Like others, I was shocked by the unexpected death of Rachel Held Evans – Memory Eternal. Rachel’s love for Christ was evident despite the controversy she provoked. She raised her voice sincerely in good faith, and Lord knows we need more, not less, of that. I admired her passion, her courage, her brute honesty, and the relentless clarity of her message. Nobody agrees with another person on absolutely everything, of course, so there are points of disagreement to be sure. But those differences are not relevant to what I want to say here.
Before I get to my comments, let me say that I was appalled by the uninspired comments of one person who responded to the news of Rachel’s death with a piece entitled “Heretical Author, Rachel Held Evans, Dead at Age 37,” in which the author included Rachel among the wicked in whose destruction the Lord takes no pleasure. I don’t care how orthodox your beliefs are, if the first word out of your mouth at such a moment is “heretic,” then heretical is what you are, for loving and compassionate Christlikeness is what sound doctrine are for, and the willful lack of it is a heretical betrayal of true doctrine, however faithfully one holds to it.
That said, I want to reflect on a something written by an ardent admirer of Rachel, a comment made by author and pastor Jonathan Martin. As most will know, Jonathan is lead pastor of The Table in Oklahoma City. He’s a gifted writer and speaker with an influence as wide as Rachel’s. The times I’ve read Jonathan (not a lot I confess), I’ve been blessed and challenged. Not knowing him, I have some hesitation about writing, but the scope of his influence and the nature of his comments regarding Rachel motivate me to share. To be specific, after the news broke of Rachel’s untimely death, Jonathan wrote (his Facebook page, May 4th, 5:09 PM) the following:
I have not caught my breath today since I heard about the passing of my friend Rachel Held Evans. I am upended. I am nowhere near anything close to “meaning” in this yet. I keep thinking of Jesus at Lazarus’ tomb, how the wisdom of God in pain is not in wise words—but wordless grief. There is a pain so sacred, even for God to proffer an explanation would be to blaspheme. There is a grief so profound, God falls silent. Jesus offers no explanations. The closest thing to an answer we are given is God…with…us, God’s face disfigured with sorrow. (Emphasis mine)
I don’t want to misunderstand Jonathan, nor do I wish to be misunderstood. I do understand the painful silence that death evokes in us. I’ve been there. I appreciate also that such silence is not the time to turn the pain of others into a soapbox to argue for one’s own theodicy. When we do that, theology itself becomes part of the suffering people seek relief from. To the extent Jonathan speaks from such silence, I’m entirely with him. The more silent and vulnerable we allow ourselves to be, the better off and healthier we are. Indeed, it is only in the silence and vulnerability which death evokes that God is to be found. We must each experience this for ourselves, and as one who has stood in the deafening silence of the Void with plans to dive into it headlong, the advice I wish to offer Jonathan is no mere academic exercise or soapbox opportunism. It is, quite literally, a matter of life or death.
What concerned me about Jonathan’s comments was not the honesty of his pain, nor his call to an appropriate silence, nor the sincerity of his love, but the despair (and I use the term intentionally in something like a Kierkegaardian sense) in his reducing God to the silence that death evokes. To suggest that God himself is struck silent by Rachel’s death, or that God is reduced to the same failure of “meaning” we fall into on such occasions, or that for God to speak within our silent grief would be blasphemous even for God – this is deeply wide of the mark, and to hear it from someone of Jonathan’s caliber is concerning. I’m sorry to say it, because I respect Jonathan a great deal, and I respect the pain from which he speaks, but there is nevertheless a real failure of perception at work here.
God is not grief-stricken into silence by Rachel’s death, however we may feel, and this should come as a great comfort rather than an offense. Yes, God is “Emmanuel” (God with us). He is with us in our suffering, pain, and loss. And yes, the Incarnate God took the human journey from the womb through the grave to undying, resurrected life, so he knows intimately the conditions we face (Heb 2). But the Void did not reduce God to the silence of despair. “Emmanuel” does not mean “God commiserates with us.” That is not the logic behind the saving power of Christ’s suffering. On the contrary, as Christ, God speaks within the Void, unceasing in his speech, uttering his own triune identity and filial affection within the depths of human loss and abandonment.
If God is present in our silence at all (which he is, completely), he is present as God, that is, as the Father who speaks/utters his own Word, his Logos, his beloved Son, in and as and through and for all things. That is the Emmanuel who is with us. The Cross, then, is where God is this God on our behalf in the conditions of the Void, conditions that produce within us the silence of despair from whose deconstructing powers we are saved precisely because the Cross could not deconstruct Christ’s “Abba, Father” or wrest from Christ’s heart the filial affection that defined him to the end. But this is the very speech which, it seems, Jonathan makes out to be blasphemy were God to utter it in the face of Rachel’s death, the speech that God is, i.e., the Father uttering the fullness of his love in the Image of his Son, and the Son in the power of the Spirit replying “Abba, Father” within the conditions which in us occasion silent, existential foreclosure. But whatever else is lost, God cannot lose the utterance of himself in his own Son, nor do we lose our identity in that utterance (given us by the Spirit to know in Rachel’s death and in all our suffering, Rom 8.31f) when life suspends us over the empty abyss of the Void. Even there God is speaking, for God just is his speech, the uttering of himself – simply, infinitely, ceaselessly, completely, delightfully – as the mutual love of Father, Son, and Spirit. God is always saying at least that, but that is enough (2Cor 1). It is not an explanation, a theodicy, to be sure, but it is God uttering himself in us, for us, and through us.
I hope folks will not take me to be nitpicking over a minor, irrelevant point of trinitarian theology while we suffer Rachel’s loss. For in such circumstances, how we are in pain, and what constitutes our pain in light the gospel, are not irrelevant to our suffering. Obviously, Jonathan doesn’t think it’s irrelevant, for he chose to address it, to offer to us his perspective on the loss of Rachel, and even to speak for God by declaring the effect Jonathan cannot but imagine Rachel’s death has in God, namely, the same effect it had in him. So I feel permitted to raise my own voice (however insignificant it is) and offer a different perspective on where God is, and how God is, with us in our pain and loss. God is neither shocked, nor grief-stricken into silence, nor is he at a loss for words, nor is he like us waiting for the “meaning” of such loss; nor can the infinite delight of God’s undying life be blasphemous to a suffering world. On the contrary – if God were grief-stricken into silence at the death of every person he loves as infinitely as he loves Rachel (which is every person who dies, and which is every moment of every day), he would never open his mouth so much as to address humanity at all, ever. But he did, and he does – all the time.