A Sermon for Every Body
(Written and Performed by Dennis Morgan)
[Pause. Let silence settle.]
They taught us God is Father. King. Lord.
All the words that sit above us.
That look down. That judge.
But what if we got it backwards?
What if the first word for God…
isn't the one that towers…
but the one that opens?
[Beat. Pause. Step forward.]
God has a womb.
[Pause. Make eye contact.]
Say that with me—
God has a womb.
[Wait for response.]
Before there was light, there was darkness.
Water. Motion.
Before He, there was She—
the deep. The formless. The pulse.
The Spirit hovered. Pregnant with possibility.
And when She opened Her mouth?
Galaxies spilled out like amniotic fluid.
[Let that image land. Spread arms wide.]
You can't make life without labor.
Creation wasn't a command—it was a birth cry.
[Pause. Drop to near-whisper.]
God screamed.
The world.
Into being.
[Let the silence hold. Then raise your head.]
And here's what biology knows that theology forgot:
We. All. Start. As. Female.
Every single one of us.
Every human embryo begins with the default template.
Ovaries forming. A womb in waiting.
It takes a flood of androgens.
A genetic intervention.
A Y chromosome swerving in.
To create what we call male.
Maleness doesn't build from scratch.
It modifies.
It repurposes.
It edits the draft that every body begins with.
[Pause. Let them sit with this.]
The clitoris and the penis? Same tissue. Different endings.
The scrotum and the labia? Same folds. Different futures.
Even the prostate and the Skene's glands—mirror images.
We are all, in the beginning, bodies built on a feminine blueprint.
[Beat.]
So when Deuteronomy calls God the Rock who bore us—
the God who gave us birth—this isn't metaphor.
This is embryology.
The Creator as the original template. The source code.
The rechem that becomes rachamim.
Womb that becomes mercy.
Say mercy with me—
Mercy.
[Wait for response.]
And Isaiah knew this. Chapter 42, verse 14:
"As a woman in labor I will cry out…
I will gasp… and pant."
That's Scripture.
That's God.
Giving birth to justice.
[Pause.]
Divine empathy isn't abstract grace.
It's womb-deep solidarity.
When Genesis says God made humanity in the divine image—
male and female He created them—
maybe it means God contains both.
Or neither.
Or the raw template before the split.
Maybe it means the womb isn't one metaphor among many.
Maybe it's the original.
[Let that settle.]
If God has a womb, then mercy has muscle.
And compassion has stretch marks.
If God has a womb, then your body—
whatever it is, however it moves—
is not a mistake.
It's revelation.
[Pause. Scan the room.]
Because Wisdom—Sophia—
She was there before the foundation of the world.
Playing.
Laughing.
Dancing beside the Creator.
Queer energy before there was gender.
Divine play before there was power.
She knows what biology proves:
Every body is a revision.
Every life an edit of the first draft.
[Beat. Shift from teaching to testifying.]
[Point. Sweep the space. Make it direct.]
Your trans body?
It's doing what every body does.
Editing the template.
But you?
You're doing it consciously.
Courageously.
Holy.
[Pause.]
Your genderqueer existence?
It's remembering what every embryo knows:
That we all started in the same undifferentiated place.
Before the hormones kicked in.
Before the world decided what we had to be.
You're not deviating from the plan.
You're illuminating it.
[Pause. Let them feel seen.]
So let the church be a nursery—not a courtroom.
Let the altar smell like milk and myrrh.
[Arms wide.]
Let the pronouns of the holy be as many as the colors of light.
[Fingers like rays.]
Let every trans body—
every motherless child—
every genderqueer saint—
know this truth:
You came from the same divine body that birthed the stars.
You started from the same template that every human shares.
And whatever you became—
whoever you are now—
you are still made in the image of the God who labors.
Who births.
Who bleeds.
Who edits.
[Pause. Build to the close.]
God has a womb.
And She's still in labor.
Birthing justice through us.
Birthing tenderness where violence once lived.
Birthing a world wide enough for every name, every pronoun, every song.
[Slow down. Make this a chant.]
[Conversational, invitational:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Wait.]
[Stronger, more insistent:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Wait longer.]
[Full voice, proclaiming:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Let the amens rise. Hold the silence after.]
[Pause. Let silence settle.]
They taught us God is Father. King. Lord.
All the words that sit above us.
That look down. That judge.
But what if we got it backwards?
What if the first word for God…
isn't the one that towers…
but the one that opens?
[Beat. Pause. Step forward.]
God has a womb.
[Pause. Make eye contact.]
Say that with me—
God has a womb.
[Wait for response.]
Before there was light, there was darkness.
Water. Motion.
Before He, there was She—
the deep. The formless. The pulse.
The Spirit hovered. Pregnant with possibility.
And when She opened Her mouth?
Galaxies spilled out like amniotic fluid.
[Let that image land. Spread arms wide.]
You can't make life without labor.
Creation wasn't a command—it was a birth cry.
[Pause. Drop to near-whisper.]
God screamed.
The world.
Into being.
[Let the silence hold. Then raise your head.]
And here's what biology knows that theology forgot:
We. All. Start. As. Female.
Every single one of us.
Every human embryo begins with the default template.
Ovaries forming. A womb in waiting.
It takes a flood of androgens.
