A Sunday's Sermon On Spirituality, the God-Thing, & Other Deep Stuff

by Riki Anne Wilchins

(This work was read at a Sunday meeting of the Metropolitan Gender Alliance in New York City in 1994.)

Since I was invited to speak here on a Sunday when traditional religions do the sermon-type thing, and since many of you know I love to sermonize, I thought I'd speak in that vein today. And I need to say before I start, I speak only for myself today, and also if I speak only of transexuals, it's not to disrespect or slight anyone else. However, I try not to speak for anyone else or any other group, and transexuality is all I know, specifically female-to-female transexuality. In addition, I used the term "nontransexual" to refer to anyone neither transexual nor differently-gendered, and especially to refer to straight society.

I want to talk today about god: about a god who is, like me, transexual. For many of you, that idea is old hat. But for me, its been a bit of a revelation. Although I had heard it spoken of before, I just considered it an indulgence on the part of the speaker. After all, who has ever seen a picture from any major religion of a god who is transexual? Is there anyone in the Old or New Testament who appears transexual in any rendering, or who discusses his or her transexuality? Without the images or words, I believed only in the god with which I grew up: a nontransexual god.

But more and more I come to see that god is inevitably transexual: creating, experiencing, and embracing both male and female, transexual and nontransexual, as I do. Attempts to label god as "he" or male, or even, although it is sometimes refreshing and useful, to refer to god as "she" or female, are ultimately shortsighted. Maybe all our conceptualizations miss what Nietzsche called "the god beyond god", the god beyond all concepts of god, the god the ancient Hebrews gave up on naming and could only call "Ya-weh", which means "I am" or "I am that I am".

But I grew up in ignorance of a transexual god, or the transexual-in- god. I grew up with the god of the nonocracy. Now, just as a democracy is a system of political power which grants rights and privileges to people, and a theocracy one of theologians and religious leaders, so a nonocracy is a system of power which grants rights and privilege to nontransexuals while simultaneously withholding them from transexual people. Within the nonocracy, the differently gendered are marginalized and disempowered as derivative, inferior, or defective versions of nontransexuals.

And it is true that I have worshipped at the feet of that exclusively nontransexual god. I bought what the nonocracy sold my adolescent intellect, hook, line and sinker. My head was filled with something akin to what Malcolm X called "the slave mind". No wonder: every bit of information I had about my body and my gender had come from nontransexual. Since it most of it came to me by way of people I loved and trusted, people who were older and wiser, I believed what they said although it was pretty much all bad and all painful. And believing what they told me, I tried with all my might to become as nontransexual as possible. I tried to hide, and when I couldn't hide or pass I tried to assimilate.

Because in my heart I believed I was a derivative, inferior or defective version. Of what? Why of a true, nontransexual woman, of course. In many ways, I was right. For as long as I viewed nontransexuals as the only model upon which to base or compare my experience, and my female- ness, I was doomed to be imitative and second-class, even to myself. I was a classic example of where noncentric, that is, non-centered thinking can lead.

Look at my back and hips: I will never have narrow shoulders and wide hips. Yet I considered these hallmarks of femaleness, and I worshipped the nontransexual women who possessed them. I worshipped at the foot of the goddess who had tiny, slender hands and feet, so unlike my own, a high, flutely voice, and delicate, soft features. And most importantly, I worshipped at the feet of the female who, unlike my own transexual god, did not have a penis.

If we could see my crotch, (and gratefully we all can't, unless we buy several of the attractive four-color brochures on sale in the lobby), you'd notice that I still have my penis. It's been cut and sewed, and rearranged a bit, but it still there. And I learned to hate it, both before and after surgery. I continued in this for several decades. I need to note here for those of us inclined towards surgery, that of all the things the scalpel cuts away, none are emotional. All the emotions they wheel you in with, all the unfinished issues, all the shame, will still be there, unchanged, when they wheel you o ut again. As my friend Jessica Xavier says: surgery puts you at a visual distance, but not an emotional distance, from your penis.

The nontransexual god had other effects on me as well. There were no references whatsoever to my transexual experience in any of the organized religions with which my young, growing and innocent mind came into contact. So I naturally concluded that god, given me by nontransexuals, was not concerned with my experience. Since that god had turned its back on me, I went through a long period when I turned my back on god; we seemed to have nothing to say to each other.

And then of course the exclusively nontransexual god had cursed me, by giving me this chromosomal disorder we call transexuality. It had totally fucked up my life in ways I couldn't control and hated to even think about. So as god cursed me, I had my turn at cursing god. Some nights, through my tears, I yelled at god at the top of my lungs, begging, daring god to strike me dead, even as I packed up my apartment, to leave Cleveland forever for the wider streets of New York.

In all honesty, I was as suicidal then as I even was, and closer to taking my own life than I ever hope to be again. Such is the toll that self- hate can take. These are the tithes we pay the church of the nontransexual god.

With a lot of time, meditation, and prayer, and with the support of scores of other transexual men and women, my heart and mind began at last to open to the idea of a spirituality and a god which embraced me, which embraced us all: transexual and nontransexual alike, male and female and everything in between, gay and straight and bisexual. This god was also, finally, transexual, and some of the immense weight of shame I had carried began to finally life.

But still I wondered, why make some of us transexual at all? Let me share with you today some of the things I believe this all-embracing god might be trying to teach me through my life as a transexual.

It is fair to say most human beings long for a sense of serenity and peace in their lives. We would give anything to have the breadth of understanding and spiritual clarity of a Lao Tzu, Jesus of Nazareth, or Buddha. We sense on some level our lives are not as psychologically or emotionally satisfying as we'd like in certain ways. Yet we're at a loss to find the spiritual tools with which we might build the house of our enlightenment. But all transexuals need do is look right in front of us. At any rate, this was true for me: everything I need lay right at my own feet.

