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Tale as Old as Time: The Truth About Transgenderism
By Lisa*
My 37-year-old married brother with five children under the age of nine sent me an email a few months ago announcing his plans to become a woman. His wife is encouraging him to transition.
Gender dysphoria used to be right next to schizophrenia in the DSM-V (the diagnostic manual used by psychiatrists). This makes a lot of sense given that my brother is currently claiming a woman lives inside his body. In order to let her out, he must not only wear dresses, heels, and makeup, he must also begin taking female hormones to transform his body into that of a female.
True Self
What troubles me even more than my brother’s decline in mental health is that countless people around him have decided to simply “love and support” him on his “journey.” If he were claiming that he believed an alien or a time traveler lived inside his body, they might not be so supportive. But because it is 2019 and the denial of reality when it comes to gender is culturally en vogue, people are going along with it. They’re terrified of being called intolerant. They say things like, “If he tells us that she is his ‘true self,’ who are we to argue?”
Ah yes . . . the “true self,” a mantra of a generation. No matter where you go, you can’t escape it. Books, television shows, Instagram captions, and Internet memes suggest we can all attain greater levels of health and peace through a deeper realization and expression of our “true self.”
Back in the day there was something called moral realism, a worldview that put an emphasis on human sin and weakness. Biblical figures like David and Moses were seen as great leaders who were also deeply flawed. Augustine and the early church fathers talked about the depravity of sin and the need for grace. Then around the 18th century moral realism found its rival in moral romanticism. Romantics like Jean-Jacques Rousseau started talking about the inherent goodness of man.
Fast forward to 1946 when Rabbi Liebman published his book Peace of Mind. The book urged people toward a new morality based on the idea that you should never repress any part of yourself as sinful. Instead you should “love yourself” and be unafraid of your hidden impulses. The book became a New York Times best seller for 58 weeks. Humanist psychologists ran with it, arguing that the primary problem for humans was no longer sin, but rather the fact that we weren’t accepting ourselves exactly as God made us. This line of thinking led to the advent of the self-esteem movement in 1969. The core of that movement morphed into what author Charles Taylor calls “the culture of authenticity.”
The central belief of the culture of authenticity is this:
At the center of every one of us is a Golden Figure known as “the true self.” The true self can always be trusted. You know that what you’re doing is right when you feel an inner peace (or shalom) inside your true self. You know what you’re doing is wrong if you do not feel that peace.
Because the true self is inherently good, there is no sin to be found in it. Sin is now found only in the external structures of society that seek to repress the true self.
In his book The Road to Character, David Brooks explains that older generations believed the development of character came by struggling against the desires of the true self. Traits like selflessness and self-sacrifice were considered most admirable. Younger generations, in contrast, believe the most admirable trait to be radical self-expression.
Thus, the steps to the “new salvation” being promoted by younger generations include
- relinquishing any previous struggle you had against your true self,
- letting your true self fully emerge without guilt or shame (both of which are constructs of old, outdated religious systems),
- adopting a new vocabulary in which words like “sin” and “evil” now refer to the external structures of society that caused you to doubt your true self in the first place. (The new “evils” are organized religion and any system of thought that seeks to oppress the weak or marginalized, such as poverty, racism, misogyny, or anything that’s anti-LGBTQ.)
Yet 19th century British philosopher John Stuart Mill said the point of life was to struggle every day to “sacrifice the true self on the altar of care and concern for others.” This is done by achieving a series of small, inner victories against our own desires because you know that acting upon them could result in negative consequences for others. Even if acting on our impulses doesn’t feel like it’s doing any harm in the moment, it could be adversely affecting countless generations to come. Thus, we build character by a thousand selfless acts of restraint that no one ever sees.
But in 21st century America, this line of thinking doesn’t compute. We don’t applaud people for restraint; we applaud people for throwing off restraint. Hence the hundreds of Instagram followers now giving my brother a “heart” for announcing he’s a woman.
The logical problem with this is that if a man is to be “supported and celebrated” as he embarks on his journey to become a woman, shouldn’t everyone be celebrated as they continue down the path toward their true self? Shouldn’t the married woman be encouraged when she reconnects with her true self in the arms of another man? Our culture would say yes, and books written about this have become best sellers.
If we do away with the concept of a sin nature and concede that everyone is inherently good, there is really no impulse that needs to be fought against. Ever. The porn addict may as well explore his addiction. The alcoholic and heroin user too. And what about the pedophile? What do we do with the man who says his true self has been attracted to small children from the time he hit puberty?
