Corey Parish holds a Doctor of Ministry in Spiritual Formation from Tyndale University and is currently pursuing a PhD in Christian Theology at McMaster Divinity College, where his research explores the intersections of disability theology and critical spatial theory. He serves as a Direct Support Professional with Community Living Ontario and is the Associate Pastor at Grace Christian Fellowship in Fergus, Ontario. An autistic scholar and writer, Corey draws on lived experience to inform his practical theology, particularly around belonging, place, hospitality, and care. His writing often takes an autoethnographic approach, blending storytelling, analytic reflection, and theory to explore themes of neurodiversity, Christian theology, and the shaping of identity through space and relationship.
Disability is often discussed in the language of fixing, healing, or accommodation. But what if the deeper Christian calling is not to correct difference, but to receive it? In this interview, Pastor Corey Parish reflects on disability through theology, lived experience, and daily practice. Drawing on thinkers like Henri Nouwen and Nancy Eiesland, Corey speaks with clarity and tenderness about encounter, community, and the gifts that emerge when we stop trying to “make space for others” and instead begin to co-create space together. This is an honest, hopeful conversation about what the church can become when it learns to receive.
Names mentioned:
Henri J. M. Nouwen, Paulo Freire, Nancy Eiesland, L’Arche / L’Arche Daybreak, Liberation theology
Books mentioned:
Adam: God’s Beloved (Henri Nouwen)
The Road to Daybreak (Henri Nouwen)
Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Paulo Freire)
The Disabled God (Nancy Eiesland)
Radix: Pastor Corey, thank you so much for taking the time. I really appreciate getting to talk with someone who is not only a pastor, but also a writer, someone active in a particular community, and someone with training in spiritual formation.
I think it’s important for Christians in all areas of life to know how different members of the body of Christ see and experience the world. If I’m a “finger” and you’re an “eye,” I want to understand how you perceive things differently. That’s part of communication, part of understanding the body. And when it comes to mental health, I think—correct me if I’m wrong—it has become much more common in Christian conversation than it used to be. So I’m excited to talk with you.
To get started, maybe we can open with a basic question: How do you define disability?
Corey Parish: Well, thank you for having me, and thank you for the question. It’s actually much more difficult than people might think, because it places us right in the middle of an ongoing debate across healthcare, government policy, disability scholarship, and—thankfully, more recently—the church.
The first challenge is not creating a definition so expansive that it ends up including everyone, but also not creating one so narrow that it leaves out significant experiences. One thing I often say is that disability is something every person will experience at some point. If you live long enough, there will come a time when your body or mind simply doesn’t function the way you’d prefer or the way it does now.
So yes, defining disability is complex. Generally, people tend to mean some kind of problem or limitation in a person’s body or mind that restricts their ability to function or participate in ways that are “normally” expected. But as soon as we use the word normal, we run into trouble. Once we carry an ideal of normalcy, we place the issue on the individual—they’re not “normal,” so we set to work fixing or correcting them to match the norm. That’s typically what’s called the medical model of disability.
In recent decades, and this is the model I usually work within, we’ve pushed back against that approach. Instead, we argue that disability arises from a complex relationship between a person’s body and mind, any impairments they may have, and the norms established by their society. This is what’s often referred to as the social model of disability.
Under this view, a person can become disabled simply because their society is structured in ways that make it difficult to move, work, attend social gatherings, or participate in life in ways that make life worthwhile. In that case, the onus isn’t just on the individual but on the social structures themselves. A classic example: if every public building only has stairs, we effectively disable people who don’t walk the way we do. Or if our education systems are built around a narrow type of speaking, thinking, seeing, or hearing, we disable entire groups of people.
So it’s complex. Not everything we call disability can be eliminated through better social structures. But not everything we call disability can—or should—be eliminated through medical intervention either. Disability sits at that intersection of body and society, in the ways people experience it and in the ways society places it upon them.
Radix: When it comes to definitions, do you think the church is getting better at articulating disability compared to the broader culture?
CP: It really depends on the context. Some of the church environments I’ve grown up in or worked in wouldn’t have called it a “medical model,” but they definitely treated disability as something to fix, pray away, or heal. So the awareness might be there, but the response often still aligns with that medical model.
That said, I do think conversations about disability—its presence, participation, and reality—are becoming more common. I say that as a relatively young pastor, so I don’t have decades of experience to compare it to, but the shift feels real.
Radix: When I think of someone like Henri Nouwen, such a beautiful person, his writing really emphasizes the blessing and value of every person. I have a friend who worked in L’Arche and said it changed his life. I imagine voices like Nouwen help people move away from the medical model and see the dignity of those who don’t fit our ideas of “normal.”
