Holding on to a God I can't see
Conversations with Matthew #2
[I’m introducing a new feature with this post—article voiceovers—for those who prefer to listen to content. Enjoy!]
Since early 2020, I’ve been DMing with a follower on X named Matthew about Christian faith. He asks great questions—ones I suspect others wrestle with too—so I’m sharing some of our exchanges here. Recently, he asked:
How can you have a relationship with someone [God] you never see or talk to? It doesn’t seem very real.
This question reminds me of a confession I stumbled across on X by “Steve,” an ex-Catholic who realized he never really had faith—he had a system. His story hit home for me. Like him, I have autistic tendencies that shape how I approach connections—including with God. In particular, I related to the way Steve approaches relationships with a series of checkboxes: here are the things I need to do to consider myself a successful spouse / parent / Christian. The problem is, something broke Steve’s system, and it revealed the emptiness of his beliefs.
Several years ago, I took two tests for Asperger’s. I fell well within the parameters for the syndrome. Looking back over the patterns of my life, this wasn’t surprising. Like Steve, I stress over my obligations as a spouse / parent / friend. I tend to be concrete in my thinking. I ritualize aspects of my life to manage anxiety about the unpredictability of the world. If something isn’t right in front of me, I struggle to feel connected with it. I find my greatest sense of peace and comfort in “dependable” things like math and science. It’s noticeable enough that my husband affectionately calls me “Sheldona” after Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory.1
The difference is, I don’t share Sheldon’s misanthropy. I genuinely enjoy being around people—that’s why I maintain my teaching job and go to the gym during peak hours. I don’t need a lot of seclusion. What I need—or what I think I need—like Steve on X, are checkboxes so I know I’m “succeeding” in my relationships.
For a long time, I had that kind of checkbox relationship with God. I came to Christianity through reason and scholarship—a long, deliberate process. But after my conversion, I noticed how other Christians related to God. Their relationships were filled with warmth and joy. I worried that my faith felt dry. Unlike Steve, I wasn’t at risk of losing my belief—the evidence I’d found was too strong. But my emotional connection? That was shakier. It’s hard to feel close to someone you can’t see. Even after tough times brought my faith to life, staying connected still feels like work.
So, what do I do when my systems fail with God? I hold on. The universe doesn’t care about me. Most people on Earth don’t either. Even math and science, my reliable comforts, are indifferent. But God isn’t. Knowing the Creator of this vast, exquisite universe cares about me—that’s what faith means to me.
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. —John 3:16
That knowledge is built on a solid foundation of evidence, yes, but it’s sustained by my willingness to trust that He’s there. Even when I can’t feel Him.
I’ve felt His presence most in hard times—like when I lost my daughter, Ellinor, and somehow felt an unshakable peace I couldn’t explain. Moments like that, and two others where His closeness broke through my checklists, are my lifelines. I cling to the memory of those times like Linus clings to his security blanket.
But those feelings are more like a supplement to my relationship with God. They’re not a replacement for being active in it. I'm not going to wait for those feelings to flow before I work on cultivating a connection with Him. So, I pray to God—real honest, raw conversations; I stay in His word; I worship Him; and I maintain friendships with Christians who are strong in their faith. Those more than anything have brought me closer to having feelings of a real relationship with God. I may not be able to see Him, but I know without a doubt He is there.
Is that still a checkbox relationship? Maybe. My autistic brain isn’t wired for intuitive, feelings-driven faith. And that’s okay. For me, a real relationship with God isn’t about constant closeness—it’s about holding on to what I know. I know Him from His word and from my experiences, even when He feels far away. And it’s about trusting that when my grip feels weak, His is strongest. That, Matthew, is how I connect with someone I can’t see but know is there.
Liked this article? Share it with a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation.
The show writers say they didn’t explicitly write Sheldon as having Asperger’s, but come on. Could it be any more obvious?
Thanks for your honesty. I’d never considered my apparently also being on the autism spectrum as a reason I don’t speak as warmly of my relationship to Christ, as others, or wave banners during services, or raise my hands: yet at the same time, being certain and amazed He created this incredible place, and that He is curating my life. Not relating to him warmly and assuredly, often: just as I also have to force myself to maintain eye contact with other humans.
I have, however, found a comparison of His care for me, with care I provided 38 years ago for disabled and retarded children at the now-nonexistent South First Street, Austin, unmarked nursing home for severely challenged children, called “Cresthaven.” One child’s story will fit into this reply:
Pike Smith was a super-cute 3-4 year old, whom I found being held down on the ground by multiple aids and force-fed, at mealtimes, writhing and screaming all the while, when I came on board. At length, Pike was either added to my group of 4-6 charges, —or I volunteered to feed him, I don’t recall.
Having read that a goal in therapy for the autistic is to show them they have control of their worlds; one was to endeavor to get them to initiate SOMETHING, in their lives, — no matter how insignificant, and build upon that.
Since his favorite food, and the only one he willingly swallowed was milk, I would place that in a lab bottle with a long neck like athletes drink from / spray themselves with; but then I spent considerable time with him on my lap. I would place his hand over mine, and NOT just squeezing milk into his mouth, but making it quite clear he got a nice drink if he offered even the faintest squeeze on my hand in his. I would give him minimal bites of solid food without forcing it, between drinks.
He never reached the point in my 6 months of creating enoufh pressure to actually force milk from the bottle himself. Likely, too many years of force-feeding and his agency being taken away by aids who wanted to go eat their OWN lunches (I used up my lunch period with him and another child who was fed way too fast, letting her eat at her own speed and giving her time to chew the mashed food served there.) But, I never saw the screaming and force-feeding episodes after I began that “kindler, gentler” protocol!
I would not be surprised if The Lord doesn’t look at and deal with each of us, to varying degrees, and our lack of desire to pray, to communicate with Him, or even look him in the eye, in the same way: and I’m not so sure how far we progress, prior to meeting him above.
I have taken so many lessons from that 6 month long, foundational, “just arrived in Austin as a newly married new Christian” job, which my wife “just happened” to find for me in the days when the paper actually had help-wanted pages.
Lessons like noting that on 3rd shift, with only two on staff, for 70 sleeping children, SOMEHOW anyway an aid would “just happen” by a bedroom when a child was choking; to noting that we aids parked the couple kids likely to bite another child far from any tender, physically weak and defenseless ones.
I considered how each child had a written “IEP” (Independent Education Progrsm) of training and goals… and I broadened tbis in my mind to visualize the angels having pre-shift conferences just we aids did, regarding each of OUR “IEPs” which I’m sure the angels work from in OUR “able bodied” individualized earthly training… And, I began to see us, the aids, and also the AISD teachers imported on weekdays, as the powerful, capable angels, in the lives of these children. All mirroring what I thereafter assumed God has working, on each of OUR individual “cases:”—and visualize and my own angel caretakers likely having discussions with both management and the other “Angel” aids, over those I’ll meet in this life, —prior to each “shift.”
Also: I saw the same variety of PERSONALITIES among those Cresthaven children as I’d seen in my own “able bodied” world of high school and young adulthood… Only: because of severe cerebral palsy or other issues, they were weak and needy —and they needed us, the aids, as much as I’m SURE even the most capable of us “able” people likewise need God, despite our apparent successes / intelligence / gifts. —To an infinite Christ, we “normal” adults, just as the (sadly liberal) folk singer Mary Travers once sang, (remember Peter, Paul, and Mary?) 🎶🎶 “we’re only children, children one and all. 🎶🎶”
I read this post a couple of days ago, then today I decided to listen to it…WOW… I felt like I was having a conversation with you…thank you!