My brother and sister-in-law would agree that we shouldn’t condone any behavior that would “cause harm to others.” They’d argue that the trans person is not harming anyone by switching genders. So let’s consider that argument. Would my brother, who has been a man for more than three decades, suddenly becoming a woman really not be harmful to anyone?
I suppose that depends on your definition of harmful. Is it harmful to disrupt the mental, emotional, and physical health of everyone in your family, both immediate and extended, for months and likely years to come? Is it harmful to raise five small children in a state of psychological confusion in which the person that they thought was one thing is now another, one in which their parents morph from a heterosexual couple to a homosexual couple right before their eyes? Is it harmful for a husband who promised to love and cherish his female wife to abandon all responsibilities as the man she thought she married? Is it harmful for a father of five to commit a slow form of suicide as he begins to disappear and a new creature (complete with a different name) takes his place?
My tall, handsome, muscular brother began taking strong female hormones that transformed him into a different person. His facial hair stopped growing. He grew breasts instead. As part of his “social transition” he began wearing dresses, wigs, heels, and makeup in public. He will have to stay on female hormones until the day he dies. He refuses to answer to his former name, Josh. He says Josh is dead. There was even some type of symbolic “burial ceremony” to say goodbye to Josh once and for all. Unfortunately, I didn’t get invited to that. Nor did my parents. No one sent us flowers. No one dropped off a casserole.
The best way to describe what happens when a loved one decides to swap genders is this: it’s as though someone murders your loved one, and then the murderer gets extremely angry if you won’t let them take the victim’s place in your family.
And if we really believe that supporting people on their journey to their “true self” is best, what do you suppose our society is going to look like a decade from now?
Well, the number of “otherkin” (people who identify themselves as half-human, half other species) is growing. A man named John who identifies himself as a fox is now requesting special legal rights that will accommodate his needs as an animal. Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly), a significant percentage of “otherkin” also identify as transgender. Thus, the argument is easily made that if you support transgender rights, you have to support otherkin rights. After all, who are we to say what someone’s true self might really be? And just like transgender individuals, many otherkin are now having surgery to look more and more like the animal or entity they identify with.
If you can legally change the biological sex on your driver’s license, logic says you must be allowed to legally change any other trait you like because YOU and you alone know your true identity. This is how we end up with Martina Big and Michael Eurwen from Germany. The couple has undergone many rounds of Melanotan injections, a synthetic hormone that makes the skin darker. Why? Because although reality would tell us that they are both Caucasian, they personally identify as being African.
If you Google Martina Big, you will notice she does not appear to be well. Apart from Martina’s attempts to become black, she has also had 23 breast implants (she’s now a size 32 S). Should people continue going along with Martina’s delusions because only she can know her true self? Or should people try to get Martina the mental health help she obviously needs? I ask the same question of those in my brother’s circle of friends.
Profiting from Transgenderism
Instead of helping him get real help, people continue to “support him” as he moves deeper into his delusion. This includes many well-meaning therapists. But why would a therapist tell a man who has had a history of cross-dressing to take that compulsion to its furthest extreme by transforming his body into that of a woman? Because there’s big money driving trans medicine.
After trans medical research concluded in Europe in the early 2000s, doctors from those clinics flooded into the U.S. knowing they could make a financial killing by peddling a new “treatment” for the psychiatric problem of gender dysphoria. (If you haven’t studied the history of trans medicine, Google Paul McHugh, the doctor from Johns Hopkins who was in charge of the first sex reassignment surgery program in the U.S.).
Once you study the history of trans medicine, you’ll discover that any dissenters of the practice were systematically silenced. This includes respected Ivy League professors and doctors like McHugh, who said that going along with a patient’s delusion was far more harmful than helpful. What began as two clinics (one on either coast) that recommended people with gender dysphoria move further into their fantasies by taking cross-sex hormones has now expanded into 50 clinics across the U.S., all of which are collecting massive insurance payouts.
Read Part 2 of this article here.
*The author of this true account, a wife and mother, wishes to remain anonymous. Names in this account have been changed.
I wonder what happened on all the August 5ths throughout my life. I experienced forty-seven of them as an innocuous number on the calendars of my life: unremarkable, ordinary, plain. I breezed past them without a thought and left them behind without a thought, too.
I will never forget my forty-eighth August 5th. For the rest of my (hopefully) long life, every 5th day of August will be marked in red and circled with a thick highlighter of remembrance. That is the date my husband Josh and I received the phone call that every parent dreads – the kind you read about in someone else’s story and pray never crosses into your own.
But on August 5, 2025, it did.
