Autism Awareness Month | Sacred Support Systems for Children with Autism

What Happens to Our Children When We Tear Down the System That Supports Them?

By Rev. Dr. Jason Edwards

 

Before I’m a pastor, I’m a father. As a father to a child on the autism spectrum, I’ve come to believe some of the most important ministers in our lives don’t wear robes or stand in pulpits. They walk the halls of our public schools—guiding, supporting and believing in our children when the world doesn’t always know how.

People like Pat Jones, Jackson’s former speech pathologist at Franklin Elementary, and Sean Lawler, his current advisor at Liberty North High School, have been instruments of God’s grace in our son’s life. Their wisdom, care and deep commitment to understanding and advocating for Jackson as a whole person have shaped not just his educational experience, but his capacity to thrive.

In our family, we see their work as sacred. They’ve supported not just our child, but us, with skill, compassion and steady faithfulness.

That kind of support doesn’t happen by accident. It’s made possible by systems, training, resources and protections that are now under threat, which is why this moment is so alarming.

In recent weeks, the Department of Education has faced a serious threat of being dismantled, following an executive order that initiated the process. At the same time, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to halt more than $600 million in federal education funding cuts, including to programs that support special education teacher training.

These aren’t just line items on a budget. They’re the very tools that allow people like Pat and Sean to do what they do so well.

This isn’t political theater for families like ours. It’s personal. It’s also deeply spiritual.

At the core of our Christian faith is a call to see and uplift those the world overlooks. Jesus never measured worth by productivity or compliance. He met people where they were. He told stories where the smallest seed carried the kingdom of God, and the one lost sheep mattered more than the ninety-nine.

That’s how I see my son. That’s how I see so many other children like him. 

And that’s how I’ve come to see the people who support him: not as bureaucrats or service providers, but as sacred coworkers in the care of God’s beloved children. Their witness includes the hard, unglamorous work of tracking student progress, adjusting interventions and walking with students week after week.

Jackson’s advisor, Sean Lawler, recently completed a graduate research project on math interventions for students with specific learning disabilities. His findings were clear: students showed real, measurable growth when interventions were scaffolded into the core curriculum and reinforced through small-group instruction.

The success wasn’t just academic. It was the fruit of faithful, sustained care, and the belief that every child bears the image of God and is worthy of the support it takes to thrive. 

The language of “local control” may sound appealing, but it often translates to inconsistency. It means children with atypical abilities may receive wildly different levels of support depending on where they live. It means families like ours may lose the federal protections that ensure our children are not just accommodated, but seen.

A school counselor recently said to me, “Even if the Department of Education is dismantled, teachers will keep fighting for our Special Education and English as a Second Language kids—but not if there’s no funding to pay them.”

That’s the heartbreak of this moment: faithful educators stand ready to fill the gap, but passion alone can’t carry what policy abandons.

Dr. Sheryl Ferguson, Assistant Director for Special Services in our district, put it even more plainly: “I’ve worked in three different districts in this area—all with similar levels of funding. But the resources allotted for special education vary dramatically.”

She’s right. Even among neighboring districts, the difference in paraprofessional support, accessibility and implementation of Individualized Education Plans can be vast. When federal safeguards disappear, the baseline of protections and support that ensures students with disabilities aren’t overlooked disappears with them.

Our church has been working to become more welcoming to families with children who are neurodivergent. But I’ve learned that even the most inclusive congregation can’t replace a trained educator. It can’t replicate the gift of a counselor who knows how to guide an anxious child. It can’t fill the role of an aide who learns your child’s unique rhythm.

This moment requires more than internal reform. It demands moral clarity and public courage.

It’s not enough to say we care about children with special needs. We must be willing to fight for the systems that support them and for the grace-filled people within those systems who quietly change lives every single day.

There’s a verse that pulls on me in moments like these: “To whom much is given, much is required.” (Luke 12:48)

As people of faith, and as a society, we’ve been given much—knowledge, capacity, and the ability to build systems of care and accountability. We are responsible not only for our own children, but also for the children of others, especially those who have historically had to fight just to be included.

This is not just about my son. It’s about every family walking this road. 

And it’s about whether we, as a nation and as people of faith, will show up—not just in word, but in practice—for the children, the counselors, and the systems that make their thriving possible. Because if we don’t stand up for them, who will?

—

After I finished writing this article, I shared it with Jackson. He read it slowly, beaming at the parts where I named the people who’ve shaped his journey.

Then, with the thoughtful pause that often comes before he says something important, he looked up and asked, “If you decide to submit this, could I write an article from my perspective and submit it with yours?” I answered, “Of course,” without hesitation.

What follows is Jackson’s voice—honest, grounded, and wise in a way that always surprises me. I wish everyone could know him like we do. I wish the people making decisions about how we support our children on the autism spectrum could listen to someone who lives it with grace and grit every single day.

 

We Must Tell the Truth about Autism

by Jackson Edwards

A few weeks ago, the Trump administration signed an executive order transferring the program that manages funds for student assistance under the Individuals with Disabilities Act (IDEA) to the Department of Health and Human Services. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. (RFK) directs this department.

In an April 16 press conference, RFK said that autism is an epidemic. He said people with autism will never be able to get a job or pay taxes, and that they won’t even be able to use a toilet unassisted.

He has also stated, without evidence, that vaccines cause autism. It was proven decades ago that there is no connection between the two.

RFK doesn’t have a professional degree in science or medicine, and I don’t know if he even knows anyone with autism. 

I believe it is important for people who are making decisions about autism to actually know and have a conversation with people who have autism. If I could sit down with RFK, I would want him to know a few things about myself.

I’m a sophomore at Liberty North High School in Liberty, Missouri. I am active in my youth group at Second Baptist Church in Liberty, Missouri, where my dad is the pastor. My mom is a chaplain at Children’s Mercy Hospital in Kansas City. I am their oldest child and have two siblings, Luke and Norah. We have two dogs, Wesley and Annie.

I’m passionate about history and social justice, and have always been interested in politics. Around middle school, I decided I wanted to be a politician. I realized it was a way to get things done.

When I was in third or fourth grade, my parents told me I had autism.

Since I was a child, I’ve rocked back and forth when I sit down. I also often run around in circles. This is called “stimming,” which is something I do to release stress and process my thoughts.

I have never really thought about how other people don’t do these things. I just knew I was different.

Because of my autism, I have a very good memory. Some people may laugh at this, but those around me know they can rely on my memory to help them remember things.

My church has been a place that values people with different backgrounds and abilities. We have issued a statement welcoming people of all backgrounds. In my youth group, I am treated like everyone else.

School is also a place where I feel welcome.

I struggle to focus, which is especially difficult in school. When I’m working on something I’m not passionate about, it’s challenging to pay attention to it.

In some of my classes, paraprofessionals work alongside other teachers to help me stay focused. When I’m struggling with my work, I can raise my hand and they will come to help me. They also support several other students in our classes. When I think about these people who dedicate their lives to making me feel welcome, it makes me feel happy.

RFK needs to know my autism is not part of an epidemic. I am not sick. Neurodivergence is not a disability.

In an ideal world, people with autism will be accepted for who they are. They will have all the aid they need. They should be able to do what they want in life, whether that’s being a doctor, a teacher, or even a politician. I hope one day all these things will happen.

For that to happen, we must begin telling the truth about autism.