On a toasty afternoon in Chicago last September, my partner and I sat on a picnic blanket and swayed to the soulful sounds of Gospel. My spirit glowed that day, surrounded by a diverse and receptive audience and passersby who played with their kids and walked their dogs. Led by a Black queer bandleader, the ensemble flew through song after well-known song by legendary Gospel artists — musicians whose LGBTQ+ identities I was learning about for the first time.
Enjoying music outside and in community while learning about our forebears was the point of the event, a Chicago Park District cultural series titled, “Shout OUT!: A Tribute Concert to Queers in Sacred and Gospel Music.” Devised by the renowned jazz vocalist, producer, and cultural programmer Lucy Smith, Shout OUT! featured various arrangements of songs performed by Gospel’s trailblazing LGBTQ+ artists, along with historical narration and storytelling before each selection.
Shortly after that day in the park, I spoke to Smith about her intentions in producing the event. “There’s been some unnecessary stuff going on in this country in relation to queer folks… [including] laws being passed and intentionality on punishing queer kids, especially trans folks,” Smith told Them, noting that she wanted to respond in a meaningful way to meet the moment. “It’s the history of this country, and what a wonderful opportunity to present it.”
I couldn’t help but smile and feel a sense of pride in the legacy of my people. Yet as encouraged as I was to have been uplifted and educated at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel some sense of melancholy that day: Why, after decades of being raised in Christian churches, had I only learned about this now? Deep inside, I already knew the answer.
The experience of ostracism within places of worship is all too common for Black LGBTQ+ people, many of whom attend churches that aren’t affirming. From being outright excluded and called “abominations before God,” to congregations that don’t believe LGBTQ+ people are fit to serve in positions of leadership, it’s understandable why so many in the community are repelled by organized religion.
Don Abram, founder and executive director of Pride In the Pews, a grassroots, nationwide nonprofit that bridges the gap between the Black Church and the LGBTQ+ community, offered a closer analysis.
“The stories and contributions of Black LGBTQ+ folks to sacred music and to Gospel music is often obscured or even hidden, because many of those figures weren’t out themselves and then community folklore or stories get passed down from generation to generation about eventually, who the figures were, and the ways that they lived and loved often in the dark,” he told Them. “These stories have not been able to see the light of day because communities, particularly Black communities, have decided to render those parts of Gospel musicians, writers, and singers invisible.”
The church’s suppression and shaming of people perceived to be LGBTQ+ began impacting me at an early age, because I knew that I was “different.” I grew up playing a tambourine my older evangelist cousin gifted to me at the age of five, and it was inscribed with an excerpt from Psalm 100: “Make a joyful noise.” I took that scripture to heart, singing in the choir at church, participating in youth programs, and eventually lead singing in a church band at an LGBTQ+ affirming church as an adult. Outside of prayer, music proved to be my strongest connection to my spiritual life.
One of the most common spaces for Black LGBTQ+ people in the church is music ministry. Choral and solo selections can oftentimes make or break the mood of a church service, and it takes time and creativity to curate and perform selections that will resonate with the congregation at any moment in time. But it’s also a space where an individual doesn’t necessarily have to be outspoken to play a major role. In fact, Black queer and trans people have influenced the evolution of our sacred music for generations, dating back to the inception of the Gospel genre. From Little Richard’s “Ride On, King Jesus,” to Billy Preston’s “That's The Way God Planned It,” many of the songs that are considered canon were written, composed, or notably performed by Black LGBTQ+ musicians.
Gospel as a genre can be traced back to Negro spirituals, the religious folk songs that emerged from African people who were enslaved in the American South. Many of those compositions were rooted in the quest for liberation — on Earth by way of escaping slavery and experiencing bodily autonomy, or by gaining eternal rest and reunion with others in Heaven. The music shaped the Civil Rights Movement, and for LGBTQ+ people of various generations, the resonant messages about freedom and uplift indeed resonate because of the fight against discrimination and repression. As recorded music began taking hold among the masses, so too would the sounds of Black sacred music.
The acclaimed “Godmother of Rock n’ Roll” herself, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, was a Black LGBTQ+ woman whose recordings became some of the first Gospel music hits, such as “This Train” and “Down By The Riverside,” both of which have been covered by many prominent Gospel artists. According to various reports and accounts, she toured in the 1940s with her partner, Marie Knight. Together, they performed compositions such as the hit song ““Up Above My Head.” The rocker married several times over the course of her life and had relationships with both men and women, yet performed for the vast duration of her career under the surname Tharpe from her first marriage.
Tharpe served as a trailblazer for many who would sing spirituals in churches or eventually pick up electric guitars, including the likes of Elvis. Yet she emerged during a time when now-standard identity labels for sexuality and gender identity were in earlier stages of their evolution.
Tharpe is one of several Black LGBTQ+ forebears in Gospel and sacred music who paved the way for what the genre is today. Other musicians who were rooted in Black spiritual and sacred music operated more squarely within the space. For example, Reverend James Cleveland was a pioneer of the sound of Black church choirs between the 1950s and 1980s. His stylings oftentimes blended pop, jazz, and R&B with spirituals and hymns. Known as the King of Gospel, he was the first Gospel artist to be celebrated with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and won four Grammy Awards out of 29 total nominations over the course of his career.
Cleveland’s sexuality was an open secret, but he was not publicly out, according to the Been Here project from the National Black Justice Coalition. His legacy was also called into question after a man who claimed to be one of Cleveland’s foster children made allegations of sexual abuse against him. Christopher Harris, the plaintiff, sued his estate shortly after Cleveland’s 1991 passing, according to a story at the time from Jet magazine that placed questions about Cleveland’s sexual orientation on the public radar. (According to various reports, the lawsuit was settled out of court.)
