You can read Austin’s obituary here, and watch his beautiful funeral service here.

Every life is holy; and every life lost is equally a wound and tragedy. And yet, each of us at times encounter a death that feels greater, weightier. A death that makes us want to run out into the unknowing world, almost offended that others do not feel their great poverty now at the loss of this great wealth and beauty taken from their midst.

A couple of weeks ago, this world experienced such a loss: Austin Ricketts–husband, father, theologian, mystic, artist, teacher, pastor, counselor, and friend–was taken from us far, far too soon after a hard fight with a mysterious and aggressive cancer.

(If you have followed this blog over the years, you may also recognize him as an occasional guest contributor here.)

I met Austin in 2008 when we both started seminary Summer Greek, and we became fast friends. I always felt a certain communion with him, even though his restless soul always seemed to be existing in another plane. His was a mind to chase and run alongside, and it was a gift when you were the recipient and object of his inquisitive faculties.

We studied, we argued, we drank good drinks, we danced at parties and weddings, we cried. We dreamt of podcasts to start and books to write. He is the single individual that has had the most measurable effect on my theology, introducing me to new thinkers, concepts, and ways of looking at God and the world at a slant and coming to new, deeper, shimmering realities.

I would not theologically be where I am without him, even though that is a place he left long ago. No one could keep up with his wandering and wondering ways. He was most at rest in restlessness and most at home as an intellectual vagabond. He skillfully brought me where he was on the road, only to drop me off with ample supplies and and continue to whatever new land beckoned him.

At an epic house show I hosted in the early 2010s, I did some incredibly intentional and skillful wing-manning to introduce Austin to the woman who would become his wife (an equally impressive and beautiful soul, author and artist Catherine Ricketts). I observed their courtship and was present to their small, transcendent house wedding after a 24-hour engagement in light of news of her father’s impending death–it is still one of the most stunningly moving and awe-inspiring memories of my life.

He was instrumental in guiding me through difficult relationships, and pastoring me through my own darkest times and greatest failures. I only ever felt God’s tenaciously relentless grace and loving gaze from him.

Austin had many dreams he expressed in our earlier years of friendship, including writing more and using fiction as a vehicle of philosophical reflection in the world. But over the years, it seemed as if life and God led him to different and humbler callings, namely as a pastor, teacher, and counselor to smaller groups, equipping them well to do more and greater than he would eventually end up doing.

It seems this was all preparing him for the greatest call and fulfillment of his life: fatherhood. He and Catherine have two boys I’ve been able to watch develop so much life, spunk, personality, and unquenching curiosity and sensitivity to the world, just like their daddy.

And then, a month before his diagnosis, they learned they were pregnant with a daughter. Little Eve was born the day before my own son, while Austin was clearly in his final days. He loved his family with all he had until his final breath.

There are even more layers of tragedy and injustice to this particular death–more than I have mentioned here. His diagnosis and death have been a huge shock to our community and the lives of those that knew him. This death feels so senseless. There was still so much for him to do, to teach us, to show us in this world. There were more people that needed to know him and be changed by him.

I admit, much of my own grief in this is selfish, more for what could have been and what we thought would be but never was.

He was one of those proverbial people with whom you could pick up the friendship where it left off at any time. And those people are gifts. But those friendships also lend themselves to passivity. Austin and I simply did not live the life together that we wish we could have. We always thought there was more time. We always thought there’d be a season in life where we could father our kids together, live closer to one another, and have regular meaningful interactions in both the profound and quotidian.

But it never came. And for that I will always grieve. I will also grieve losing the part of myself which only Austin could bring out. He saw and drew out the best parts of my mind, my soul, and my affections.

I surprised myself at how smart I was around him. I recalled information, synthesized disparate ideas, and penetrated mysteries when discoursing with him to a degree I never have with anyone else. He showed me capacities and spaces within myself I never knew were there, and I fear I’ll never know again. One eulogy summarized Austin’s gift for this perfectly:

Austin would have this ability to take you to a realm that you didn’t have access to, and you would come back as someone better, someone refreshed by Living Waters. He somehow had this ability to draw from those deeper wells and those deeper thoughts that he could get to in a way that nobody else I know has been able to… Like many of you I don’t feel like I’m just mourning the loss of another person that was dear to me; I feel like I’m mourning the loss of a part of myself–a part of myself that only he could get to with that depth and insight and that vision. And I can’t see it anymore. The thoughts that he could provoke with that kindness and gentle spirit I feel like are gone, and those deep waters that he could draw from I feel like I don’t know how to get back to. Austin, I miss you and I love you.

Indeed. This is who Austin was. This is his legacy. He could see and bring out the best in those around him, whether they be friends, students, strangers, or his family.

I don’t know why he was taken from us so soon, when neither I nor the world were able to know him as he deserved to be known. Perhaps he knew too much of what the world really was and could be. Perhaps we were not ready for the gifts he had to give, or the truths he had to bestow.

These reasons cannot be known on this side of heaven–on this side of the cosmos’ final Easter glory where sometimes all we have are the unanswered questions of Good Friday loss. I look forward to him showing me around at the end of all things.

Rest in peace and rise in glory, Austin. You are–and forever will be–loved and missed.