A genetic intervention.
A Y chromosome swerving in.
To create what we call male.
Maleness doesn't build from scratch.
It modifies.
It repurposes.
It edits the draft that every body begins with.
[Pause. Let them sit with this.]
The clitoris and the penis? Same tissue. Different endings.
The scrotum and the labia? Same folds. Different futures.
Even the prostate and the Skene's glands—mirror images.
We are all, in the beginning, bodies built on a feminine blueprint.
[Beat.]
So when Deuteronomy calls God the Rock who bore us—
the God who gave us birth—this isn't metaphor.
This is embryology.
The Creator as the original template. The source code.
The rechem that becomes rachamim.
Womb that becomes mercy.
Say mercy with me—
Mercy.
[Wait for response.]
And Isaiah knew this. Chapter 42, verse 14:
"As a woman in labor I will cry out…
I will gasp… and pant."
That's Scripture.
That's God.
Giving birth to justice.
[Pause.]
Divine empathy isn't abstract grace.
It's womb-deep solidarity.
When Genesis says God made humanity in the divine image—
male and female He created them—
maybe it means God contains both.
Or neither.
Or the raw template before the split.
Maybe it means the womb isn't one metaphor among many.
Maybe it's the original.
[Let that settle.]
If God has a womb, then mercy has muscle.
And compassion has stretch marks.
If God has a womb, then your body—
whatever it is, however it moves—
is not a mistake.
It's revelation.
[Pause. Scan the room.]
Because Wisdom—Sophia—
She was there before the foundation of the world.
Playing.
Laughing.
Dancing beside the Creator.
Queer energy before there was gender.
Divine play before there was power.
She knows what biology proves:
Every body is a revision.
Every life an edit of the first draft.
[Beat. Shift from teaching to testifying.]
[Point. Sweep the space. Make it direct.]
Your trans body?
It's doing what every body does.
Editing the template.
But you?
You're doing it consciously.
Courageously.
Holy.
[Pause.]
Your genderqueer existence?
It's remembering what every embryo knows:
That we all started in the same undifferentiated place.
Before the hormones kicked in.
Before the world decided what we had to be.
You're not deviating from the plan.
You're illuminating it.
[Pause. Let them feel seen.]
So let the church be a nursery—not a courtroom.
Let the altar smell like milk and myrrh.
[Arms wide.]
Let the pronouns of the holy be as many as the colors of light.
[Fingers like rays.]
Let every trans body—
every motherless child—
every genderqueer saint—
know this truth:
You came from the same divine body that birthed the stars.
You started from the same template that every human shares.
And whatever you became—
whoever you are now—
you are still made in the image of the God who labors.
Who births.
Who bleeds.
Who edits.
[Pause. Build to the close.]
God has a womb.
And She's still in labor.
Birthing justice through us.
Birthing tenderness where violence once lived.
Birthing a world wide enough for every name, every pronoun, every song.
[Slow down. Make this a chant.]
[Conversational, invitational:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Wait.]
[Stronger, more insistent:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Wait longer.]
[Full voice, proclaiming:]
Can I get an amen for that kind of God?
[Let the amens rise. Hold the silence after.]
Performance Notes
Pacing: The short sentences create breath. Don't rush them. Let each land before moving to the next.
Eye contact: Especially at "Your trans body" and "Your genderqueer existence"—look at people. Make it direct.
Volume variation:
- Drop to near-whisper at "God screamed the world into being," then rise on "screamed"
- Contrast creates power
The triple amen progression:
- First: conversational, invitational
- Second: stronger, more insistent
- Third: full voice, almost demanding
- By the third repetition, you're not asking—you're proclaiming
Silence: Use it. After "God has a womb," after "embryology," after "holy." Silence is where the Holy Spirit does the work you can't.
Physical embodiment: Your gestures aren't decoration—they're demonstrating the theology. Your body shows what you're preaching: openness, expansion, light breaking through.
Energy shift: Around "Your trans body"—move from prophetic teaching to pastoral testimony. From distance to intimacy.
This sermon is meant to breathe like a living thing. It invites participation without demanding it, and it builds to a crescendo that feels earned rather than imposed.
Preach it loud. Trust the silences. Let the congregation teach you how loud they need to say "amen."
Pacing: The short sentences create breath. Don't rush them. Let each land before moving to the next.
Eye contact: Especially at "Your trans body" and "Your genderqueer existence"—look at people. Make it direct.
Volume variation:
- Drop to near-whisper at "God screamed the world into being," then rise on "screamed"
- Contrast creates power
The triple amen progression:
- First: conversational, invitational
- Second: stronger, more insistent
- Third: full voice, almost demanding
- By the third repetition, you're not asking—you're proclaiming
Silence: Use it. After "God has a womb," after "embryology," after "holy." Silence is where the Holy Spirit does the work you can't.
Physical embodiment: Your gestures aren't decoration—they're demonstrating the theology. Your body shows what you're preaching: openness, expansion, light breaking through.
Energy shift: Around "Your trans body"—move from prophetic teaching to pastoral testimony. From distance to intimacy.
This sermon is meant to breathe like a living thing. It invites participation without demanding it, and it builds to a crescendo that feels earned rather than imposed.
Preach it loud. Trust the silences. Let the congregation teach you how loud they need to say "amen."
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