Previously I had looked at my transexuality as a kind of burden. Granted I still view it today as a physical, genetic disorder of my sex chromosomes. But right now I am referring to the daily experience of transexuality itself. It seemed to burden me with all kinds of situations I couldn't handle: public harassment, inappropriate comments, isolation and loneliness, romantic rejection, ostracism by nontransexuals, and so on. These daily experiences were terribly painful, especially when I tried my utmost to control and avoid them.

Yet I found my life as a transexual offered me all the essential tasks for achieving some of that spiritual peace I wanted so badly, if only I would allow it to teach me.

First, it could teach me to stop looking outside myself for my definitions. I had believed in my heart there was an altar in a hidden temple somewhere, surrounded by flickering candles and hooded acolytes, with the word 'FEMALE' indelibly inscribed upon it. Only nontransexual women could approach, only nontransexual women knew where it was, and only nontransexual woman could decide who was and wasn't allowed in. And I wasn't.

This concept was terribly painful for me. Naturally so, since I won't find my femaleness, my femininity, even whatever maleness I possess, by looking at nontransexuals. Doing so merely cuts the legs out from under me spiritually and psychologically. Unfortunately this didn't stop me from spending half a lifetime doing precisely that; it just meant I was always in good deal of psychological pain.

After a lot of searching I began to allow my grip on nontransexual women as the definition of what is female to loosen, and began to look solely, totally, deeply within my own sensitivities and experience for that. This meant, for instance, having a penis must be a perfectly natural part of female experience. It also meant I would have to stop my age-old search for acceptance from nons. I would be exactly as god made me: no less, and no more. I could not be made more so by the opinions of nontransexuals, nor less so.

What else could my transexual experience hope to teach me in my search for some peace and spiritual tranquility? It could begin to teach me forgiveness, for what transexual can ever hope to experience peace if she or he holds on to each and every thoughtless word, or unkind deed she will encounter in each day?

It could teach me humility. For how could I hope to face the abuse and isolation I received without filling my life with resentment, if I continued to believe I was such an exalted and important person, the center of the universe?

It could teach me loving acceptance of those who, through their own error and ignorance, sought to abuse me. How could I find the larger heart which leads to acceptance of life, if I was only able to love the few who were kind to me, hate those who were not, and ignore the rest? Clearly, if I wanted my time on planet earth to be filled with love, I would have to learn a better way.

It could teach me to do work, and one of those works, very Christian- like in its conception, is to suffer for the sins of others.

I was going to suffer, most often through no fault of my own, simply for what I was. I could allow others to work through their fear and anger in their responses to me, however inappropriate, by not responding in kind or escalating the cycle of violence and confrontation. In this way I could help the world, if only a little, tiny bit at a time, drain away its transphobia and heal its hate and shame around gender. For what is our hate and shame, but what nontransexuals carry in their hearts and unthinkingly pass on to us?

In all this, as in my transexuality itself, I had a choice: I could see this daily work as an imposition on my life of the worst kind, or I could see it as a blessed opportunity, something I was uniquely qualified to do, which no one but a transexual like me could do: work which gave my life meaning, usefulness and dignity quite independent of how others treated me.

Another kind of work my transexual experience could teach me was giving of myself, working so the same things which happened to me wouldn't happen to the next generation. This meant working with other transexuals, doing outreach, forming organizations, and confronting transphobia wherever possible, even if gently and with love.

And finally I think this life the transexual-in-god has given me could teach me the values of unity and community. These haven't always come easily to someone as much of a loner as I, who felt as strongly I didn't belong anywhere and was a member of no known tribe.

Now, most of you are probably saying, "Right, that's why I'm at this meeting today". And that's probably true, but its also the easy answer to the issue of building community. Who among us had not unconsciously carried around a pecking order in his or her mind with those who have had surgery are at the top, those who are the most nontransexual-looking the most respected and envied, and those who don't pass, don't take hormones or don't dress are somewhere near the bottom?

Who among us had not made or overheard a remark that so-and-so doesn't belong, or isn't really transexual, because they aren't on hormones, or still look identifiably transexual (as if that were something bad), or wasn't interested in surgery?

Who among us has not criticized someone in our community, and taken their inventory, "only because they really needed it", or because we knew what was best for them, or because they had acted inappropriately and it was our job to point it out?

I know I have, and more times than I will admit to you today.

All these things are the inheritance of the nonocracy, which bequeaths us a legacy of shame and rage. Since we are largely powerless to vent our emotions on the nonocracy itself, we direct them towards the only nearby, available targets: each other.

Well, luckily none of us needs to be perfect this afternoon. But we can make a start by refusing to criticize anyone this coming week, even when they certainly deserve it. We can make a start, by refusing to carry any resentments this coming week, even when someone has completely done us wrong. And we can make a start this coming week, by honoring the transexual-in-god in each of us and by being willing to live a little more as we believe it would have us live.

Someone is supposed to have asked Jesus: "who is the greatest among us?", wondering if it was Peter or Paul, the two fishermen he had first picked for his little band, or perhaps the so-called Beloved Disciple, who haunts the gospels like a specter but is never clearly seen or heard, or perhaps Mary Magdalene, one-time whore and perhaps Jesus's current lover. And according to the legend, Jesus called a child forward and set her in front of them all, saying "this is the greatest among you. If you want to find heaven, simply turn around, and become like children once again." We can also start this Sunday, by honoring the child within each of us: that perfect, flawless, innocent, trusting, and loving transexual child, the one we were born, the one we were born to be and become.

Return To Writings of Riki Anne Wilchins Page

Return To TWR Main Page