presence of the divine.

But the Hebrew word ‘ashan’ can mean ‘smoke’ or also ‘anger.’ At least, it is translated as smoking anger elsewhere (Deuteronomy 29.20; Psalm 74.1; Psalm 80.4). So, when we come across it in relation to Mount Sinai, we might read:

‘Now Mount Sinai was altogether angry, because the god Yahweh had descended upon it like fire; it’s anger like the smoke rising from a kiln, the whole mountain so angry it shook.’

Clearly, a mountain cannot be angry in a material sense, and so ‘wrapped in smoke’ is the most obvious or revealed telling. But from a poetic perspective, mountains can be angry. Or, in a non-Western worldview that understands natural or human-made objects and places to be by some manner (whether inherent or conferred) ‘animated,’ spiritually, it makes sense.

So, this gives us a concealed meaning, one that invites us to wonder why a mountain should respond to God’s arrival with anger?

Much is made in the surrounding context of ‘the third day,’ which echoes the third day of creation, when God separated dry land from the sea and called forth vegetation of all kinds and in particular fruit bearing, seed carrying plants;

but the mountain is barren, has in a sense chosen to reject the liberty God had in mind for it—

or has not been able to flourish as we would assume flourishing might look like, if we employ too-narrow a definition—

all of which makes it an interesting choice of venue to present a newly liberated people with Ten Words, the seeds for fruitful living.

This concealed reading—an angry mountain; or an overwhelmed mountain having an autistic meltdown, perhaps—also invites us to ponder when God might have turned up in our lives and we have responded with anger, or meltdown? And, why we—or perhaps someone we know and love; perhaps a member of our family, or congregation—were angry, or overwhelmed?

But if the mountain is angry—violently angry—perhaps Yahweh masks himself in fire for self-preservation? Or if the mountain is overwhelmed and having a meltdown, perhaps Yahweh wraps it in a weighted blanket and sits with it until it is brought back to a place of emotional regulation?

This example of a pattern of linguistic simultaneous revealing and concealing also invites us to reflect on how we—who are made in the likeness of God—approach others, unsure of whether we will be received or rejected.

There is much talk in neurodivergent circles of autistic masking and unmasking. Is autistic masking—usually understood as the attempt to pass as neurotypical—a necessary survival mechanism; or ongoing violence against the self; or both of these things: in Jungian terms a ‘false self,’ constructed in youth to conceal the ‘shadow self’ we do not wish the world to see, because we are ashamed or because we are uncertain; which served us until we are ready to throw it off, revealing our ‘true self,’ created and given by God? And is autistic masking the only form of mask autistic people employ?

The use of masks—perhaps various masks—to both present something of who we are and hold something of who we are back is a human impulse that, arguably, reflects a divine impulse. Choosing when we unmask is also an act that, arguably, reflects a divine process.

Masks do not in themselves deny our true selves. They can help to broker relationships, while setting wise boundaries of un/availability to others. They can help us explore aspects of our identity we have previously failed to explore. They can make the most sense in a given context, or cause confusion; they can create dissonance that opens up possibility. They can be playful, as God is playful; protect us, as God is vulnerable; or protect the other, as God is careful.

What will I choose to reveal, and to conceal, about myself today?

Long after Moses, the prophet Elijah will find himself on the same ‘angry’ or perhaps autistic mountain. That this is where, yet again, Yahweh chooses to meet with mortals, created in his image, embracing a fullness of neurodiversity. That this is where Yahweh feels most at home.

The NRSVA renders 1 Kings 19.4-8 this way:

‘But he himself went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die: ‘It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors.’ Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, ‘Get up and eat.’ He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones, and a jar of water. He ate and drank, and lay down again. The angel of the Lord came a second time, touched him, and said, ‘Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.’ He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food for forty days and forty nights to Horeb the mount of God.’

Let’s break that down, reading each word for meaning, for semantic range.

Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’

The word for ‘wilderness’ or ‘desert’ (‘midbar’) is, at root, also the word for ‘mouth’ or ‘speech.’ This is both fascinating and unsurprising, as the wilderness is the place where God speaks, or, more accurately, where humans speak with God.

The word for ‘journey’ (‘derek’) is also the word for ‘Way,’ as in a way of life, which is worked out through conversation—which is also the same word.

The word for ‘day’ (‘yom’) is also the word for ‘daily.’

So, at a literal/material level, Elijah ‘went a day’s journey into the wilderness.’ And at a metaphorical/spiritual level, it is Elijah’s practice to be in daily conversation with God.

