I was taught that the spirit is holy and the flesh is evil, so when I began to hate my body it seemed like the right thing to do.

As a transsexual man (I transitioned from female to male) I have had a complicated relationship with my body. For a long time I tried to pretend my body didn’t exist. I hid it behind extra-large T-shirts. I slumped my shoulders to hide my chest. I was always fully clothed, even when I was completely alone. I had no language to express my deep discomfort with my physical being. My body wasn’t a safe space, it was a battleground.

I was in my twenties when I first read and saw myself in the stories of other transgender people. I wasn’t sure if I could transition, though. I worried that I would lose my relationship with my very conservative family, I worried about barriers to my ordination, and I worried that my partner might leave me, but the pain had become too much. Something had to give.

So I embarked on a journey to reclaim my body. I transformed myself through medical intervention, but the change was more than physical; my spiritual self came alive as well. For once I wasn’t just a soul without a body: I was working toward wholeness. There was a sacredness beneath my skin. I liken my transition to a crucifixion and resurrection experience. It was awkward and messy and painful, and yet I emerged on the other side a new creation. For the first time I was wholly alive, born again.

I took my body back from a world that said I could only be one way. I reworked the chapel of my physical form with the chisel of a needle filled with testosterone. I knelt in my own skin and for the first time was able to call it holy. This skin, this flesh – this is sacred ground.

Shannon T.L. Kearns has a Master of Divinity from Union Theological Seminary. He lives and works in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He writes about transgender theology, Christian anarchism and more at anarchistreverend.com.

This article first appeared in Geez magazine Issue 23, Fall 2011, Sacred Space.