Grief, Glitter, and God: The Sermon That Needed to Be Preached by Minister-in-Training Nala Toussaint
Watch the whole sermon here: “Beloved in the Midst: Letting Love Speak Even When Grief Is Louder.”
Black Femme Queen Theology: A Living Archive — Part I
What if your entire life was a sermon, and no one ever let you preach it?
What if grief became glitter, and God met you in the very place they tried to bury you?
This isn’t just a blog post. This is testimony. This is breath returned. This is a sacred memory unfolding in real-time.
And it’s time to say it clearly: Black Femme Queen Theology has always been speaking whether or not the world was ready to listen.
When I Finally Preached What Had Always Been Living Inside Me
On May 24, 2025, I stood in the pulpit with trembling knees and a ready spirit. I preached a sermon called Beloved in the Midst: Preaching a Theology That Holds Us Whole.
This wasn’t just another Sunday message. This was my offering. My reckoning. My release.
I was scared. Not because I didn’t believe in what I had to say but because I knew it would crack open the surface of what many consider “safe theology.” I knew naming Black Femme Queen Theology aloud would shift the atmosphere. It wasn’t just an announcement. It was an altar call. A mirror. A prophetic word that would confront silence, reshape sanctuary, and call some people higher.
This sermon held the weight of every Black trans femme body that ever had to survive without being seen. It was born from the ache of rejection, the beauty of resilience, and the glitter we’ve used to dress our wounds when the world refused to love us properly.
I preached for every Black trans girl, for the Femme Queens (FQ), the Dollz, the Gworls, the Girlz, the Fairies—for every femme, every soft and sacred being who were ever told they were too much, too tender, too complicated for Church. I preached for the ones who learned to make sanctuary out of steel. For the moments we were told we didn’t belong. And for the voice of God that kept whispering, even then, “You are mine.”
The words poured out not just from my mouth but from my whole being. I was shaking, yes, but I was also rooted in something deeper. I was held by every ancestor who ever dared to live fully. I was lifted by the love and covering of Rivers of Living Waters UCC, by my spiritual father, Rev. Yunus Coldman, and by my Bishop Vanessa M. Brown, who offered me the kind of care that gives courage and room to rise.
What I preached that day wasn’t just a message. It was a movement.
It was the sermon I had been living my whole life. And finally, the world heard it.
What Is Black Femme Queen Theology?
Black Femme Queen Theology is a sacred and liberating framework I coined after years of spiritual, communal, and embodied reflection. It centers the lived, ancestral, and divine truths of Black Femme Queens (FQ), including Black women of trans experience, Black trans femmes, and gender-expansive beings whose existence embodies the sacred. This theology affirms that we are not an afterthought or a theological footnote. We are the first language of the sacred.
This theology was never meant to remain hidden. It was always meant to rise in fullness—glittered, grounded, grieving, and glorious.
Black Femme Queen Theology was born from the sweat and softness of Ballroom, a sanctuary created by Black and Latinx communities through pageantry, drag, and resistance, with roots in Harlem Renaissance rent parties and cultural gatherings. It honors the spiritual technologies we cultivated when we were excluded from pews and pulpits. Ballroomwas never only about beauty or brilliance. It was about building power, safety, and belonging in a world that tried to deny us all three. Pageantry gave us elegance, affirmation, and the authority to be seen. Ballroom took that foundation and shaped it into a sacred lineage of our own creation.
The phrase Black Femme Queen Theology is more than just language. It represents a deep commitment to healing, spiritual leadership, and ancestral reclamation. This theology moves through educational spaces, community gatherings, spiritual coaching, sermons, and public witness. Wherever I speak, teach, or hold space, this theology is present with me.
Although the phrase may appear simple, Black Femme Queen Theology represents a bold and spirit-led approach to engaging with the divine. It is a framework I created to uplift and celebrate the lives, wisdom, and spiritual leadership of Black femme queens. It is a way to reclaim the spaces where we have been silenced and to declare them sacred.
This theology is active in classrooms, healing justice spaces, wellness programs, and cultural events. It brings together faith, ancestral knowledge, and collective care to support transformation and liberation.
And let us speak the truth with love. Ballroom saved lives. It gave us a chosen family, offered us sanctuary, and became a place of worship when traditional church doors were closed. At the same time, Ballroom, like all sacred spaces, has carried the weight of patriarchy, rejection, and pain. This is not a critique. It is an invitation to grow, to heal, and to imagine something more whole and life-giving.
Even with its complexity, Ballroom is holy.
It became our Church.
Our pastor.
Our ritual.
Our sacrament.
It became a dip, a hallelujah, a moment of truth, and a living testimony.
Terms That Walk With Us
Femme Queen: A revered Ballroom term for trans women and transfeminine people. This name carries legacy, power, and divine femininity.
Dip: A signature movement in Ballroom, often misnamed as the “death drop.” But let me tell you, the dip is more than a move. It’s a sermon. It’s a resurrection. It’s choreography that says, “You tried to bury me, but I bloomed midair.”
House Mother: A spiritual leader and caregiver within a Ballroom house. Think pastor. Think elder. Think fierce protector.
This Theology Is Living, Breathing, Moving
Black Femme Queen Theology is not static, theoretical, or confined to the academy. It is a sacred, liberatory framework born from years of spiritual, communal, and embodied reflection. It centers the lived, ancestral, and divine truths of Black trans femmes and queer people across the globe—not as an afterthought or a footnote, but as our first language of the sacred. This theology was never meant to remain hidden. It was always meant to rise—glittered, grounded, grieving, and glorious.