Fear is many things at once: a glacial wash that starts on your head and drains to your immobilized feet, a taste in your mouth and a sound in your ears, and a fist that strangles your throat.
We were on top of a mountain in Idaho during a church staff retreat when the Life360 app on my phone — an app our family uses to share locations and receive crash or emergency notifications — suddenly and jarringly blared a warning, alerting me that our middle daughter, Adelaide, was involved in a critical incident.
I cannot explain the cold fear that washed over me in that moment. That kind of fear is many things at once: a glacial wash that starts on your head and drains to your immobilized feet, a taste in your mouth and a sound in your ears, and a fist that strangles your throat.
Many frantic minutes later, a deputy called us to let us know that our daughter was involved in a serious car accident and was not doing well. We continued to learn, as we scrambled off the mountain, that she was being life-flighted to the hospital…and that was all we knew.
For nearly two hours.
Fear does another thing: it slows time down to a minuscule crawl that leaves you weeping, screaming, and shaking your fist at the world as you drive at “safe” speeds to where your daughter lies in an unknown state without you.
I will spare the reader from those moments of agony: the prayers that dripped onto my lap, the pleading and begging, brokenness too intimate for anyone but my Father to understand.
I put on the full armor of God in a way I never understood before and will never misunderstand again.
One of the sweetest moments of my existence is the moment I first saw my daughter’s beautiful face as she lay on the emergency room’s gurney, smeared in blood but oh-so alive. Her voice asking if anyone else was hurt, her precious feet sticking out from the blanket, and her fingers curled in mine. The fifth of August will always hold that breathtaking image in my heart.
Adelaide sustained many traumatic injuries from her accident. For that entire first night in the ICU, I was bent over her in prayer, overwhelmed with both terror and joy, each one warring against the other and trying to take control. I battled in prayer for my girl that night, refusing to back down and contending with ferocity. I put on the full armor of God in a way I never understood before and will never misunderstand again.
I kept repeating the 8th and 9th verses of Isaiah 58, sometimes whispering them, sometimes sobbing them, but always experiencing them. There are promises in the Word that you no longer just read but experience; there is a knowing that changes your entire world.
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: ‘Here am I’ (NIV).
I called out to Jesus, and He didn’t have to run to answer because He was already there, holding not just me in His arms, but Addy as well.
As I called out to Him, He kept saying, “Here am I.” He continued repeating those words, never growing weary of saying them to me— it was His liturgy over me.
“Here am I.”
“Here am I.”
“Here am I.”
I could hear His love, see His protection, and feel His Presence.
The healing He provided was as stunning as the first break of dawn, filling my feeble world with light. Adelaide’s lacerated lungs were miraculously sealed the next morning. Doctors came into her ICU room and were stunned to see my sweet girl smiling back at them, her healing defying the accident she endured. Today, she wears her testimony on her leg in the form of a gnarly scar, and it is proof of the Lord’s providence and healing that she loves to share with others. He guarded Adelaide on every side, and His purpose went before her. The glory of the Lord was her rearguard, and for that, this momma will never stop praising Him.
Every August 5th and each day that He gives.
*To read more from Melissa and what God has taught her through this event, read her related article: Five Things I Didn’t Know I Needed to Learn About Prayer.
About the Author
Melissa Stelly serves as the executive pastor at Turning Point Church in Spokane, Washington, alongside her husband, Josh Stelly. She has attended Turning Point for thirty-four years. She is the mother of three daughters, adores camping, hiking, and adventuring, is a voracious reader, and considers Mt. Rainier one of the greatest accomplishments the Lord created. Most days in her free time you will find her curled up with a good book or taking a long walk.
“Babe, I think we need to steal Christmas.” I said this to my wife, Kelley, as we were driving back from a family celebration. Without any further explanation, she knew I meant that the atmosphere of our family gatherings had left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t that they were bad; in fact, they were fun and filled with love, but we both sensed that commercialism had taken over and God wanted more for us; He was highlighting these family gatherings as spaces where He wanted to be on display.
I continued processing with Kelley: “…On second thought, changing Christmas might be too much for our families to handle, but I think we could probably take over next year’s Thanksgiving celebration. If we start planting the seeds now, then in ten years no one will notice that little by little we’ve taken over planning the big gatherings—until Christmas is just handed to us!”
… it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family.