Among his many notable recordings are “Peace Be Still,” “Lord, Help Me To Hold Out,” and a religious reinvention of a hit from Gladys Knight and The Pips, titled “Jesus Is The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me.”
Figures like Tharpe and Cleveland weren’t the only early purveyors of the Gospel sound. Clara Ward, the lead vocalist and standout of The Ward Singers (and the Clara Ward Singers), was a remarkable talent in her own right, and was known to have relationships with women. The group birthed various Gospel hits between the 1940s and 1970s such as “Surely God Is Able,” and “Move Up a Little Higher.” Both tracks are said to have sold more than a million copies each.
The Clara Ward Singers also appealed to mainstream audiences on the long-running variety program The Ed Sullivan Show, performing songs such as “A City Called Heaven” and “Born Free.” Ward is often credited as highly influential to the Gospel stylings of Aretha Franklin, having toured with and even being romantically linked to Aretha’s father, Reverend C. L. Franklin. Her arrangement of the song “How I Got Over” was later covered by (and won a Grammy for) Mahalia Jackson, whose resonant voice during the Civil Rights era cemented her status as one of the most influential Gospel artists of all time.
Trans identity was also represented within the ranks of Gospel’s early legends. Willmer “Little Ax” Broadnax, for example, had a high voice that spanned octaves and was instrumental to the popularity of the several groups with which he sang, such as the Spirit of Memphis Quartet, the Fairfield Four, the Five Blind Boys of Mississippi, and Little Axe and the Golden Echoes, one of the first Gospel quartet groups of the 1940s. “The Spirit of Memphis stood among the highest-earning Gospel acts of their era, commanding substantial fees of up to $200 per week — an impressive sum during that period,” according to Far Out Magazine.
Broadnax was fatally stabbed by his girlfriend in 1992, as reported by the Philadelphia Daily News. An autopsy confirmed that he was indeed trans.
Black LGBTQ+ artists’ contributions to the gospel genre would also have far-reaching influence on the emergent sounds of disco and house music, formats heavily influenced and directly linked to vocalists from Black churches and choirs. That includes artists such as Sylvester, who, while most known for the hit “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” also sang spirituals such as “How Great Thou Art.”
Of course, this notion was famously the throughline of Beyoncé’s Renaissance, which dripped with Black LGBTQ+ culture and influence while proclaiming that dance music — and American music in general — would be nothing without the Black LGBTQ+ community. In particular, the track “Church Girl,” which samples the song “Center of Thy Will” by legendary Gospel group The Clark Sisters, explores the duality of one’s inherent divinity and connection to a higher power, all while indulging in that which is considered worldly: a life experience where one can “drop it like a thotty” and “let go of this body,” and still be “doing God’s work.”
Nonetheless, the experience of coming to church communities “just as you are'’ isn’t often considered acceptable. During an interview for the short-form documentary “God, Gays & The Gospel,” music historian and writer Tim Dillinger noted the respectability politics that have persisted over time for Black LGBTQ+ Gospel artists, a dynamic in which talent can overshadow whispers of one’s identity so long as they aren’t too out or “flamboyant” about who they are.
Yet, for some, they weren’t capable of hiding it, had no desire to hide it, or decided to no longer keep it to themselves — the latter of which was the case for retired Gospel artist B. Slade (formerly known as Tonéx). He enjoyed acclaim during the ‘90s and 2000s before news of his sexual orientation prompted backlash and led to his becoming an independent R&B and pop artist, as well as a writer and producer for various secular musicians.
Oftentimes, ostracism from the church has led Black LGBTQ+ artists to become prominent in other genres where they found readier acceptance.
“From that, we get some of the greatest entertainers in soul music and disco music,” Dillinger said. “There’s this whole alternative Gospel history that people are finally starting to acknowledge and talk about… from disco and dance music, we get the full throttle story of gays and Gospel, gays who came out of Gospel, and disco music as Gospel, because so much of the output of the ’70s just is Gospel music. Even if Gospel radio stations and Gospel promoters didn’t put these artists on their programs, it was Gospel music to a disco beat accepted by a secular artist.”
Without the contributions and the leadership of Black LGBTQ+ people, it’s hard to imagine Gospel music achieving its levels of broad influence and popularity. As states like Florida and Texas continue their attempts to erase or obscure LGBTQ+ history through legislative restrictions, it has become increasingly important to hold up the narratives of the many hidden Black LGBTQ+ figures in Gospel and sacred music.
“By listing these intersections, we disrupt the problematic notion that the Black church is a monolith. By sharing these stories, we fundamentally disrupt the idea that you cannot be LGBTQ+, and Christian,” Abram told Them. “We also offer an alternative perspective, which shows that diversity is in no way a deficit producing phenomenon within the Black Church and our understanding of Christianity.”
The organizer added, “As we think about the ways in which religion is weaponized against LGBTQ+ individuals, [it’s important] to unilaterally and unequivocally state that we are here, that we have always been here, and we are an indelible part of the fabric of Black, Gospel music.”
At Shout OUT!, when the event neared its close, I realized that I was experiencing healing and reconnection with part of my spirituality. The bond I had with sacred music in my earlier years had been somewhat swallowed up by what some Black Christians call “church hurt,” the trauma experienced by oppressive theology. But somehow, on a field set apart by a bustling urban thoroughfare, I began a journey of reclaiming all of who I am and the history that shaped me — that shapes us all.
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