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(RNS) – This afternoon, with a heavy heart, I went around the house to collect Rachel Held Evans's books in various places: Inspired was here in my office, waiting for Bible studies. A year of biblical femininity was in the living room with the other memories. And In search of Sunday was in the hallway upstairs amidst Christian life books, with Rachel sandwiched in a theologically appropriate manner between Benedictine Esther de Waal and the Evangelical Leighton Ford.
In leading this sad race, I thought that Rachel, who died this morning at age 37, had a lot more to say in each of these categories – but we'll never have another book of her, another one. blog, another zinger of a tweet. I will never be able to see her at another conference, her accessibility being a revelation to aspiring writers who have been queuing for a dose of her trademark wisdom and humor.
The loss does not seem possible.
RELATED: Rachel Held Evans, Christian writer of honesty and humor, dies at age 37
A note fell from my copy of A year of biblical femininity, that I was asked to approve almost a decade ago, and it broke my heart. "Thank you very much for reading my book!" She writes. "I hope that one of these days we will have the chance to spend time in person. I think we would have too much fun! "
I had never met Rachel at that time, but the book charmed me. Funny and intelligent, he recounted Rachel's adventures while trying to follow the Bible's advice for women over the course of a year. She was vulnerable but not exhibitionist and I found her snark delicious, as when she described various attempts by church fathers to treat the sexy Bible book Song of Songs as a religious allegory:
"According to Origen, the two breasts that the suitor is so eager to grasp represent the Old Testament and the New Testament. The lips he wants to kiss represent the Eucharist, notes another scholar of the Middle Ages. The luxury bed on which the lovers rest represents the convents of the church, said St. Bernard.
Sure. And Hooters represents the American affinity for owl culture. "
I've come to know Rachel a bit through conferences and meetings over the years and I've enjoyed her a lot. But it was thanks to her books that I knew her best and that I understood more about myself and my own beliefs. Rachel once said that she felt a certain kinship with me because she knew that as a Mormon woman blogging in a patriarchal religious culture, I intuitively understood some of her problems as a ## 147 ## # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # 39 evangelical writer who pushed the boundaries of what was considered acceptable behavior for women. Yes.
But now Rachel will not push those limits again. She left and eats her 70% dark chocolate with raspberries somewhere in the celestial sphere. I like to think of his life with Eugene Peterson and Phyllis Tickle, recently deceased, who talk about theology, books and life.
One thing Rachel shared with them is a love of the Psalms that all three discovered in adulthood as they addressed issues of faith and joy. In In search of Sunday, who recounted Rachel's movement from evangelicalism to liturgical Christianity, describes a scene in which she visits a Benedictine monastery and is carried away by the silent security of the place. Today, I reread this section in tears because the psalm on which she chose to focus has been revealed so prophetic. This is the psalm I will recite in the days to come, remembering Rachel, her kindness and shining spirit, and praying for her family and friends who have been left behind.
". . . The psalms remind the reader – or, in this case, the singers – that whatever the joy, the agony, the fear, the pleasure or the frustration we are experiencing at the moment, in fact, have already been. In this sense, a psalm can be both intimate and communal, deeply personal and profoundly universal.
At Vespers that night, in the company of twenty men who had made vows of poverty, chastity, community, work, and prayer, and with whom I seemed to have so little in common, have sung the words of Psalm 39:
Show me, Lord, the end of my life
and the number of my days;
let me know how my life is transient.
You have made my days a mere hobby;
the duration of my years is like nothing in front of you.
Everyone is only a blast,
even those who seem safe. . . .
Hear my prayer, Lord,
listen to my call for help;
do not be deaf to my tears.
I live with you as a stranger,
a stranger, like all my ancestors.
Turn away from me to enjoy life again
before I leave and am no longer.
And even in the Great Silence that followed, I felt a little less alone.
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