While I draw from the deep wells of liberationist thought, I am clear that the theologians I reference may not fully agree with, accept, or even recognize the framework of Black Femme Queen Theology as I have constructed it. Some may interrogate it. Others may challenge it. And still, I honor their work as part of the lineage that helped me shape mine. This theology is not seeking permission to exist—it is claiming space.
Rooted in and inspired by liberatory traditions, this theology draws from:
Black Liberation Theology (James Cone), which reminds us that God is on the side of the oppressed and that Black suffering is not peripheral to faith—it is the crucible of revelation.
Womanist Theology (Emilie Townes, Katie Cannon), which insists that the lived realities of Black women matter,and that the kitchen, the altar, and the streets are all sacred.
Liberation Theology (Gustavo Gutiérrez), which centers the poor and urges us to believe that salvation begins with justice.
Queer Theology (Marcella Althaus-Reid, Patrick Cheng), which dares to place sexuality, desire, and queerness at the heart of holiness, not outside of it.
And then we hip it. We stretch it. We dip it. We remix the sacred with rhythm, resistance, and resurrection.
We braid Cone with Cardi. We let Emilie Townes meet ballroom emcees. We let our testimonies live in eyelashes and eyeliner, in sanctified struts and holy side-eyes. Because our theology has hips. It has rhythm. It shouts and vogues and speaks in tongues.
We affirm that:
Our bodies are altars—not accidents.
Grief is a sacred text—not a detour from holiness.
Rage is a psalm—and we’ve been singing it for centuries.
Joy is both protest and praise—and we know how to throw a praise break in a basement, a ballroom, or a backyard.
To walk in this theology is to declare that we are not an afterthought. We are the foundation. We are not broken. We are the blueprint. And the Spirit? She knows how to dip, too.
A Praise Break Born from Survival
In that sermon, I sat with names and sacred memories as I preached. The ones we whisper. The ones we carry. The ones who changed everything.
To the ancestors who still walk with us: Octavia St. Laurent. Crystal LaBeija. Pepper LaBeija. Dorian Corey. Marsha P. Johnson. Sir Lady Java. Cecilia Gentili. Sasha Washington. Madison St.Claire Span. Daesja Laperla. Nicole S. Bowles. Mo’Dayvia.
To the living saints still writing scripture with their lives: Tracey Africa Norman. Sinia Alaia. Miasha Forbes. Noelle Deleon. Niambi Stanley. Michaela Jaé. Kristina Victoria Vega. Tempress Chasity Moore. Density Hernandez. Leiomy Maldonado. Jasmine Bonet. Janet Mock. Laverne Cox. Jazell Barbie Royal. King. Felicity Noire. Miss Major. Lala Zannell. Danielle Carter. Rev. Valerie Spencer. Qween Jean. Kiara St. James. Aaryn Lang. Octavia Lewis. Katrina Goodlet. Koko Jones. Elle Moxley. Hope Giselle. Lourdes Ashley Hunter. Raquel Willis. Angelica Ross. Dominique Jackson. Cookie Diorio. Lady Dane Figueroa Edidi. Tona Brown. Asia Lyons. Amiyah Scott. Amiyah G.
And yes, I name myself too—Nala Simone Toussaint, for I have been the blueprint, pioneer, movement leader of many movements without knowing it.
These names are not just people. They are scripture. They are psalms with lashes and lip gloss. They are the sermon.
A Moment That Changed Everything
In 2013, after the murder of Islan Nettles, I reached out to Janet Mock. That moment of grief became the seed of my calling. I co-founded the Trans Women of Color Collective and began the journey that would lead to the development of this theology.
That same year, I found my church home. I witnessed Bishop Vanessa Brown preach at Islan’s vigil, and I knew I had found a spiritual home where theology and survival could live in the same breath.
When Milan Sherry shouted “Black Trans Lives Matter,” that wasn’t branding. That was lament. That was scripture. That was altar.
This theology is rooted in those cries, those truths, those holy ruptures.
A Love Letter to Else
To Else, who saw me when I didn’t yet know how to see myself. From the FIT sewing lab to J-setting at 1 a.m. after late nights in the computer lab, you gave me grace, language, and sisterhood.
You taught me how to stay grounded even when everything felt hard. You helped me survive fashion school. You helped me survive myself.
You are part of this theology too. You always were. I pray this reaches your heart wherever in the world you are today and affirms your being.
A Living Archive, Still Unfolding
I know there are still names waiting to be spoken. Stories waiting to be held. Lives waiting to be honored.
This blog post is not the whole story. It is the beginning of a living, breathing archive. One that will keep growing with your help.
Black Femme Queen Theology is not a trend. It is tradition. It is testimony. It is transformation.
If you’ve been waiting for the Church to say your name—I said it.
If you’ve been waiting for a theology that includes you—I wrote it.
If you’ve ever felt unseen—know this: you are beloved.
Add Your Voice. Join the Movement.
Leave a comment. Share a name. Tell a story. Help us keep the archive alive.
Invite this theology into your classroom, your pulpit, your panel, and your platform.
Support this work. Learn from it. Book it. Bless it.
This theology is alive. It’s on the move. And it’s speaking now.
Amen. Ashé. And so it is. And so it shall be.