Kelley looked at me skeptically. Okay, so maybe my plan to steal Christmas was a little ambitious and made me sound like a Pixar villain, but it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family. We brainstormed, we got excited, and Kelley helped wrangle us under God’s wisdom. As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
First, the table needed to be extended, both literally and metaphorically. We wanted to combine both sides of our family under one roof (can you say high risk?). Everyone was welcome, and we made sure to personally invite those without family or community. Kelley and I are part of a ministry that focuses on underserved neighborhoods in Toledo, Ohio. There is no shortage of people here who need to be connected to God’s love and see His family in action on days that remind them of trauma, hardship, and pain (including holidays).
Second, old traditions had to die for new ones to be born. Bye-bye, TV trays and football games; hello, giant thankfulness tree. Transparently, it was at this point that I was a little concerned; we were taking on generations of tradition, and I still wasn’t sure how to put God on display like He wanted to be. That was when He showed us the big one: The Food. Goodbye, turkey, mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole.
A new tradition was born. Instead of the traditional Thanksgiving meal, we picked a foreign culture and tried our hand at making their traditional dishes, desserts, and drinks. We adopted their games, played their music, and decorated our home with their colors. It was a huge risk, and it was a hit!
As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
After several years of these reinvented Thanksgivings, both our family and neighbors are fully on board. Each year, everyone at the table votes on the next cultural cuisine, and now, eight years in, Thanksgiving has become a highlight tradition. People dress up, experiment with exotic dishes, invite friends, and—most importantly—shower one another with love. Some years the gathering has grown so large we’ve even had to find a new venue.
Our “thankfulness tree,” built by Kelley, has become the centerpiece of the gathering. Each person writes down what they’re grateful for, shares it, and adds their leaf. And year after year we’ve saved them, creating a beautiful archive of gratitude. Neighbors without family have joined us too, finding a place to share thanks, receive prayer, and encounter God’s love through new traditions. Along the way, we’ve cooked some unforgettable meals, and one of my favorite moments has been watching people set aside hesitation to try something new when the familiar comforts aren’t on the table. That kind of openness has sparked amazing conversations about God, suffering, love, and family.
God has been on full display, His table extended, His traditions for us established, and His love something I am truly thankful for.
(Oh, and did we just so happen to host Christmas at our house last year? You betcha.)
About the Author
Corey Bern resides in the often overlooked rustbelt city of Toledo, Ohio, where he savors beautiful moments with his daughter, Liberty, and beautiful wife, Kelley. Corey serves as associate pastor of Washington Church as well as director of The Lewis House, an inner-city ministry that partners with Open Bible Churches. When he isn’t walking alongside others on their journey to the Father’s heart, he’s often hidden away in the world’s coolest under-the-stairs office with a good book—or helping Liberty baptize Barbies.
“Your father’s kidney is no longer functioning in your body, but twenty-one years is a good run. You need to start dialysis.”
That wasn’t the deal I had made with the Lord. When I received my kidney transplant from my dad, he was the perfect match. I was fourteen years old and had been sick for too long; I wanted to be a normal kid. I had been born with kidney disease, and doctors had no hope for me. They had transferred that hopelessness to my parents. My dad reminds me all the time how he questioned God: “Was it my sins or my wife’s sins that brought on this disease?”
God clearly answered him the way Jesus replied in John 9:3: “It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.” I found it interesting that the one who asked (my dad) was the one who gave. His gift of a kidney lasted twenty-one years, which was a miracle in itself. The average kidney transplant lasts twelve to fifteen years. While twenty-one years was a miracle, I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
On February 17, 2022, I sat in a dialysis chair for the first time in twenty-one years, overwhelmed by fear of what lay ahead. A doctor and social worker assured me their goal was to get me a new kidney quickly. Their confidence comforted me; I believed God had placed me in a facility where things would move smoothly and quickly.
After nine months of hearing nothing, a new social worker finally told me I was on the UCSF transplant list. I’ll never forget it—my husband said it was the best wedding anniversary gift. We were thrilled, believing we were one step closer to a new kidney. But on December 30, everything changed. The social worker told me I was not on the list after all and needed to call UCSF to check on my application status.
I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
What had felt like a glimmer of hope was gone in just a few weeks, and I was crushed. On January 3, 2023, I called UCSF, and the woman who answered was kind and encouraging, saying, “Let’s make sure we get you a kidney. You’re too young to be going through this.”
I met with doctors, nurses, and the transplant team over Zoom to assess if I was mentally and physically ready for a transplant. They informed me the wait for a kidney could be five to nine years, and when the meeting was over, I still had no assurance of a place on the transplant list. With that news, my strength started to wear thin, but I kept praying, trusting that somehow God would help me through whatever lay ahead.
