The womanist theological tradition centers Black literature and the lived experiences of Black women as sacred texts, offering a profound foundation for exploring the divine. As a nonbinary, post-Christian womanist, my work builds on this tradition while expanding it into a theology that is non-dual, nonbinary, transcolonial, and cosmotheandric. My approach transcends rigid dichotomies, crafting a functional theology that embraces the complexities of being human while connecting with the divine. This journey began with a radical unraveling of faith as I followed Jesus beyond the constraints of whiteness and toxic Christianity. This dismantling led me to reject the exclusively external pursuit of God, relinquish the notion that personal agency conflicts with faith, and move beyond relying solely on outsourced intuition for spiritual guidance. What remained after the unraveling was something both sacred and transformative—a radical ethical spiritual tradition I call Post-Christian R.E.S.T. This transformation was not just theological but deeply personal. I had found safety in being invisible, in not taking up space. It seemed the only way to stay safe. Whenever I asserted my humanity or refused to be ashamed of who I was, someone made sure to shame me, to convince me that something was wrong with me—that I was not enough or, perhaps worse, that I was too much. My existence did not fit neatly into any category, and the world seemed determined to punish me for it. This tension came to a head during Pride in the Pews, a gathering for queer exiles of the Black church held at Spelman College. Returning to the same campus where I had guided students as a campus minister a decade earlier was both nostalgic and revelatory. While I had once led others through their spiritual wrestlings, I now found myself wrestling with my own. Vulnerability and authenticity were essential. The act of showing up in that space, naming myself, and taking up space felt like defiance and liberation all at once. A panel of Black trans women discussing Alice Walker’s The Color Purple shifted my entire perspective. One panelist invoked Shug Avery’s words: “It pisses God off to walk past the color purple and not notice it.” In that moment, the metaphor of purple came alive for me. Purple is not red or blue. It is both and neither. It is the blending of two distinct elements into something entirely its own. This perfectly mirrors the nonbinary experience—a blending of identities and energies that defies categorization. Purple embodies the fluidity and freedom of existing as something unique, something beyond the binary. For so long, I had hidden in the shadows, believing that invisibility was my only safety. But Shug’s words, and the fierce authenticity of those trans women, illuminated a new truth for me: if sin is the safety of invisibility, rooted in shame and the fear of judgment, then salvation is the bold, unapologetic embrace of one’s authentic self. Sin is not merely about moral failure; it is the denial of identity and the retreat into obscurity out of fear. Salvation, then, is stepping into visibility, breaking free from shame’s confines, and fiercely loving all that we are. Purple became my metaphor for the wholeness of my nonbinary identity, the synthesis of tradition and innovation, and the reclamation of my spiritual journey. It represented my rediscovery of the sacredness of the ethnographic spirituality of the Black church—not as a static inheritance but as a dynamic, evolving tradition. Tradition, I realized, is not something handed down unaltered. It is conjured, shaped anew by each generation as it blends the wisdom of the past with the realities of the present. In this creative tension, we find ourselves—and we find God. This dynamic understanding of tradition mirrors the complexity of purple. Purple does not shy away from its components but transforms them into something singular and radiant. Likewise, tradition is not fixed but fluid, offering a compass for navigating our spiritual journeys while igniting hope, resilience, and imagination. The R.E.S.T. framework is my offering to this living tradition. It is a theology that holds space for transformation and self-actualization, welcoming those who seek to keep the sacred while reimagining it. It moves beyond the confines of traditional liberation theology, not because liberation is unimportant, but because it refuses to tether itself to the anticipation of divine salvation. Instead, it alchemizes Black transhuman liberation theology, Advaita Vedanta, Christian mysticism, and womanist methodology into a praxis for embracing the intersections of our identities and traditions. At its core, R.E.S.T. invites us to embrace both the best of what we inherit and the freedom to reshape it for ourselves. It celebrates mystery and science, tells the truth about systems and shadows, and honors the unique and universal. It gives us language for God that is deeply rooted in our particular stories yet expansive enough to translate across divides. It is a theology that welcomes complexity—just like me, and just like the color purple.