CP: Absolutely. One of the greatest gifts Nouwen offered the church, and society, was exactly that perspective. When he entered Daybreak as a pastor just outside Toronto, he discovered how quickly the lines between caregiver and care-receiver disappear. He often found himself being ministered to, not the other way around.
That interdependence is a major theme in contemporary disability theology, and Nouwen was pointing to it decades ago. You see it all throughout Adam: God’s Beloved, his final book.
Radix: You also work directly in community settings, and as a support worker?
CP: Yes. I’m not sure if you have the same system where you are, but here we have Community Living homes—supported-living houses. Just ordinary homes purchased by Community Living where four or five residents live: people with Down syndrome, autism, other genetic conditions, sometimes profound disabilities.
I take shifts in the house, day shifts or overnight, helping with meals, medications, basic care. It’s similar to a PSW role, though I came in with no formal training. I’m this theological type suddenly learning how to bathe someone for the first time—very much like the experiences Nouwen describes in The Road to Daybreak. And like Nouwen says, you quickly realize you’re the one being taught, fed, cared for. That part is entirely true and very relatable.
Radix: Working with intellectual disabilities versus physical ones is different, of course—but God bless you for doing that work. I imagine you’d tell the average person, “If only you knew how much blessing I receive from these folks.”
CP: Absolutely. 100 percent. People assume being with someone who has a disability is going to be difficult. And yes, it can be at times. But the blessing far outweighs that. You published that story I wrote about the pizza lunch, I don’t know if you remember the details, but situations like that show such pure hospitality, openness, and honesty. There’s no filter with them in the best possible way. It’s a joy.
Radix: Are there other misconceptions people should know about?
CP: Quite a few. The big one is the assumption that disability equals tragedy or brokenness: something bad that needs to be fixed. That assumption sits underneath the medical model. Now, it’s complicated, because some people do experience disability as the result of trauma or an accident, and they feel something has gone wrong in their body. But the blanket idea that disability is tragic, or that disabled people want to be “normal,” is simply false. My oldest daughter is autistic, as I am, and the number of people who tell us they’re praying for her to be healed… all I can think is: then she wouldn’t be my daughter anymore. Their idea of “normal” doesn’t match who she is—or who I am.
Another misconception is that disability is always visible—that you can walk into a room and identify who is disabled. People need to spend some time with me before they notice the nuances in my life.
There’s also the assumption that the primary Christian response is to “make the space more accessible for them.” Accessibility matters, of course, but disability ministry isn’t about creating a place for people to enter our community. It’s about co-creating a community together—our space, not a modified version of your space that I’m allowed to enter.
Those are a few of the big ones.
Radix: Yes, I can see how that would be an issue. If you’re willing, I’d like to hear more, because that’s a really important point.
CP: Sure, I can say more. This goes back to the roots of disability theology and to a lot of recent work in disability studies influenced by liberation movements. Beginning in the ’60s through the ’80s in Latin America and then North America, people who were marginalized finally started having their voices heard.
But liberation isn’t, “Let me create liberation for you.” As Paulo Freire writes in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, liberation happens through solidarity—coming alongside someone, listening to them. The act of liberation is in the listening and the involving, not in speaking for someone or creating something on their behalf.
Radix: Do people ever ask you, “How can I listen to you better?” Or maybe the real question is: how do I learn to ask that question better? Because I can’t just rely on a canned question—I need to know you, to understand what’s missing, to be in dialogue with you. Curiosity and relationship seem essential.
CP: Exactly. It’s about knowing the person. Learning how to approach one another and receive one another. Not representing someone, but letting them represent themselves. Not describing them, but letting them describe their own experience. And it’s surprising how rarely that question gets asked: “Tell me about yourself, your experience.” People hear the word autism and immediately jump to conclusions about what I must need or what they must do to make me more comfortable. Sometimes that’s helpful; often it isn’t.
This ties directly into some of the research and writing I’m doing on disability theology and space: how social spaces are produced. Every social space we inhabit is shaped by our encounters with one another. When someone isn’t welcomed to appear as they truly are, they’re not part of the production of that space. They become guests, not co-creators.
So one of the best things we can do is relearn the art of encounter: opening our hands, ears, and eyes, and receiving the person in front of us as they are. Then, together, we can ask: what kind of space are we producing through this encounter?
Radix: I jumped ahead earlier and skipped a question. You’ve started touching on it already, but what are some common social barriers people with disabilities face?