In His strength, I returned to teaching with a smile, determined to make the most of the next five to nine years as I poured into my second graders and their future. As the worship pastor at Life Church in Concord, California, I encouraged others not to lose confidence in God, even when things felt out of control.
In June 2023, I attended the Open Bible National Convention in Texas on the very days I normally had dialysis. I went against medical advice, not realizing how much God had in store. The conference began on Tuesday, and I felt unusually tired and heavy-hearted. I wondered, “What if this is it? What if the deal I made with God was to keep going for the next five to nine years, and then He would take me home?”
That night, I shared those thoughts with my husband. I wasn’t giving up, I was simply accepting what I thought was God’s plan. I reminded him that despite all our prayers, my mom and his mom had both gone home to be with Jesus. I was learning that life is precious, but we don’t always get the answer we hope for. Still, I wasn’t defeated; I was fighting my way forward, bearing the bruises and scars of a warrior.
The next morning, a group of women prayed over me, asking God to release a miracle and heal me from needing dialysis. Their prayer stirred my spirit, though my body still felt weary. That night during worship as “Firm Foundation” played, tears streamed down my face. My spirit believed God wouldn’t fail, but my body felt the weight of exhaustion and the marks of treatment.
I heard God say clearly, … “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
After the service, I saw Tirsa, a missionary from Nicaragua who had visited our church when I was young. She knew my mom, and that connection meant everything. She prayed boldly for a miracle, that I would no longer need dialysis. I felt in my spirit that I needed to be prayed for by Angie Sissel, one of my spiritual mothers. As I waited for her, my eyes kept being drawn to the green circle in that year’s conference theme. I heard God say clearly, “I’m hitting the reset button.” I asked if He meant my kidneys, but He simply repeated, “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
When “Momma Angie” prayed over me, her husband, Pastor Derek Sissel, shared a word from the Lord. He looked me in the eyes and said, “God’s not done with you. There’s still fire inside you. Stop thinking He’s finished.” Tears ran down my face. He had no way of knowing what I’d said in private the night before, but God had heard me. I called my husband that night and told him everything.
Thursday brought a surprise. During our free time, my husband told me to answer the unknown number that had been calling because it might be the hospital. When I finally answered, it was the transplant team. They told me a kidney might be available the next day. I explained I was in Texas, but they said it was fine, I was second in line. If the person ahead of me wasn’t a match, the kidney would be mine.
All day, I kept my phone close. During the Convention’s evening reception, they called again, not to confirm the kidney yet, but to make sure I was still reachable. I stayed on edge, waiting.
Friday morning, we flew home. As soon as we landed and were driving home, the call came: “Mrs. Wolfe? The kidney is yours. Please be at the hospital by 4:30 p.m. for your final dialysis treatment, then head to UCSF.”
I jumped up and down in my seat, telling everyone in the van, “My kidney is on its way!” I called my husband, and he told his boss, “I need to go get my wife; she’s getting her kidney today!”
On June 17, 2023, I received my transplant—a gift I know came straight from the Lord. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to question the fact that it came from someone who had passed. I later learned it came from a young person. I know their family must have experienced immense pain, but I am deeply grateful. Because of their generosity, I have life again. I can teach, lead worship, and now preach.
After I returned home and began recovering, I received a letter from UCSF. It said I had been placed on the transplant list as of June 6, 2023, just ten days prior to the phone call that informed me I’d been given a kidney. Ten days. After losing nearly a year and a half of my life, God needed only ten days to give me a kidney. It reminded me—He’s not done with me. It was my mom’s time to go home and my mother-in-law’s too. But not mine.
Now, whenever an opportunity comes, I say yes. God gave me life—again—so He can fulfill His promises and purpose through me. If He isn’t done with my story, I know He’s not done with yours. Pray, lean in, surrender the outcome, and He will surprise you! He’s not done.
Mary Lou Wolfe is a worship pastor, preaching team lead, and second grade teacher at Life Church in Concord, California. She has been married to her husband, Chris, for twelve years and their goldendoodle, Brock, is almost two years old. She was born and raised in the Bay Area. Her dad, Ricardo, is from El Salvador and her mom, Jenny, was from Nicaragua. At the age of nine, Mary Lou and her parents moved to a Hispanic Church in Antioch, California. Templo Santo was her home church and sent her to Eugene Bible College, where she graduated in 2009. Since then, she has been in ministry, never losing her heritage and always having a heart for her people. She speaks, writes, and reads in Spanish. She is grateful that her parents taught her to hold tight to her heritage, never forgetting where she came from or where God is taking her.
