This Shabbat, I’m going to share a personal story very different from the kinds of sermons I used to give when I worked in a congregation. I want to be clear it is my story. I recognize that in this room there are Autistic people and family members who have their own perspectives that may differ from mine. They are just as important and valid. We are a large and diverse community.  
Three years ago, a neuropsychologist assessed our then 3-year-old son and called a few weeks later to tell us that was Autistic. I was so relieved. Our son was verbally precocious, made intense eye contact, and was very charismatic and social. He also loved being read a wall calendar or a Hebrew/English dictionary as a bedtime story, struggled with transitions and unpredictable
meltdowns, and ran in circles around his preschool classroom here in Temple Emanuel, seeking sensory input he wasn’t getting. Bedtime could take 2 manic hours. Like our ancestors in this week’s parasha, my family was in an unknown wilderness, and we were ready to receive some Torah.
Except the Torah the doctor delivered to us didn’t seem right.

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