April marked Autism Acceptance Month. For me, acceptance is as much a societal issue as it is a personal one.
A year and a half ago, after a full week of neuropsychological testing, my 8-year-old son was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 1 (ASD), formerly known as Asperger's syndrome, along with several related conditions. For many parents, such a diagnosis comes as a shock. For me, it was something more disorienting: the traits used to describe my son also described me. Suddenly, I found myself reevaluating how I move through the world.
ASD is, at its core, a label — a shorthand for describing patterns of behavior, perception, and cognition. But it is not the person. Individuals are unique, and autistic traits exist along a spectrum that may or may not rise to the level of a clinical diagnosis. For me, ASD is not only about the mind. Some of its most challenging aspects are the overlapping neurological and physiological experiences that shape my life.
One might assume that receiving such a diagnosis would push a person away from religion. For me, the opposite has been true. Coming to terms with my diagnosis has drawn me closer to Judaism. In a modern technological society, we often live with the illusion of control. Yet technology is nothing compared to the vastness of the universe.
As Psalm 62 so eloquently states, "Humans are mere breath; mortals, an illusion — placed on a scale all together, they weigh even less than a breath." Conscious existence, in the vastness of the universe, is vanishingly rare, a fragile and unlikely gift. Paradoxically, Judaism recognizes it as profoundly significant; existence itself is a miracle.
Against that backdrop, the particulars of my own wiring feel both smaller and more significant. ASD Level 1 brings real challenges, but it also brings distinct strengths: pattern recognition, intense focus, moral clarity, and a deep orientation toward justice and fairness. Would I prefer to be "normal?" Sometimes, yes. But all of us are mortal, limited, and shaped by what we are given.
Autism and the story of Moses
I often find myself drawn to the story of Moses, who, when called, responded: "Why me?" There is a reluctance in being singled out for a role or given a body or mind one does not feel equipped to carry.
Any of Moses’ traits might be understood in the context of autism. Instead of the stereotypical charismatic leader, he appears reluctant to lead, uncomfortable with speech, angered by injustice, and drawn to solitude with God in the wilderness and on Mount Sinai. And yet Moses became the central lawgiver of a people whose survival depended on structure, covenant, and shared norms in a world surrounded by forces far greater than themselves.
There is something profound in that. A newly freed people required not only freedom, but order: a framework for responsibility and collective life. The revelation at Sinai can be understood, in part, as the channeling of justice-oriented thinking into a system capable of preserving liberty in a dangerous world.
Autism acceptance, then, is not simply about accommodation. It is about recognizing that different ways of thinking and experiencing the world are part of the human fabric. It is about building a society that makes space for those differences while also calling each of us to contribute our strengths in service of the common good.
Covenantal logic is not only ancient, but also what is necessary for the preservation of the Jewish people. Modern Israel, at its best, reflects it. The Israel Defense Forces’ Unit 9900, which recruits autistic soldiers to analyze visual and geospatial intelligence, has become one of the most consequential examples of how distinct cognitive strengths can be channeled into collective security and innovation, including during the current wars against Iran and its proxies.
Today, the Jewish people face real and growing challenges: war in the Middle East, rising antisemitism, and domestic terror in some of the few countries we have felt safe to call home. In this time of danger, unity is our strength. Covenantal people do not ask who fits; it asks what each person is called to give.
If we truly believe that, then our institutions must be prepared to receive those gifts. While the Jewish community has made meaningful strides in the inclusion of people with autism and other disabilities, more remains to be done. For example, a recent study by Matan found that fewer than one-third of Jewish schools employ a learning specialist. And the high cost of occupational, physical, and speech therapies outside of public schools remains a major barrier for many families seeking a Jewish education.
Starting next year, a new federal education tax credit presents a once-in-a-generation opportunity to raise hundreds of millions of dollars to significantly expand access to Jewish day schools. Jewish Federations of North America is calling on all governors to allow that credit in their states. Importantly, these funds can also be used to help cover these essential services, promising to make Jewish day schools more accessible and inclusive for all.
At the same time, care systems for those with greater needs remain strained, with Medicaid continuing as the primary payer for many supports. The Federation network provides millions of dollars to assist people with disabilities, but philanthropy alone cannot solve these challenges. That is why Jewish Federations through their Strategic Health Resource Center continue to advocate for creative public-private solutions to our long-term care crisis so that people with disabilities of all ages can live with the independence and dignity they deserve.
Today, the Jewish people face another moment of testing. I think of my son, in second grade, and the great potential he carries through his remarkable focus and exceptional intellect, alongside the real challenges that come along with having autism in a neurotypical world. Our challenge as a community is no less real. If we fail to make space for people like my son, we not only fail them; we weaken the entire Jewish people at a time when every unique contribution is needed for our collective survival and renewal.
The writer is the managing director of Public Policy & Strategic Health at Jewish Federations of North America