CP: What I’ve just been describing really is one of the main ones. I could point to buildings without ramps, inaccessible washrooms, poor lighting. All real issues. But a recent research project I did here in Toronto involved interviewing families of children with disabilities about their church experiences. I expected people to name physical barriers. But every single participant named a social barrier first: the barrier of relationship. “I don’t feel I can describe myself,” or “I don’t feel safe to tell people who my child really is,” or “I’m not received.”
So the most common barrier isn’t architectural, it’s relational. A lack of openness, a lack of willingness to receive the other.
Radix: Have you found that when people are better educated or understand someone’s needs, they respond well? Or is it discouraging—like even when people know, they still don’t adjust?
CP: That’s a very good question. And yes, there are moments when someone knows my needs—my quirks, the things I struggle with—and still chooses not to respond. That can really hurt.
One thing about autism, at least in my experience, is that because I often appear “normal” or function “successfully,” when I do struggle, people interpret it as me just being difficult or moody or picky about a sound, a light, a visual stimulus. And that can really hurt. Especially when I’ve already explained the struggle. When someone knows and still refuses to receive me as I am, that can be far more damaging than if they hadn’t known in the first place.
Radix: Right, right. And if I may—this is a more personal question. Once pastors get to know you, do you find they’re generally pretty good about accommodating you? Or are they just as human as everyone else?
CP: I don’t know if I can give a sweeping answer, except to say that the pastors in my current congregation have been great and very understanding. At the same time, pastors are often busy. There’s always a job to get done—Sunday is coming whether you’re feeling dizzy and discombobulated or not. I understand that, and I don’t take offense.
By and large, I’ve had good experiences with my pastor friends. But depending on the church context, I can imagine some communities being much more responsive and open, and others less so. In a more charismatic or contemporary setting, for example, the full range of human experience—especially what might be seen as weakness, vulnerability, slowness, or quietness—is not always easily accepted. It doesn’t fit as well.
Radix: Are there other ways you, or others, might feel a kind of hiddenness within a community? Not just social barriers, but ways you feel hindered from being yourself?
CP: It’s a tricky question, but a good one. I’d probably point back to the unspoken expectations and assumptions we aren’t even aware of: the style of worship or music in a moment, the assumption that everyone learns best through a sermon delivered in a certain format, the sense that this is what church should look like or how a human should function.
For me, it’s not that I intentionally hide or mask myself. But after 38 years of autism, I’ve become so used to mimicking and adapting to whatever room I enter. I see how people act, how the space functions, and I instinctively adopt that persona. It’s not so much intentional hiding as it is… getting lost. You can lose yourself very easily.
Radix: Here’s an off-script question. Someone like you has been around for a while—you have a theological framework, you’re a smart person. But what about a child? Say an eight-year-old who’s having difficulty in church, and maybe their parents don’t really understand what’s going on. What would you say to that kid? How would you encourage them? Maybe it’s unrealistic, but I’m curious.
CP: No, it’s actually a really fundamental question: one that could guide how churches reimagine their gatherings, spaces, and relationships with diversity. One of the first things I’d want to learn from that eight-year-old is: What are you good at? What gifts do you have? What are your interests? Because we often treat church gatherings as the gift we’re offering to people—“we’ve created this space for you; hopefully you get something out of it.”
But we forget that the child is the gift we get to receive. So I’d be less focused on pat-on-the-back encouragement—“Hey buddy, it’s okay, let’s try to enjoy this”—and far more focused on slowly learning the person. It wouldn’t be a five-minute conversation; it might take weeks. But I’d want to receive them, to learn the gift they bring to me and to those around them.
And again, how do they help shape the space? How do they contribute to our gathering? Otherwise, we’re trying to form someone into a space that’s not suited for them, instead of receiving the person and allowing our space to be shaped by them. That nuance gets lost so easily.
Radix: This is a big question, but what do you think a Christian understanding of disability should include?
CP: Oh gosh. Well, as Christians, we actually have some of the richest resources for thinking about disability. First, the simple but profound truth that every person is made in the image of God. The imago Dei gives us that foundational reference point: every member of the human family bears God’s image.
Second, within the body of Christ, we’re given this deep reality of “one body with many parts.” The parts don’t look alike or function alike, yet they belong to each other. We worship a God—and follow a Christ—who is big enough, broad enough, and loving enough to weave genuine diversity into one body.
I sometimes use a musical term: polyphony. There’s a unifying ground tone, a melody strong enough in Christ—that allows all the other melodies and countermelodies to sound as different as they need to, yet remain held together. And, of course, the person of Jesus himself is our greatest resource. Christ came vulnerable, dependent, and weak—not as a triumphant conqueror. He died on a cross, and when he rose again, he remained scarred. One of the earliest works in disability theology—The Disabled God by Nancy Eiesland—reflects on this. She points out that Jesus rises from the dead and still has scars. Shouldn’t a “healed” body be unmarked?