We would call that prayer.

Now, some would argue that we work out which of the possible meanings a word should be given by the context. But I would argue that where a word can be understood in more than one way, it should be understood in more than one way. Because the context for the spiritual is always material, and the material is always spiritual. They belong together.

So, I would take it at face value that Elijah, whose practice it was to be in daily conversation with God, took a walk into the wilderness.

And there he sat down under a broom tree.

Now, the broom tree also appears in Job chapter 30 and Psalm 120. For Job it is a symbol of those expelled by society, which Job applies to himself to say he feels rejected by God. Psalm 120 links the wood of the broom tree, which was prized for how well it burned, with a peacemaker dwelling amongst those who hate peace.

This is where Elijah chooses to sit down, to stop walking on the way, to end his conversation. He has had enough.

Autistic people certainly identify with feeling expelled by society; and some may feel rejected by God. We can also identify with a deep awareness of injustice and of the call to be a peacemaker, and of experiencing burnout. We don’t need to claim Elijah as one of our own, having an autistic shutdown, to claim the broom tree as autistic metaphor.

God sends a messenger, an ambassador, who comes to Elijah as he sleeps, breaks off some branches from the broom tree, heats some flat stones on them, and bakes flat bread on the stones. (I love cake, but it is a misleading translation.) That is to say, God answers Elijah (who was not asking a question or seeking a continuation of their conversation) with food and drink. Again, I would take this at both a material and a spiritual level. Sustenance for body and soul.

Elijah awoke, ate and drank, and lay down again to sleep. Later, the ambassador returns, wakes him again, provides him with more food and water, and tells him that he needs to eat and drink if he is to have the strength that he needs to undergo the journey ahead of him. The word ‘strength’ (‘koach’) also means ‘chameleon.’ Weird, huh?

That journey takes him to Horeb, the mountain of the Lord. ‘Horeb’ means ‘desolate.’ God waits for us in the place of our desolation. In the place where nothing else can console us. God waits for us, and, moreover, sustains us on the conversation that will bring us to that place, to confront ourselves, stripped of all the many outer layers with which we have tried to blend in, to mask ourselves. Chameleon.

But that masking has served a purpose; is strength to us. In the verses that follow, Yahweh employs wind so strong that it splits mountains and breaks rocks; earthquake; and fire as masks; before finally revealing himself most personally in sheer silence. In an entirely voluntary mutism, after unmasking layer upon layer, and before Yahweh invites Elijah into verbal conversation. Is Yahweh making sure that Elijah is a safe person to open up to? Or is this the shadow self, embraced, integrated; wholeness, modelled?

In the past it was assumed that autistic people struggle with metaphor, indeed that this was a classic hallmark of autism. And, of course, some autistic people do. But others are comfortable with metaphor—and if, like me, you have swum in these sacred stories for a lifetime, that may be even more likely. I want to suggest, as more recent research is also verifying, that many of us are highly skilled in creating, or pattern-recognising, our own metaphors. Metaphor is not simply a stylistic choice, but a linguistic way of ordering the world we encounter. And if we encounter the world differently, we need different metaphors—metaphors which add to the richness of a neurodiversity of interpretation.

Of course we understand that God is our Rock (and that he isn’t, literally, one of the rocks in my rock collection on my bookshelf). But we also offer the neurodivergent mountain. We offer—using pattern recognition—the broom tree as metaphor for autistic experience, not simply literal/material detail providing shade and fuel. We offer wind, earthquake, and fire as metaphors for masking, and unmasking—which may help us to navigate our own choices to mask and unmask before others, when we preside as autistic priests, or come to public worship as neurodivergent persons. We offer the brilliant and adaptable chameleon of strength—what neurotypical mind would ever coin ‘the strength of a chameleon’ over the unimaginative ‘courage of a lion’?

In my own experience, neurotypical readers are at least as likely as neurodivergent readers to view our sacred texts through a literal lens—to veer towards fundamentalist interpretations: to view Genesis chapter 1 as literal science and history; rather than literally, as poetry and theology. I believe that neurodivergent readings can open up space for those who have felt excluded to find room. Moreover, I believe that neurodivergent readings can help us all, revealing that which has been overlooked because it is hiding in plain sight; making visible the shimmering presence that lies beyond the ‘normal’ range of perception; reclaiming a world that is, in fact, more substantial than the superficial illusion daily presented to us. Our insights are a gift from God, to be shared with others.