Rethinking Gender Beyond Biology

Note

This post reflects my own process of learning about gender and trans experiences as a cis male ally. At no point do I intend to define or speak for trans people. My goal is simply to share what I’ve learned, the insights I’ve gained and the questions I’ve grappled with.

When it comes to understanding gender, we are often told to start with biology. Chromosomes, hormones and anatomy form the standard framework for defining what it means to be male or female. But I’ve come to believe that this framework, while useful in certain contexts, is fundamentally limited when it comes to understanding gender identity.

To me, biological sex is like a bottle. It has a shape, a colour a material. But what really matters is what’s inside. The contents. The substance. In this analogy, the bottle represents the body, and the contents (milk, juice, water) represent gender identity. What makes a person a man, a woman or nonbinary is not the bottle they were born in, but what they carry within them.

This isn’t just a poetic metaphor. It aligns with a growing body of neuroscience suggesting that gender identity might have roots in brain structure—material, biological differences in the brain that are independent of reproductive anatomy. Some trans individuals have brain patterns that more closely resemble those of their identified gender rather than their assigned sex at birth. These differences aren’t just theoretical, they show up in scans, in developmental pathways and in lived experience.

Critics often point to chromosomes or genitalia as the final word on gender. But if we accept that the brain is the seat of the self—of thought, feeling, and identity—then surely it should be given greater weight than the body parts we can see. After all, we don’t define a person’s personality, intelligence, or emotional world by the shape of their feet or the number of ribs they have. Why should gender be any different?

I believe gender types are innate. Not learned, not conditioned, not a result of cultural programming, but built in, hardwired, perhaps even before birth. That’s why attempts to “correct” gender identity through social pressure or behavioral therapy don’t work. You can’t pour milk into a bottle of juice and expect it to become juice. The contents are what they are.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the recent debates over legal definitions of sex and gender. Laws can legislate the “bottle”, the visible, measurable markers of sex, but they cannot legislate the “contents”, the internal sense of self that truly defines someone.

From my perspective as someone still learning about gender, I’ve come to see that internal identity is what truly defines a person, not anatomy. Many trans women, for example, live every aspect of their lives as women—not because of surgery or clothing, but because of who they are on the inside. This is my understanding as an ally, not a prescription for anyone else’s experience, and I hope it reflects what I’ve learned rather than trying to explain what anyone “needs” to know.

It’s important to acknowledge that the science around gender identity is still in its infancy. While there is growing evidence pointing to biological factors (such as brain structure and hormonal influences) there’s no single, conclusive explanation yet. The relationship between gender identity, brain patterns and genetics is complex, and we are still learning how these aspects fit together.

That said, the point I’m making isn’t that gender identity can be reduced to biology alone. Instead, biological aspects—particularly those related to brain function—deserve more recognition in the conversation. Much like how we don’t reduce a person’s intelligence, personality or emotions to a single biological feature (like the size of their brain), gender identity should not be defined solely by physical markers. It’s the lived experience—the internal sense of self—that truly defines us.

In the end, we have to ask: what makes a person who they are? Is it the visible, the measurable, the externally assigned? Or is it the felt, the known, the lived experience of being? For me, the answer is clear. It’s not the bottle that defines us, it’s the contents.

The Human Being as God’s Camera

Back in the early 1990s, I was looking for something beneath the surface of religions. And I adopted a metaphor, probably not original to me, but perhaps not rendered in as detailed a way as I made it.

The metaphor is this: Each human is a sort of “CCTV camera”—a physical and psychological apparatus used by God (or universal consciousness) to observe the world. Each “camera” thinks it’s autonomous and unaware that it’s part of a vast network of observation. And it is unaware that what it sees, thinks and experiences is not for its own use.

In this metaphor, God is not separate from us but is present through every eye, experiencing the physical plane through billions of perspectives. It is not intervening or judging but just watching, absorbing and remembering. Every human is a lens, in other words.

At death, the camera stops, and the body decays, but the camera footage is not lost but archived as a kind of “soul-memory” or “karmic imprint”. This, perhaps, is what people tap into when they recall past lives—not because the ego reincarnates, but because the recorded footage still exists and can sometimes be accessed when the conditions are right.

This idea harmonises with a range of mystical and philosophical thought. In Hinduism and Buddhism, karma and samskaras (mental imprints) continue beyond death. And in Theosophy, there is the “akashic record”—a universal memory field.

Meditation, in this metaphor, is the moment when the camera pauses itself, turns inwards and becomes aware of its own function. In that pause, the camera begins to realise it is not just filming the world but is the thing that is operating it. Or more accurately, it is an extension of the watching God. Meditation allows the camera to see that it is the apparatus through which consciousness flows.

Eventually, if the meditation deepens, even the sense of being a “camera” will disappear. What will be left is the “watcher”—the God that sees through all eyes but is not limited to any single pair.

Calvinism and Arminianism Harmoised

When I used to be a Christian, I went through several theological shifts that reflected a deeper conflict not just with doctrine, but with the very nature of God. One of the most significant transitions for me was the journey from a traditional evangelical view of salvation—where only the "saved" escape hell—to that of Christian Universalism, the belief that ultimately, all people will be reconciled to God.

This shift didn’t come easily. I had been steeped in the kind of theology that drew rigid lines between the “elect” and the “damned”, between those who would experience eternal bliss and those who would suffer unending torment. But over time, I began to question whether such a view could truly reflect the character of a God who is love.

As I moved towards Universalism, I also moved away from Calvinism. I could no longer accept the idea that God created some people for salvation and others for damnation. It felt incompatible with any meaningful definition of goodness or justice. I found the Calvinist vision of God not just troubling, but blasphemous—a distortion of divine love. Arminianism, while still not fully in agreement with my Universalist views, at least held to the idea that God desires everyone to be saved. So this was a theology I could be comfortable with.

I remember at one point considering attending a Methodist church. Methodism is rooted in Arminian theology, and while I knew that Arminians aren’t Universalists, I felt more at home with their view of a God who sincerely seeks the salvation of all people. My thinking was that Christian Universalism harmonises both Arminian and Calvinist insights: yes, God has chosen an elect, as Calvinism teaches—but that elect is not an exclusive club; it is simply those who have accepted Christ in this life. And yes, God desires to save all, as Arminianism teaches—and he will do so, even if that salvation comes in the life to come. Seen in this way, the theological conflict between Arminians and Calvinists dissolves into something greater and joyous.

So even though I didn’t fully align myself with Arminianism, I felt no tension about attending an Arminian church. The real issue was Calvinism. I couldn’t bring myself to worship with those who believed in a God who would intentionally create people for eternal suffering. That was not a God I could love or trust. In contrast, the Arminian vision—though imperfect—pointed in the direction of a God whose character I could love.

In the end, theology isn't just about ideas. It's about the kind of God you believe in, and whether that God is worthy of your love, trust and worship. For me, the God of Christian Universalism was. The God of Calvinism was not.