For Eiesland and many others, this means that brokenness or limitation is not something to hide or treat as a curse. It can be painful, yes, especially when it affects relationality or participation. But it is not something God needs to erase for a body to be whole.
So if we let the life of Jesus guide us—his vulnerability, his scarred resurrection body, his way of forming a communion of people who are sometimes broken—we open up whole new ways of understanding disability within the church.
Radix: Shifting gears a bit: I like to ask people about their daily practices. For writers or artists it might look one way; for someone in science, another. Are there daily practices—not necessarily “hardcore,” just ordinary ones—that give you sustenance or help you flourish?
CP: Are you referring specifically to Christian or spiritual practices?
Radix: Probably Christian.
CP: Okay. This is one of my sticking points because I find it hard to separate what is “Christian” from what isn’t.
Radix: I actually think that’s a good thing! Too often three is separation when there actually shouldn’t be.
CP: I do too. So I’d talk about going to the gym, moving my body, enjoying the solitude, having time away. As an autistic person, it’s easy for me to get stuck in my head. There’s a kind of hyper-analytic loop that many autistic people experience. Getting into my body—pushing, pulling, twisting—grounds me.
Writing is another practice. So much of my life happens in my head, not just analyzing the world but re-analyzing conversations, rehearsing what I said, wondering if it was the right thing, thinking about what I’ll say next time. It’s a constant storm of thoughts. Getting them out—on paper or on a computer—is liberating. So movement and writing. Interestingly, both are ways of getting what’s in my head out into the world, into my hands and feet. And for an autistic person, that can be incredibly difficult but incredibly important.
Radix: You’ve spoken personally and theologically about disability. What are you working on now? What’s exciting you?
CP: I mentioned it earlier: I’m really focused on the idea of encounter—these real, embodied interpersonal encounters between disabled and non-disabled people, between people in general. How do these encounters reshape how we understand and approach each other? And how do they reshape the spaces we inhabit?
I’m also thinking through the lens of critical spatiality—how a space is produced by social life, and what that space then tells us about the kinds of encounters and relationships happening in it. What do our places reveal about our relationships? And how do those places reinforce or resist certain ways of relating? And all of this leads me to what I’m probably most interested in: learning from the voices and lives of disabled people themselves. In so many of our societal spaces, their voices aren’t present. They’re not included in how spaces are designed, or in how those spaces are lived in and enacted.
So the critical work is to move through those spaces intentionally to get to the people—to learn who they are, what gifts they bring, what they offer to me, and what I can offer in return. Those are the things I’m paying most attention to now, both in my life and in my research.
Radix: This might be a hard question—and if it doesn’t land, that’s fine. Let’s imagine you’re talking to “Mr. Average.” In other words, me. Maybe I’m a bit well read, maybe I’m not, but I mean well. Let’s say we’ve had a couple beers together and you think, “Matthew’s got his quirks, but he’s a good guy.”
CP: [Laughter]
Radix: So I come to you and say, “Corey, what can I actually do, in my everyday life, in small but meaningful ways?” I’m not talking hours a day. I’m talking the sort of thing ordinary Christians could actually sustain. In the church we sometimes think being good means being saint-like, and most people aren’t going to go become Mother Teresa. We have families, work, life. But if you give someone a task that takes 30 minutes a week, almost anyone would try. I’m pretty convinced of that.
So as a pastor and as a person, what would you tell me to do—just small steps I can take today to better support people with disabilities?
CP: Hmm. Honestly, I’m having trouble choosing which things to say, but in a good way, because it highlights how simple this can be.
In many ways it starts with approaching someone as an ordinary person—because that’s what they are. Even with their particularities or differences, they’re simply a person. So approach them that way. Listen. Pay attention to what they’re telling you, verbally or through their body language.
Begin with a posture of: What am I receiving in this encounter? If we start with, “What little thing can I do to give to this person or make their life better?” we’re already off on the wrong foot. Instead, begin with openness. There’s a simple prayer from my childhood that I’ve brought back recently:
“Lord, for what I’m about to receive, may I be truly thankful.”
That posture—God, you’re about to give me something in this person—changes everything. From there: listen, pay attention, ask simple questions. “How are you today?” It doesn’t need to be medicalized or caregiver-oriented.
I’d say: start by being human with another human. Because that is who they are.
Radix: What a lovely answer. Cool. Thank you for all this. Someday it’ll be good to see you in the flesh.
CP: And have a Guinness.
Radix: [Laughter] Yes, for sure! Thank you so much.