Penis Swaying in the Breeze

A Southern Baptist Experience

I was north or south of thirty, married and living in a rural area twenty miles from the city where I worked. I was married, no kids. To establish some community connection to the small town near our home, especially since we had no children in the school system, I went in search of a church. I was raised Catholic; my husband, Southern Baptist. I had long ago left the Catholic Church. My husband was a backslidden Baptist but still “believed.”

I wanted a non-denominational church, but the only ones in our area were scary, weird places where women were treated as possessions and could not wear pants or makeup or jewelry. No, thanks.

Acceptable choices were the Methodist and Baptist churches. The Methodist church left me cold. One Baptist church was bat-shit crazy, but the second Baptist church I visited was welcoming, the people were friendly. Their beliefs were too conservative for my tastes but acceptable to my Republican husband. I liked the service and the people. We joined. Immediately, I had a “not in Kansas anymore” revelation. But, again, I liked the people. So, I hung in and only smirked quietly to myself when I heard beliefs that I thought were ludicrous. I wanted a feeling of community, and, damn it, this place was giving it to me.

Then, things went too far. My husband and I were in the adult Sunday School class taught by the pastor. We are all used to God being referred to as “he” but in this class, the pastor, again and again, spoke of God as a “man.” I fidgeted and looked around, but no one seemed to find the reference to God as a man to be unusual. I, however, was horrified and insulted.

I cleared my throat and raised my hand. My husband looked at me with fear in his eyes. I knew he was thinking, “Oh, shit, what is she going to say now?” Although I had yet to embarrass him in church, I’d often done so in other group settings when I spoke my mind, adamantly and fervently.

“Excuse me, Pastor, but I wish to clarify something. Several times you have referred to God as male or a man, not just the using the pronoun of “he,” and I want to confirm that you don’t really think of God as a man, in the physical sense, correct?”

“Of course, I do. God is male. That is clearly stated in the Bible,” he said authoritatively.

I gasped. The thirty-plus people in the class looked at me with confusion.

“Well, I don’t think it is “clearly stated” in the Bible or anywhere else. Perhaps, you are confusing the universal use of the pronoun “he” for those with no gender?” I asked.

The pastor smiled sympathetically at me, as though I were intellectually challenged. “I understand the use of the pronoun “he” and I am not confused by it. God is a “he” because he is male. Now, let’s look at the next verse. . .”

“Ah, no, let’s not. Let’s pursue the topic of God as a man,” I said as my husband’s elbow bruised my ribs, “I just want to be clear about this. You are saying that God is a male, as in a physical man?” I asked as all the faces in the class whipped around to look at me. I heard a few frantic whispers.

The pastor now smiled benevolently as one would with a child. “Of course,” he said with a slight tinge of annoyance, “I have already stated that God is a male. That is a universal belief. Now, let’s move on.”

“Ah, not quite yet,” I said as my husband kicked my shin, “I need more clarification if you don’t mind.” By the look on the pastor’s face, I knew that he did, indeed, mind. He minded a lot.

I took a deep breath and continued, ignoring all the shocked Baptist faces staring at me in disbelief, “Do you mean that God is a physical male? As in, if he appeared before us now, he would have a penis swaying in the breeze?”

There was an audible group gasp in the room. My husband fidgeted and turned away from me as though I had a communicable disease. The pastor sighed heavily into his microphone, “Yes. Once again, God is a male.”

“Seriously?” I exclaimed quite loudly, “You cannot be serious! You truly think God has a penis?”

All faces that were turned toward me swung in the direction of the pastor. I feared necks would break and heads would fall to the floor, all caused by me, the heretic. Once more, he smiled benevolently. “Yes, again, yes. It will always be, yes,” the pastor said, clearly annoyed.

“I am sorry to belabor this subject, but I am in shock. I cannot believe that you think God is a physical male. Penis and all. What does he use that thing for?” I asked incredulously, “Is he having sex with someone? Does he pee in a urinal? Sorry, I just don’t get this.”

The pastor peered out at his class. He smiled. They smiled. He fidgeted. They fidgeted. He cleared his throat. They waited expectantly. He said, “You don’t have to understand or get it. It just is. It is a fact. A fact is a fact. God is a man with all the anatomy of a man. And, again, let’s move on.”

I moved on. Actually, I moved out. Of that class and of that church.