I have many vivid memories of the blue fabric chairs lined in rows across the blue carpet in the modern sanctuary. Lots of them include sitting with my sister or watching my Dad play trombone in the church orchestra. Several include messages delivered from Pastor David, who commanded the pulpit with ease, authority, and confidence. The particular memory I recall today is a one-liner about failing to appear for your daily devotional time being the same as “standing God up.”
What was meant as an illustration about valuing scheduled time with God was interpreted literally by my young and neurodivergent brain. I envisioned God sitting on our front porch in one of the green and white plastic-wrapped chairs, sad and dejected that I had failed to show up.
This understanding of where one meets God and God’s requirements of us is too small for the expansive experience and presence of the Divine. But it was not an unusual portrayal for the conservative, evangelical church of my childhood. Theology aside, this simple one-liner implanted within my heart a seed of shame that continued to grow and thrive as I failed to meet the “qualifications” of a devoted Christian.
Rearranging my understanding of God and readjusting my expectations and application of faith practices have been life-altering and shame-reducing. So, instead of offering ADHD hacks for making faith practices a routine, I’d like to offer a few alternative practices where I have begun to release myself of rigid expectations and meet the Divine in the wilds of my ADHD.
How can one stand God up if God is everywhere? Perhaps I will not always be in the same place at the same time for God to find me, but God is also not always in the expected places.
Even the scriptures teach us this. Now, instead of focusing on being in one spot at the same time every day, I focus on being sensitive to all the unexpected places where God is revealed.
The ADHD brain is wired to pay attention to the new and novel. Therefore, unintentionally, my day is filled with Divine encounters.
A flash of sunlight thrown by blowing tree branches is a moment of prayer. A student rescuing a spider instead of stomping on it is an invitation to reflection. The bird song tuning out the preacher’s second point may also be revealing something of Christ.
My dog stops every several feet to smell something on our walk, and I learn something new about the depth of presence. I wash the dishes, and if there is any more mercy in the day, I find a new opportunity to pray.
Struggling through “dry” or “uninspiring” verses of the Bible is a hurdle all Christians must leap over, not just those of us with ADHD. But over the years, I have learned that while my brain may reread a passage seven times without a single ounce of comprehension, I can also rely on the joy of a “hyperfocus” to take me into biblical and theological study.
The ADHD brain can struggle with focus due to a lack of dopamine, which conversely means that whatever topic or task feels particularly engaging at the moment can become a “hyperfocus” as the brain hones in to enjoy the “dopamine hit.”
Rather than straining my relationship with scripture, several years ago I decided to read the Bible when the Spirit moved me. I would engage with study and theological materials as my interest arose, rather than as an obligation.
In complete honesty, I still struggle with approaching the scriptures. But when I do sit down to read, it is now because of love and interest, not shame, which makes these moments more open for the movement of the Spirit.
I frequently begrudge the routine of Sunday services. Depending on my mental health, work and social load, by the time I reach Sunday, I may be completely “out of spoons.” If it were not for my social and diligent husband, I would miss far more church than I do.
Adjusting my expectations of church and myself has helped me begin to heal my relationship with organized religion. While my husband has taught me the value of dedication and cooperation within our church community, therapy, life, mentors and teachers have taught me the equal value of applying God’s care to my direct and present needs.
Now, when Sunday rolls around, there are options and grace. I self-reflect on my physical, emotional and spiritual deficiencies and needs of the day.
Can I meet the demands of church attendance? If so, what do I need for myself that day?
Would I like to dress in a way that feels pretty and formal? Perhaps my best for God that day are my jeans and flip-flops.
Do I have the capacity to fix my hair and put on all my jewelry? Would it be best to sleep a bit longer, then get ready quickly?
Would a fancy cup of coffee from our local Scooters help me feel ready and focused? Do I need breakfast?
Would it be best to sit at the front or back? Did I pack a pen for doodling?
I have even released myself from the expectation of hearing every word. I do my best to listen, reminding myself to refocus when my mind wanders.
But the mental redirect is no longer the sharp jab of shame. I let what God needs me to hear come in through the squirming, doodling and wandering.
When the service is over, sometimes I mingle and enjoy the company of others. Sometimes, I begin my job of counting money right away.
In this layered approach, I give myself options. I give my body and brain the space to exist and communicate needs. And some Sundays, I even decided to stay home and worship among the piles of laundry.
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Erin is a current student at Campbell Divinity School, attending night classes for the Master of Arts in Christian Ministry. During the day, she participates in the holy work of teaching public school teenagers how to cook as a Family and Consumer Science teacher (formally known as Home Economics). A self-proclaimed Jack of all trades, Erin dabbles in an array of hobbies when school allows, including knitting, crocheting, spinning yarn, sewing, gardening, reading, writing, and, of course, cooking.
